I'm so tired, but I can't sleep.... I'm pretty sure that's a line from a song. I just feel sort of rife with excitement right now. I feel much how I did when I was four years old and it was December 23, I believe, and my family and I were preparing to fly to Pittsburgh, I think, to then drive up to New York where we would visit my grandparents. I remember opening one present before we left for the airport the next morning. It was a Cabbage Patch doll and I named her Emily or something like that.
I just remember the colored lights of the tree sparkling--the night held such an aura of mystery. For some reason, it's one of my favorite memories...opening the gift I had anticipated and then hardly being able to contain myself in anticipation for the trip.
I feel like that now, at 26 years old, mesmerized by the colored holiday lights out on our front porch, having just received such a gift of joy at having celebrated my husband's 30th birthday tonight with lots of dear friends, coupled with the anticipation of flying back to the Midwest Tuesday. We were told that a blanket of snow awaits us. Oh, and a puppy. My parents got a golden retriever puppy a month ago who will be accompanying my parents in the car as they come to pick us up in Chicago.
I feel really blessed right now, and that's why it's hard to sleep: it's like I don't really want to miss life by going to bed. It's good to feel joy over the simple things.
Thank you, God, for that, because I must say in the same breath that there is also so much sorrow in the world. So I want to take this moment to mark down in time that I am joyful and thankful. Papers are turned into school, we just had a great party, and it's the Christmas season!
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
The Destruction of Self-Preservation
Icons are symbolic images that locate an idea or person within history, preserving the ideals of a culture. In modern popular culture celebrities are the icons of immutable beauty. As a culture we curate these otherwise normal people as exceptional specimens of humanity: We project on them all of our lofty ideals so our own normalcy is a little easier to bear. Because we believe their beauty and talent are unchanging, we emulate them through fashion, workouts, diets, and charitable works with the aim of shaping ourselves into an exhibit that can be admired. This narcissistic self-preservation siphons creativity and self-giving love because the self is butchered into pieces that are palatable to the masses.
When one walks within such narrow confines of success, the survival mode is activated: fight or flight, in order to save face because “I don’t quite measure up yet, so I won’t take that risk to play in that coffee shop-- I’ll just hole myself away in my basement and keep crooning out lonesome melodies, or hide away my thoughts in a tattered journal, because it does not yet measure up to perfection.” Self-preservation trumps creativity. The longer this creative impulse is thwarted, more and more effort will go into preserving one as the ideal icon—one who constructs the appearance of success through fashion or the accessories one associates with a creative field, and less energy will be available to move out in the dynamic world of creative acts which inevitably will include failure, embarrassment, forgetting of lines, tripping over oneself, getting stage fright.
Paradoxically, the preservation of self is connected to the destruction of self. One builds the gallows of execution by placing a premium on living as a static, godlike icon. Living as an icon traps one in the tower of self-preservation because there is no room to breathe; no space to be a human being who sweats, tears, bruises, and bleeds. We construct such a high pedestal that the broken bones from the fall from such a steep height is inevitable. The conservation of inward energy fuels a self-absorption that does not sustain life, but intensifies feelings of isolation. The feelings of isolation grow as one builds one’s own fortress, and sends the message to those with whom one could have intimate relationships that one is self-sufficient, therefore shutting off meaningful connection that could occur. Self-preservation serves a purpose psychologically: We believe the myth that if we do not taste our own madness, perhaps we can remain aloof from death. Considerable energy is spent to keep the self intact through preservation; a holding of one’s own breath as a subconscious way to stave off death. Ironically, however, asphyxiation sets in because a lack of creative and self-giving engagement creates a void of relationship.
How does one escape this mess, especially in faith circles where it is so easy to remain isolated because of the core value of self-protection, rather than outgoing love? What allows one to step down from the double-edged tower that provides a stalwart from worldly danger? How does one get down from this tower when what is lurking below is perceived as being deadly? For any movement away from self-preservation, death must be confronted. This is terrifying for the one whose god is self-preservation because it the coming out of the “safe” tower is in and of itself an experience of death: lowering oneself to the earth, exposing one’s needs, and putting faith in someone who will be waiting to help. Yet this can feel like psychic death when one has resided in the tower for so long. How does one die to self, without killing oneself?
I believe it requires an experience of our own personal brokenness, which makes one more ready to face the reality of death. Death (physical, spiritual, and emotional) needs to be named for what it is: one side of the coin, but a side that is so easily defended against psychically through self-preservation. Beauty is not all there is, and we will not be able to appreciate what a grace it is unless we are able to fully confront death. It is true that beauty can be idolized as we see in our celebrity pop culture. Beauty needs to beckon us to discover the Author of both beauty and pain, so that neither one gets venerated over the other.
Confronting the reality that death will not be outwitted allows one to stop anxiously clinging to the beauty at the expense of honestly facing death. No matter how thin, beautiful, creatively prolific, profound, well-connected, and articulate one is, death will come. It seems this acceptance must be internalized before there can meaningful movement toward authentic goals here-and-now. Personal brokenness is a starting place: the acceptance that every moment in time is moving us towards physical death. Regardless of what we believe about sin and how much is at work in our being, no one can argue against the fact that we are all on a trajectory of physical death that much is known, even if spiritual death is denied. This fact must be reckoned with, and the questions that arise from this vulnerable place. The acceptance of death gives birth to life, and thus creativity because of the gratefulness that I am actually breathing right now and it’s happening quite all right on its own without me needing to regulate it.
