Ruth Sees London, Sees France, is Happy to See Return of Underpants

Quick post, for my girls (and what the heck, for my guys, too). I saw an article today and just had to do a happy dance (without a wedgie).  I long ago predicted that the boy-short panty, while a bit more modest than its so-popular miniscule predecessor, would come to rule; with that, I hoped that low-cut jeans and whale-tails would become (thankfully) extinct.  Turns out I was right on both counts—only because I’ve been noticing a trend towards modesty in this economy that lately, with the exception of Lady Gaga, women as a whole are now embracing.  Just thought I’d share the news about the death of the thong and the super-low rise jean:

www.cosmopolitan.com/celebrity/fashion/thongs-0210?click=cos_new

What do you think? Will you miss the thong (butt-floss, t-strap, super-wedgie, slingshot)? Or do you prefer the “cheeky” shorts that leave a teensy bit more to the imagination and keep one covered when they slide above the hem of one’s low-rise jeans?  I for one think it’s a fashion-forward step, and it will help gals feel and look a lot more respectable.

 

Capturing Castles: Unfurling Fleeces, Part II

Here’s the short version of Post I, which is now password protected:  Ruth got overwhelmed the week of January 10th  (the time leading into the anniversary of her father’s death) and left–left Naomi and left home. The situation is related to a previous post, http://ruthsgleanings.wordpress.com/2009/10/15/naomi-sweet-to-bitter-and-back-again/.  Everyone on board? Yes?  Great.  Here’s the second part of the story, which is the most important:

After I left, I spent that Sunday night in a strange (well, not-so-strange–rather comfy) home belonging to extended family.  They were very kind from the moment I walked in the door carrying a bag.  And thankfully, my sister-in-law had prepared them for the eventuality that I would freak out, panic, get depressed, or otherwise need to escape my environs and head to their house for awhile. So when I walked in, they asked no questions. They handed me a box of tissues and let me have the still, spare room for the night.

I spent the night crying, making calls for advice to friends and grief counselors and my brother, who all told me I should come up to my brother’s apartment in another town and try to start over there.   

And, as the night got cold and the strange house got quiet, I prayed.

I remember talking to God about the times when I knew I’d failed my mom and she’d failed me.  I told Him about how I was scared of how angry and depressed I’d gotten.  I told Him I was so hard, now that Dad wasn’t with us any longer, for me to know what to do, where to go, and how to start out on my own.  I told Him I felt like I’d failed my father because I couldn’t be strong enough to help dig my mom and me out of our depression—and I told Him I felt guilty that I’d hurt my mother in the process of trying to shovel my own way out of the grief in our home.

Most of all–and it didn’t help that she called me to wish me a tearful goodnight–I felt guilty about leaving my mom as abruptly and as bitterly as I had.

My friends and counselors had told me that leaving was the right thing to do, that I needed the perspective shift of an emotionally healthier environment, and that I needed to go somewhere where people were striking out on their own and doing brave things in order for me to find the encouragement to do the same.  I needed to be shocked out of my little shell; I needed to get moving again.

But a part of me wondered about home, family, and my duty to my mother.  After all, hadn’t she raised me?  And who was I to throw her away like she didn’t matter, even if she had dragged me down with her in grief?  Shouldn’t I be helping her, not making things worse by abandoning her, like my father (symbolically) had?

And then I told God the truth–the bottom line–the simple motive under it all: that I’d decided to change my lot because I was tired of hoping that things would get better where I was. That I was exhausted with faithfully waiting for a spirit of joy to come back to the house and to my life.  That I was tired of being disappointed, and that, ultimately, I didn’t trust Him.

I think you can tell,  I dominated the conversation for a long while, and He listened.  But when I told Him I didn’t trust Him, that’s when He made a suggestion.  As is His usual manner when dealing with me, God decided to send a message through the only medium that I, in my anger and pain, would not shut my door against.  

He sent me a warm, fuzzy critter.

Bell, a basset hound and the patroller of the household, nosed open the bedroom door and struggled up onto the bed, wheezing and panting from the effort of getting her stubby legs that far off the ground. Her nose was cold where she snuffled it against my leg. Her ears were floppy and moist–she’d gotten them wet in her night-time bowl of water–and she wanted to be petted, now. She smelled like wet fur, more specifically, like wet dog fur, and I struggled to put aside my cat-fancier’s disgust at her scent and slovenly ways as I patted her and assured her that I wasn’t a threat, even if I was a stranger.  In a few minutes, she relaxed. Then I relaxed, and that’s when God finally spoke.

Test me in this.¹

What?  I knew the scripture reference, and it seemed oddly out of context. So for the present, I ignored it, reasoning that I’d just let something random enter my mind. Also, Bell was being distracting; she groaned and rolled over on her back on top of the bed, and her floppy, dewy ears made smear marks on the coverlet as she stretched, spread-eagle, inviting a belly rub.  As I scratched her tummy, all I could smell, and all I could think about, was the doggy stink of wet animal fur.

Wet. Animal. Fur.   It got me thinking…

There you go.

. . . about a story . . .

. . . a story from the time of Israel’s Judges.  You KNOW this. Come, on, Ruth. I made you a brunette for a reason. Think . . .

. . . about a guy named Gideon who, like Ruth, spent a lot of time threshing grain and worrying about his uncertain circumstances instead of trusting God.²  In an act of theophany, the Lord/Jesus appeared to Gideon in flesh and told him to do something very difficult. Gideon asked God-in-Flesh for several signs of reassurance along the way.  His most famous sign involved a wet, and then conversely dry, hide of smelly sheep’s skin.  The elegantly simple test became known as “Gideon’s Fleece,” and God didn’t seem to mind fulfilling it. 

Don't be distracted; I just put this picture here for the Rob Pattinson tag (guarantees new visitors!) and the sheep skin. See the nice fleece? Look at the fleece. Don't look at--aw, come on, girls. This is supposed to be a faith-oriented post!

Here’s how it went:  God listened to Gideon’s request to do impossible things to the sheep skin during the normal nocturnal pattern of condensation.  One night, God drenched the fleeece and left the around it ground dusty; the next night, he soaked the ground on which the fleece rested but left the fleece itself perfectly dry.  These were little signs of fulfillment, little miracles of reassurance.  Baby steps toward’s Gideon’s trust, and in the end, huge leaps and bounds for the nation of Israel’s independence from the Midianites, whom Gideon rose up and destroyed.

So I thought awhile about what fleece I could put out while Bell grunted and snored. I thought about the events I already had in motion–like leaving home–and I wondered how, as emotionally drained and unsure as I was, I could ever know if I should go back. I thought about how God could communicate that to me through a supernatural reversal (wet to dry, dry to wet), and, if He was willing to kill two birds with one stone, maybe even  provide for my eventual independence in the same step.  I figured that would be the best thing God could do to restore trust, and to restore my sanity. So I aimed to strike a bargain; call it a truce.

“God?”

“Hmm?” grunted Bell, and maybe God.

“You know, before Christmas, that I was taking aggressive steps back home to get a new job so I could work my way to independence.  If you really want me to go home, then have one of those potential jobs offered to me before I commit to anything in my brother’s town.  Then, have all the counselors in my life–friends, family, therapist–who have told me that I should leave home, tell me to go back and take the job.”

Silence.

“. . . And, if it’s not too much to ask, help me to restore my relationship with my mom over the coming days. She’s hurt, I’m hurt, and we have a lot to forgive if we’re going to ever live peacefully together again.”

Bell yawned.  More silence.  Then, as if she’d heard her name being called, Bell pricked up an ear–not that it lifted very far–and rolled off the bed, trotting out the door.

I guessed her work there was done.

The next day, I went up to my brother and his wife’s apartment, some forty miles away.  And I applied for every job listing I could find that seemed even remotely within my capabilities.  I reconnected with some mutual friends in that town. They were all very encouraging; my sister-in-law even took me grocery shopping and asked about my favorite foods, as if to say, “See, we can live together for as long as you need to.”  I slept on the couch with their cats, and started to hear a trickle of interest from potential employers. I kept applying, hoping to hook a full-on interview or two within the week.  I kept hoping to find a job quickly, so I could move into a different apartment with a roommate, and give my brother and his wife back their privacy. 

 I called my mom nightly, trying to gauge her emotional state, looking for signs of resentment or, miraculously, progress.  I saw some of the latter—saw that she’d seen what I saw, and that she wanted change as much as I did. It seemed like we were healing the breach by building bridges on both sides of it.  But that meant that only a part of my fleece was being fulfilled, but not all.   I stayed where I was.

Surrounded in my newly-laid plans, my siblings, and clean cats with their silky fur, I almost forgot about my fleece.

Until Thursday came, and I got a call out of the blue—offering me a marketing/PR internship I’d applied for during the first week of December, a position that was at the same hospital where my mom works.  The HR representative  told me that, at the marketing team’s sit-down departmental discussion, I was decidedly their strongest candidate.

Okay, God.  There’s fulfilment number two.

I told the HR recruiter that I was thrilled, and I would make one phone call and call her right back with a definite answer. On instinct, I called my sister-in-law, who pretty much said, “What the heck are you waiting for?  Call back! Call back! Take the job!”

So I did, with very little hesitation.  The internship starts next week.

My brother, when he came home a little later, supported my decision, and my grief counselor was thrilled when she got my text (at only 27, she’s within her rights to be a high-tech Christian counselor).  Fleece fulfillment number three fell into place. 

So I did what I told God I’d do: I went home. 

Naomi and I are patching things up and trying really, really hard not to fall into old patterns of depression, discouragement, and disparaging talk when we fail each other.  And God and I?  Well, we’re working on that trust thing.  He’s made the biggest step.  The rest, as C.S. Lewis would say, is up to me– to give up, and to try harder:

“[H]anding everything over to Christ does not, of course, mean that you stop trying. To trust Him means, of course, trying to do all that He says. There would be no sense in saying you trusted a person if you would not take his advice. Thus, if you have reallly handed yourself over to Him, it must follow that you are trying to obey Him. But trying in a new way, a less worried way . . . because He has begun to save you already.”³

Me, try not to worry?  Sounds impossible without a lot of medication.   But at the same time, I know we’re commanded by God not to worry (Matthew 6:25ff, Phillipians 4:6), and so I really need to work on that aspect of obedience. 

The rest of the work ahead will involve learning to really and truly love my mom, in spite of our failures, and without fear of either of us getting hurt, lost, or abandoned the way we were when Dad died.  And that means trying not to worry about any of the above.  It also means adhering to Cassandra’s mantra at the end of the film discussed in the previous post, Capturing Castles— “I love. I have lov’d. I will love.”

 ”For I am the Lord, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.”-Isaiah 41:13

 

Notes:

1.  The quote is from Malachi 3:10, which is actually about tithing and trusting God with your money. See what I mean about it being kinda out of context?

2.  The Book of Judges chs. 6 and 7 have Gideon’s story in full, including the bit with the fleece, as well as Gideon’s many other tests for God’s guidance.

3. Lewis, Clive Staples.  Mere Christianity. The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics. New York: Harper Collins, 2002. p. 81.

Photo credits: 

*Basset hound from http://Kendisian.files.wordpress.com,  an eclectic blog by a struggling writer.  Check it out!

*The Rob-on-a-rug picture is from the Italian Vanity Fair (Vanity Fair Italia) shoot from October of ‘09–I think. Google it if you’re curious, but I’m pretty sure it’s the Italians who liked the concept of a bootylicious RPattz and took this photo. The twifans got ahold of it and it’s been retouched and passed through many electrical hands, I’m sure.  Rest of the credit goes to God, who was having a great day when he made Rob–and the sheep who gave the fleece. Remember the fleece. That’s really why it’s in this post…  (See, God? Trusting you already not to strike me with lightning.)

 

Editor’s Note

I have moved Sunday’s post, “Capturing Castles: A Week of New Territories, Part 1″ to password-protected viewability until further notice. Naomi’s feelings were hurt by my posting it–even though I thought I’d edited it enough without destroying the truth element.  Out of respect to her, I’m moving it.  If you want to read it, leave a comment, and I’ll email the password to you.  It’ll be my way of assuring her that I’m screening out who views it.

It’s always tough, when keeping a blog about grieving and being in a family relationship while grieving, to keep bounds of privacy when you feel the need to report major events. For those of you who want the short story, this is it:  Ruth felt trapped and left home for a week. She’s okay now.

Part II, the aftermath, will be readable to the public, and out soon.

 

Intermiso, Another Plug: Kari’s Blog

Hi, folks. Sorry to leave you hanging. I’ll post part II of  “Capturing Castles” with its mind-bending conclusion about how God is good, if a bit late for our human tastes, soon.

Meantime, I wanted to throw out another shameless plug, this time for my friend Kari’s blog, http://worldrunner3.wordpress.com. Kari is a VERY recent college-grad (she’s younger than I am, but graduated early for her age) and  a newly-wed Marine officer’s wife. As you might guess, she’s madly in love with her new husband Kevin, but she’s also having to learn a lot about being married, being military, and, maybe toughest of all, being a post-grad, all in the span of a few months. Talk about life making one’s head spin.  If you’re a fan of romance and life’s rough spots, and if you like to read a thoughtful writer–and she is incredibly self-analytic and bright; I can assure you of that–you’ll love her blog. Go check it out.  And, please, tell her she needs to post pictures of her husband-candy while he’s in uniform.

 

Protected: Capturing Castles: A Week of New Territories, Part I

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

 

Reunions and Ruminations

Tonight/Last night( it’s 2 AM now, so is it last night?), I met up with some of my old high school gal pals (and a guy pal) and ran the conversational gamut from catching-up to the hold-ups like politics, sex and men, religion, and feminism.

It was weird how, though once we were all over the spectrum in these areas, we’re all now in the same place: figuring out life, going through some awkward transitions like travelling or working terrible jobs, and wishing for the days of our founding fathers when federalism was only a small concept, rather than a huge Obamanated, Pelosified machine.

Oh, and did I mention? The girls are also universal on this one: we miss the days when men were manly–and not in the grunting caveman way. We miss the days when men did daring things because they believed in what they were doing. We really miss the days when men stood up for important things instead of turning mundane, idiotic arguments into “pissing contests.” And yes, we miss feeling protected by men rather than at their mercy. But instead of just whining, we wound up thinking of our feminist, postmodern forebears of the sixties and seventies and thinking, “My God, what have we wrought?” Then we all agreed that Henry Cavill (he speaks how many languages and looks like THAT [see below]?) might possibly be the best gift God gave women, and that we’d all love to have his babies…  Could he be our generation’s sexual-synergy savior?

Henry Cavill, n. - (b. 1983) Legendary British actor, model, eye candy, and apparent fantasy for women of this generation (Move over, RPattz?)

I had a little internal chuckle before I wiped my eyes and smiled at my equally baffled, darling and well-loved, and even barely-known, generational cohorts seated around our little table in a mismash of Gucci and Target, beers and cocktails, boots and sneakers.

Then we did what we gathered to do: wished our bravest, tallest blonde well on her year-long sojourn in Shanghai, where everyone is short and dark.

In short, I’m just ruminating on how much I love how spunky, honest, and well-intentioned my friends are. And I feel privileged to follow their adventures, gather their opinions, take their advice, and be heard in return.  It was quite a meeting of the minds before we all scattered again. Love you all!

Also, I still may be slightly tipsy from my one little drink. That’s what happens to girls who aren’t used to imbibing!  Long live girls gone mild.

And, yes, long live King Henry.  I’d love to be a lady-in-waiting at that court, if it existed. I wonder how we would address our sovereign?  “His Yumminess”?   “His Delectableness”?  These musings should wait for another day and a more sober time.

 

Walking Off the Map

 

Happy New Year! 

Here’s hoping 2010 will be better than 2009 for us all.  I can’t look back at 2009 without some personal regrets, seeing as how it was tainted with so much sadness and, on my part, temporary madness. Today would be my dad’s birthday; if he were still with us, he’d be fifty-five. This February, I’m going to be twenty-three.  I feel very old and very young all at once, but I suppose that’s what happens at my age anyway.

And I’ve been busy again–with holiday stuff, friends visiting, and now, with the new year, many friends leaving. One just left for Florida at the end of the previous weekend. Then on Monday, I accompanied one of my oldest girl-friends (since 5th grade) and her parents to the airport where we would send her off with our love and best hopes to the “South American New York City”–Buenos Aires, Argentina. 

Thiana (pronounced “TEE-Anna“) has been preparing for this trip for many months now, practicing her Spanish, arranging for her future living situation, and saving up her paychecks from a temp job at a kosher bakery.  But she couldn’t prepare for falling in love–which she did, in early November, barely more than a month before her trip was to take her away from her amor.

Newly in love, Thiana and her hombre share some last laughs at the airport. Man in the background is surprised by Ruth's camera.

Understandably, it was a rough goodbye.  Her parents got foggy-eyed as they watched her walk off into her concourse towards the security line and strip off her tiny boots, wondering if she’d land safe and sound, when they’d see her next, and if she’d be happy during the year in-between landing there and here again. Her amor, who met us at the airport, struggled to hide his emotions and wound up in a retreating silence, lingering until she passed through the security line and went out of sight towards her gate.  Then he bought her car from her parents later that night, and I know he was smiling bittersweetly at her grip-prints on the wheel when he slid behind the driver’s seat.  He’s the sentimental kind of guy who might even enjoy it when the driver’s seat’s collection of shed strands of her oak-leaf colored hair finds its way to the fabric of his winter coat.  Yeah, as a couple, they’re just that cute.  (And I admit, I match-made them and can’t help bragging a little.)

By now, Thiana is settling among the bonairenses, adjusting as an unofficial porteña to the sorts of things the natives of the city take for granted:  the cheek-kiss as way of greeting, the practice of getting people’s attention by saying “che” in a politely obtrusive way (can that be done?), and of course, the tricky use of “vos” rather than “tú” when addressing someone in the informal second person.  And she’ll be wondering why she’s there when her amor is here in the States; why she had to go now when she’d only just found him; and how they’ll be whenever they meet face-to-face again, possibly in his native Mexico.

She’s “walking off the map,” as J.R.R. Tolkien called it–and into a realm of faith.  And I told her at the airport that I wouldn’t wish her luck, only courage and strength to face the strained emotions that arise from being far from home and  facing a life in transition.  I admire and envy her for taking on the adventure and long-distance love story ahead, and I wish her the best. 

If you want to follow her story, check out her blog here at http://argenthiana.wordpress.com and send her some love.

Instead of resolutions, I do poems for the new year. I think my poem for this year is going to be Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s (1806-1861) “Consolation” :

All are not taken; there are left behind
Living Belovèds, tender looks to bring
And make the daylight still a happy thing,
And tender voices, to make soft the wind:
But if it were not so—if I could find
No love in all this world for comforting,
Nor any path but hollowly did ring
Where ‘dust to dust’ the love from life disjoin’d;
And if, before those sepulchres unmoving
I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb
Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)
Crying ‘Where are ye, O my loved and loving?’—
I know a voice would sound, ‘Daughter, I AM.
Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?’

 

Sometimes, We All Need a Little Help

“Some think that it is a miracle to walk on water. But I tell you, the true miracle is to walk every day on earth.” -Thich Nat Hanh, Vietnamese monk

I have too much to write about.

A few days’ worth of external quiet, and I’ve already developed a cluttered mind.

At the moment, I feel like I could use a second brain to store thoughts on, like an external hard drive.  So instead of going to the brain depository and snatching a brain labeled  “Abbie-Normal” (big points for you if you can name that movie reference), I’m just going to post some of it here. I apologize if this entry looks like a schizophrenic’s version of a literary review/movie review/to-do/have-done/might-do list.  That’s a lot of slashes, I know, but that’s how many “voices” I’ve got running around in my head at the moment.  Fittingly, this entry came out partially in the third-person, and in a weird, Gollum-like third-person voice to boot.  Enjoy (?) my attempt to organize it.  I feel like it was worth the effort to make sense out of it.

1.     Housecleaning, in the internal sense.

So, Ruth’s been gleaning again, she has, and that’s part of her problem. Reading. Watching. Job-searching. And it’s all strange stuff that nobody’s heard of.  Come on, have you ever read anything by Thomas A’ Kempis—namely, The Imitation of Christ? No? Okay, maybe you’ve heard about a director named Oliver Irving?  Still nope? 

Well, Ruthie stumbled onto both while reading and looking at other things. I think an Elizabeth Elliot book made passing reference to A’Kempis, and, of course, my pursuit of small-budget British independent films on Netflix led me to Oliver Irving—and right back to Rob Pattinson by virtue of the current nature of the universe, which puts his name/face/paparazzi photo EVERYWHERE. Who knew RPattz was that big of a dork before Twilight? Apparently, Oliver Irving did, and that’s why he cast Rob in the lead role of Art in How To Be (2008).

An etching of Thomas A'Kempis accepted by the Catholic Church as true-to-life.

Both of these works–How to Be and The Imitation of Christ–are tiny, fly-under-the-radar types of things.   The reason why you probably haven’t heard of A’Kempis is because his piece is admittedly an esoteric find: part 14^th-century theological treatise, part devotional, and part mystical dialogue with Christ himself. It’s very bizarre in some parts, so it’s never really been accepted in traditional Christian circles, but it’s powerful. It’s been carried into the wilds of the world by some of the most radical, world-changing missionaries in history. And I bought it in a five dollar bin at Books-a-Million.  Yeah, I know.  It hurts to see how far literary popular culture has fallen.

Anyway, back to why they’re important to me right now.  A’Kempis speaks to me on that hard-hitting level that my dad used to; I’ll just plain say that straight right now.  Check out some of this and see if it doesn’t make you feel like changing yourself:

“Boast not thyself in thy riches if thou hast them, nor in thy friends if they be powerful, but in God, who giveth all things, and in addition to all things desireth to give even Himself. Be not lifted up because of thy strength or beauty, for with only a slight sickness it will fail and wither away. Be not vain of thy skillfulness or ability, lest thou displease God, from whom cometh every good gift which we have.” (I.VII)

“[T]o refuse to harken to others when reason or occasion requireth it, is a mark of pride or willfulness” (I.IX).

Also, some very preachy advice and sound spiritual wisdom:

“Do what lieth in thy power, and God will help thy good intent” (I.VII).

“The beginning of all temptations to evil is instability of temper and want of trust in God . . . ” (I.XIII).

“We must not trust every word of others or feeling within ourselves, but cautiously and patiently try the matter, whether it be of God. . . . A good life maketh a man wise toward God, and giveth him experience in many things. The more humble a man is in himself, and the more obedient towards God, the wiser will he be in all things, and the more shall his soul be at peace.” (I.V)

So, in keeping with A’Kempis’ wisdom,  I’m trying to learn from my hastiness over the last month or so, and I’m questioning the things I did during that time, like quitting the restaurant (although every spiritual and temporal authority and guardian in my life was telling me to). Has it been a good thing? A bad thing?  A self-thing or a God-thing?  I don’t know.  But I’m thinking about it.

2.    Listening and Watching.

At the same time, I took A’Kempis observation (and Josh Bales’ observation in his song “Ten Thousand Places”) seriously: “Without respect of persons God speaketh to us in divers[e] manners”(I.V).

I took that statement very seriously when I heard these word’s coming out of Art’s mouth directed to his boss at the grocery store in the film How to Be and thought, yeah, that’s what I should have said when I quit at the restaurant:

“Look, I’ve decided I don’t want to work here anymore. I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment, and I’m interested in other stuff.  I mean, I’ve got a degree. So I thought to spend some time on my music [or in Ruth’s case, writing] and  . . . find my call. So I quit. I resign.”

I thought, Go, Art. That took some serious bravery!  Then a little teacher-like voice inside me said, I think it might be better to admit that we need to do some painful growing and searching in life rather than to allow ourselves to stay in one safe, stagnant vocation for a long time. Quitting his safe pud job was the beginning of Art’s grand adventure, after all, since it opened up a big, wide world of terrifying possibilities, much like the one I’m facing now; hence, the craziness.

3.    Trying to fix things, or be fixed, and have faith in the process.

In How to Be, Art’s life coach, Dr. Ellington, advises Art to have faith in the process of figuring yourself out.  And he offers a visual metaphor for it that I thought was semi-clever: “If you think  of a problem as an unknitted jigsaw puzzle, try to imagine that the fragments of your lifestyle are the individual pieces. Now, as they lay scattered in the box they may seem random.  But remember, each piece has its place. They will knit. . . . [until then,] an unknitted puzzle makes for a cluttered mind.”

Art (Rob Pattinson) tries, and only marginally succeeds, at finding some direction in his life in "How to Be" (2008).

Art stares at Dr. Ellington here, and in his dubious silence, he seems to ask the unspoken questions that are so problematic for the quarter-life-crisee:  “But, Doc, what if we don’t have the picture on the box to guide the stupid jigsaw puzzle?  What if the pieces are broken and don’t fit?”

In Art’s life, the most influential people in his circle are telling him that his pieces won’t fit, that he’s a failure (“Arthur, your existence is an oxymoron,” says Dad), that there’s something not quite right with him (“Art, I really wonder about you sometimes,” sighs Mom), and that he’ll never amount to anything (both parents say this).  All they can talk about is their burden of worrying about him because he never seems to “do anything worthwhile.”  Art is terribly hurt to hear his worst fears articulated over and over, and he finally fires back sarcastically, “Have you ever felt guilty about producing such a pathetic, useless child?” When his mother responds honestly, “Of course I feel guilty!” that’s when Art hits his breaking point. 

Art spirals down emotionally, hits bottom, and then gears up for a radical life change. This is where the faith element comes in—when Art decides to “go it alone” and see what happens. After dismissing the useless Dr. Ellington and running away from home in his used P.O.S. car, Art sells all of his personal possessions (including the craptastic car) that are worth anything, gives the rest away to the homeless, and rents a tiny room in lower London. He then tries to get his old job back at the care center for disabled adults.  “I’m trying to focus less on myself,” he tells his old supervisor. “I feel like I want to help people.”

 And for the first time in the entire movie, Art gets actual encouragement from someone (!). It’s a scene that makes you cheer for poor Art, whose eyes get round with wonder and soft with happiness when the supervisor begins to be swayed and kindly opines, “There is definitely something to you, Art. You have a tenacious spirit. You just need to channel it, keep it in check. Don’t give up on yourself. All that stuff you’re involved in, it’s got it’s place; you just take things to extremes. This sounds too simple , probably, but, what gives you a buzz? What do you really want to be?”

Art takes this advice and runs with it—right back to the music store to buy a guitar.  One month later, he has a gig with his little band of friends. And for once, his parents actually come. So does his supervisor. And the homeless guys. The homeless guys clap. And we cheer, even though the band kinda sucks, because at least Art’s getting some love.  Okay, I cheered, anyway.  It’s hard not to—the poor lovable dork just steals your heart and reminds you too much of your inner loser.  You want to celebrate with him for coming out okay on the other side of his struggle.

Art gives himself a pep talk before heading on stage. "You're not a nobody. You're a somebody."

 4. Dealing with TEH SUCK in the meantime (for those of you who don’t speak Cat-pidgeon, or Leet-speak, “Teh suck” refers to things in life that honestly, well, are awful.  See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teh).

Anyone else gotten some rotten news lately?  Because Ruth sure has.  Like a person who I used to play with on the playground apparently just got diagnosed with stage four cancer. Yeah, I know. Stage. Four. And this is a person who is actually a little younger than I, actually—and my ex-boyfriend’s best friend, who is also ex-boyfriend to one of my best gal pals, to boot.   When that gal pal called me, I was in shock. When I got home about twenty-four hours later, I cried and threw things in my bedroom and might have called God a bully, a neglectful father, and a lot of other not-so-nice names. It was a stupid thing to do, like putting on a pair of sneakers to kick a tank—the only damage that was done was to myself, and I admit that freely, even as I borrow Ravi Zacharias’ kicked-tank visual to do it.

And then I sat down and read some more of A’Kempis’s admonitions, and only felt a mild stirring of comfort to read that “though thou run hither and thither, thou wilt not find peace, save in humble subjection to the authority of Him who is set over thee. Fancies about places and change of them have deceived many” (I.VIII).  And, “He who seekth aught save God and the health of his soul shall find only tribulation and sorrow” (I.XVII).

So I’m going to watch and pray, take the opportunities that come (including doing some freelance writing. We’ll see if I can make a go of it!), and hope, against hope, that things will be okay, and that God will take my open stance to mean that I’m ready to be assigned a purpose for my existence.  Because I’m sure tired of trying to figure it out for myself.

There, I feel better now. So in the words of Art to his audience, I’d like to say, “Thanks for . . . listening.”

-Ruth

 

Notes:

*You can read A’Kempis’ The Imitation of Christ online for free at http://www.leaderu.com/cyber/books/imitation/imitation.html.  It’s a pretty decent translation, too.

*Josh Bales is a singer/songwriter from Chattanooga, Tennessee, with whom Ruth had a two-week acquaintance (no, we never dated. But we did sing together to lead worship, which is like making out, pretty much. Right? No? Poooh.). ”Ten Thousand Places” is a song from his old album Underneath the Armor, which is available on iTunes. You can listen to Josh sing from his latest album on his MySpace page, www.myspace.com/joshbales. 

*Ravi Zacharias uses the kicking-the-tank metaphor in one of his sermons, and I don’t remember which one.  But you should check out my link to his website in the side bar >>>> over there >>>>> and listen to a sermon or two. You just might catch it.

*Just so there’s no confusion, it should be said that RPattz only plays the role of a bad musician in How To Be, and that he actually had to train himself to sing off-key to do it.  This is what Rob really sounds like when he plays and sings—er, okay, this is what Rob sounds like when he’s slightly drunk and playing around with his falsetto and a Van Morrison song.  Just listen to it. It bounces around from kinda weird (but even he laughs at his falsetto and weird improvisations), to kinda sexy (esp. around 1:00 to 3:20), to seriously hot (again, that magic sultry space between 1:00-3:20), then back to just plain funny at the end. Gotta love a man who laughs at his mistakes but doesn’t skip a beat. He just keeps on singin’.

 

Giving Thanks for the Letter ‘M’: Moving On, Movies, Men, and Miracles

I apologize for the lack of posts in recent weeks. Hopefully you’re still reading. 

I also apologize for the monster length of this post. I think it’s the result of weeks of pent-up, then messily unpenned  (bad writing pun) tension.  I’ve barely had the stretch of two uncluttered hours to put pen to paper, let alone fingers to keyboard.  

 And that’s because things are changing quickly in my life. Again.

 Just in time for the anniversary of my father’s slow demise, I’m once again off to start—or restart–my life.  

I think the shift started with the tectonic influence of my mother, a.k.a. Mara, who has been voicing for months now her complaints about my job at the restaurant: its hours, its lack of weekends, the way that my bosses have made unrighteous overusage of my helper-caregiver nature during times of economic distress (“Abbie, can you handle serving the entire restaurant on a Sunday night by yourself? We don’t have the money to hire another server right now.” “Uh, sure, I guess.”  ::Cue the anxiety attack::).  It hasn’t made living at home pleasant, and going to work is even less so.  

Ruth can limbo really, really well when she has a stick to knock her head on. And a white tiger-print dress helps, too.

So I made up my mind to allow myself to start looking at other jobs. That was step one, which I took around the time of my last post. Then I made myself stay up later so I could apply for other jobs online—and this step happened about two weeks ago.  This week, I fell into the we’ll-call-you/interview-you-soon-so-stay-tuned stage, which is like playing limbo without any stick to tell you how far to bend while you try to continue on with your regularly scheduled days.

And on the night of the 19^th, or really, the early morning of the 20^th, I decided to simply quit; to allow myself to just have-it-up-to-here with the hassle of working on back-pay (still no paycheck: this is week two), having no weekends (and hence, almost no dating), working heavy shifts by myself, and being responsible for far more restaurant-running than I was ever contracted to be. 

I wasn’t at work when I decided this; I was actually out with one of my old gal pals in the middle of a screaming, writhing, hysterical crowd of well over 200 people crammed into a movie theatre (out of a full 1,200 or so total in the whole building). At midnight.  Awaiting the second coming–of the next installment of the  Twilight Saga¹, not Jesus Christ. But for all the anticipation in the air, you might have thought that we’d gathered there for that.

And I knew, while I was sitting there between groups of babbling fifteenish-year-old  and forty-something women, that I was being BAD. Very bad.  

I’d not only worked a full double-shift at the restaurant earlier that day, but I knew I was going to have to work the double-shift the next day, which was a Friday, and to top it off, would be a night when live musicians were coming to the restaurant. I should have been home, sleeping under the fog of sedatives, preparing myself mentally for the coming equivalent of waitressing hell—handling six or seven tables at once, managing chef s’ delays, pacifying upset customers, and making bad tips in spite of how hard I try to make everyone happy—but instead, I was out watching a teenage girl’s epic love drama unfurl itself on the big screen in the wee hours of the morning.

And I couldn’t really regret it; I couldn’t even regret going out for a drink beforehand.  And I felt actually sort of mad that I was going to have to sacrifice a lot the next day in terms of sleeplessness and exhaustion to pay for one night of fun with a friend for the first time in nearly a month of working six and seven days a week—no weekends.  I was seething over the loss of autonomy. I was angry—truly angry—about being caged in a lifestyle that wouldn’t suit a hamster.  It was that anger, I think, that sharpened my focus and brought me to the conclusion that my vocation had to change.  

Bella (Kristen Stewart) tries to connect with her reflection in a dream sequence that forces her to face facts about herself in "New Moon." Edward (Rob) stands beside her looking pretty as a dream in a period coat.

And as I watched the film, I relearned some things about myself. Ultimately, I remembered that I had no one to be angry at for my circumstances except for myself. As Edward Cullen commented, it was Romeo who “destroyed his own happiness” in his personal tragedy; he had no one else to blame. I decided that I didn’t want to be a tragic literary cliché—so I needed to quit acting like one.  

And I was grateful for the emo soundtrack, the dark, depressive facials of Kristen Stewart’s Bella, the self-deprecating sadness of Robert Pattinson’s Edward, the spunky, no-nonsense attitude and protective friendship of Ashley Greene’s Alice, and the fursplosive (furry + explosive) tempers of the werewolves. It felt like one massive cathartic experience.  As an audience, we collectively sighed, cried, gasped, laughed, raged, cringed, and felt that curious relief of knowing that, in spite of the strange and unfulfilling ending of this particular book (New Moon is book two of the saga), the ultimate ending for all involved will be happy. 

This seems counter-intuitive, but I love it when movies wake us up to the world of real life.  I love it when they remind us of our part in the God-authored stories we inhabit, stories that are complex, difficult, and sometimes frightening, but that God promises us will at least end well.  I guess the experience restored my faith a little.

So, when my gal pal and I walked out of the theatre at 2:30 AM, only to discover that her car’s battery was dead, we felt no real sense of panic. She called AAA, we returned to the bar from whence we’d started our evening to await our rescue, and we re-encountered the bartender who had flirted so assiduously with me some hours before (he’d brought me a whole bowl of cherries for my Long Island; apparently he’d been staring a me while I used a straw to chase down the lonely cherry in my glass and then decided he liked the combination of me eating cherries enough to bring me a bowl).   We talked to him and discovered that, lo and behold, he was not only a neighbor of mine, but that he was competent with jumper cables.   He had us safely on our way by 3 AM. Since it was a chance meeting in the first place that led to our deeper acquaintance with him, I felt like we’d experienced nothing short of a miracle in his act of chivalrous assistance.

Ah, real-world heroes.  They’re better than vampire-heroes anyday (sort of).  At least, they deserve a nice kiss on the cheek, if not a bite or two (okay, there was no biting, I promise).  What a nice ending to our Twilight Night!

So, now I’m off on another adventure of sorts.   When all of the counselors in my life back up my instincts when they tell me that it’s time to move on from somewhere, I take that as God’s voice projecting through the mind and the people he’s entrusted to care about me.  My allotted stint at the restaurant is over, and in good time.  I’m going back on the job market, this time looking for a position that has a little upward mobility, maybe benefits, and most of all, God’s stamp of direction. I’ll have my days free to actively pursue other job opportunities, to visit much-neglected friends, and to also have the requisite downtime required to handle the heavy emotional turmoil of the holiday season caused by my bereavement.  November 13^th marked the anniversary of my dad’s “death sentence”–the day when the doctors told him there was nothing left to do but wait for his body to give in to the cancer.  The rest of this holiday season is going to be a landmine of emotional memory triggers from my father’s death, which means I’m going to be doing some heavy grief work in the days to come on top of my job-searching.  Wish me luck. 

-Ruth  

Notes (Skippable unless you’re a Twihard): 

1. “The Twilight Saga: New Moon” beat the opening-weekend records for the Harry Potter films, and it even killed the all-time opening-night record previously held by “The Dark Knight.” This just proves that women are a powerful economic group. Current stats have the audience for the films as being 80% female, 50% of whom are under the age of eighteen, with the other 50% being made up of twenty-somethings and Twimoms. http://movies.yahoo.com/news/movies.ap.org/new-moon-wolfs-down-1407m-opening-weekend-ap  The movie is now the #1 film in the world for this whole year.  Yeah.  I know.          Crazy.  Incidentally, this opening weekend take now makes Robert Pattinson the most bankable actor in the world at the moment. He can have any director, part, script, woman, etc. that he wants. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1230021/Robert-Pattinson-hot-property-Twilight-sequel-New-Moon-breaks-box-office-records.html  If he were anyone else, he would have a head that’s too big to fit in the studio door, but he’s too humble for all that. Like the polite little British boy he is, Rob Pattinson wrote a thank-you note to fans on Twitter on Monday after hearing the news (using the official Twilight Saga account this time, http://twitter.com/Twilight, and not Peter Facinelli’s page), sweetly tweeting,

“Thank you for making NEW MOON #1. It’s very exciting to be a part of something embraced by so many people. . . I hope you are looking forward to ECLIPSE as much as I am.  

Just FYI, Rob, here is a paraphrase of what I gathered from the other fans at the New Moon opening night:  

Honey, you’re welcome. The movie was awesome. You are awesome. We’re looking forward to the next one, but hope you’ll have some down time to recover and work on other stuff (::cough:: “Bel Ami,” ::cough:: “Unbound Captives” ::cough::). Go home to your family in London on holiday and bask in the afterglow of your fame for a bit. We all think you deserve it.      

 

Haters need not comment . . . Okay, fine; yes, you can.

Taylor Lautner is so obviously thinking, "I wish I was Rob Pattinson. He's so freakin' cool and pretty!" (photo credit: LATimes)

 

A Quickie (But not the fun kind. ::shakes finger at you for thinking that way::)

God is teaching me to put my foot down.   How do I know?  He’s letting me get run RAGGED.  I’m ten pounds lighter than I was in August.  I look like I haven’t slept in months and haven’t done my hair in ages.  Reason why?

All I have time for right now is a quickie.

A quickie lunch between shifts.

A quickie shower before I throw myself in bed at night.

A quickie email check, and no time for checking out matches on eHarmony, which is too slow in processing and loading, too disorganized, and costs too much.

A quickie scrabbling of notes to my friends between dental, dermatological, and lunch appointments on my day off, notes which make it into the mailbox late  (but get to Hanover College on time because HC’s mailroom still loves me, and loves my girls, too).

A quickie chat with a long-distance girl friend on the phone (10 minutes, 15 seconds–a record by girl standards). (“You okay, hon?” “How’s life?” “Um, hum/Oh, no. That’s good/bad.”  ”Hope things get better for you/me both.” “Love you.”  ”Take care. Bye.”)

A quickie Halloween night spent with the girls after I run home from work, grab my things, and show up two hours late to the party before I run home, shower, and try to get ready for more work.

A quickie emotional breakdown following a triple-accident in the kitchen, customer’s dining table, and the dishwasher, shut off by a nice  quick-dissolving dose of a sublingual anxiolytic that makes it so that the anxiety attack only lasts one minute and thirty seconds before I can get right back to work. Mascara smudged?  Yep.  Still shaking? Sure was.  Appetizers late? Yes.  Serving the meal on time, at least? Hell, yes.  I can do waitressing, I’m just understaffed!

A quickie dream sequence. Yep, the whole thing was done and over with in a minute or less, and I woke up feeling like that’s about how long I’d slept.  Oh, and I dreamt about being exhausted and not having time to sleep. That was nice, too.

I also had time for a quickie at Careerbuilder.com–because working six-and-seven-days a week is not working for me, for my private life, or for my physical or emotional health.

I’m off to catch up on my first day off in three weeks.

Love you all!

 

-Ruth

 

 

P.S.  I’m not complaining. I’m trying to do something about it, really. And I know I’m not alone. Every single one of my college-educated, recent-grad friends are in sucky jobs right now and have very little time for themselves. I just happen to be one of the most overworked of the overworked, with the exception of one person from that age group whom I don’t personally know, but who will make for a nice graphic in this post, and is also in the middle of his own quarter-life crisis:

An outtake from the new, epic Vanity Fair photo shoot. Poor guy. I know exactly (sort of) how he feels. At least it doesn’t look like his hair is falling out from the stress (mine is!).

“I’m trying not to drown.” -Robert Pattinson,  on the overworked, exhausted craziness that is his life, in an interview in the new December issue of Vanity Fair magazine (photos by Bruce Weber–check ‘em out at VF.com)

“I haven’t seen anyone I know for like a year,” Pattinson told Brian Truitt of USA Weekend. “I’ve got to see what remains of the wreckage of my life.”

RPattz has reportedly only had a grand total of one week off all year, so I know I should stop complaining.  The poor guy sounds exhausted in these interviews. Reading the soundbites was like getting served a hot plate of perspective–I suppose I should dig in.  Life could always be more hectic, exhausting, lonesome, and littered with aggressive paparazzi. At least there’s no one there to take pictures of me on my bad days while I’m rushing around trying to get everything done.

Aside from the nice visuals and the great quotes he provides, I also decided to tag  Rob here because, let’s face it, that’s how you wind up getting new viewers stumbling onto your blog page from their relentless Google searches.