Perhaps our grandiose strivings would lessen (of course they would never cease altogether) if the inevitability of death were reckoned with. We all want to be loved, admired, and seen as unique, if we are honest with ourselves. Yet the competition is fierce if personal worth is only built on the need for a cutthroat culture to validate our beauty. How many women short-circuit their own voices because they are lulled by the sirens of celebrity-status women who project an iconic way of being? The celebrity culture says that the only way that is worth being seen is if you are in a movie, a fashion model, attain standards of slimness that are 15 % below average weight, become famous by writing a book, or another notable professional achievement. The discrepancy between what is purported as the only way to be seen only sets one up for silence: “If I can’t be the most beautiful in order to appear on the cover of Vogue, or the most intelligent, or the most creative and witty, or the thinnest, I am nothing.”
When one walks within such narrow confines of success, the survival mode is activated: fight or flight, in order to save face because “I don’t quite measure up yet, so I won’t take that risk to play in that coffee shop-- I’ll just hole myself away in my basement and keep crooning out lonesome melodies, or hide away my thoughts in a tattered journal, because it does not yet measure up to perfection.” Self-preservation trumps creativity. The longer this creative impulse is thwarted, more and more effort will go into preserving one as the ideal icon—one who constructs the appearance of success through fashion or the accessories one associates with a creative field, and less energy will be available to move out in the dynamic world of creative acts which inevitably will include failure, embarrassment, forgetting of lines, tripping over oneself, getting stage fright.
It is the person who is not afraid to slip-up and laugh who will connect with an audience, and humanity at large: one who is willing to risk “death” (public mistakes/ losing face) in order to bring forth something creative. This is seen in the performer who blanks on the words of her song, but can continue strumming, share her predicament with the audience, and eventually find herself in the rhythm of the song again. In sharing the predicament, the audience usually sympathetically communicates an acceptance of the performer’s vulnerability. The key is that there is dynamic energy present, rather than a stagnant preservation of oneself as an icon who only looks the part of musician, writer, artist, actor.
The dynamic energy brings forth something that is authentic. The audience who receives the creative gifts marvels more at the creator’s ability to stay in the moment, rather than an impeccable performance. The acceptance of one’s frailty opens the way for brokenness, and the gateway for creativity because the energy is used to connect rather than preserve oneself against death. Death can be accepted, reckoned with, and life can be lived with a joyous earnestness. We need not usher it in hastily through the vanity of self-destructive preservation.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Fire and Water: The tension between Destruction and Creativity
Fall has officially graced the Northwest with its chilly nights and cool, foggy morrnings that gloriously morph into sunny afternoons. I actually really love the bi-polarity of the grey, melancholy morrnings and the cheerful, azurine afternoon skies. The sunsets during this time of year are a like a delicious nightcap to a textured day woven with blues and reds. I walked the short distance to Safeway last night in a search for drink to complement our Pizza dinner and needed to shield my eyes from the blazing sun at 6:30 in the evening. The sun appeared strong enough that it might leap down onto earth and bring both light and destruction. Perhaps it was a foreshadowing...
I made the walk back from Safeway, arriving home to a deliciously smelling kitchen full of Italian sausage aroma, and began cutting up broccoli, with my Safeway purchase of Hansen's diet root beer in hand when I heard blood-curdliing screams coming from outside. I tuned my ears and listened closer, as I tried to distinguish whether the cries were one of joy or one of terror (the threshold between the two can often be narrow). After a few seconds, it registered that it was a scream of terror, and I quickly opened the door to our porch and heard a woman's desperate shrieks as she stood by the side of the road with her Golden Retriever, watching her home go up in flames. I quickly alerted Joel, who was on the phone, that we needed to call 911.
We ran out to the sidewalk, as there were many neighbors already responding to her hysterical shrieks. She had just emerged from her house and was limping away from it at the encouragement of the nextdoor neighbors. She was convulsing and gasping for air, as the shock and utter terror was too much to take in.
My eyes filled with tears as I watched in horror the angry orange flames consuming her house. Less than 10 minutes ago, I had walked by and there had been peace. Life has a way of turning in on itself within seconds to reveal its destructive underbelly.
There is something about fire that deeply disturbs me. It always has, since I was young. Burned out houses have always intrigued me in a dark sense. There is something haunting about them. After the immanent destruction, only bones are left: the life and spirit that reside are vanished. Apart from the obvious loss of keepsakes like photos, for example, there is something symbolic about fire that is so disturbing. I felt so deeply for the horror that was taking place in front of this woman's eyes. All I could do was say a prayer for her, as several people were already gathered around her. I can only imagine how overwhelmed she must feel. Life is so fragile, no? There is so much that can easily slip from our perceived control. May we have a secure peace in spite of the precariousness of life. Praise to Christ in whom all things hold together. In the same breath, though, I must say that I do not understand how this can be when there is so much destruction.
Yet I find hope in that often destruction can give way to life. Destruction is never the final story. That is what I praise God for, yet I weep for the woman who has must find the strength to begin again. She is without a home. It must feel so disorienting to have life stand still; to have to locate oneself in the midst of the void that is created when belonging and memories and place are ruined. God, may you be near to her in a tangible and experiential way. Be near to all of us who constantly walk the tension between destruction and creativity, each one flowing into the other. May we pay attention to our own destructive tendencies that lie dormant, like dry grass so vulnerable to the stray flame. Be our water, Lord, in the midst of this dry land.
I made the walk back from Safeway, arriving home to a deliciously smelling kitchen full of Italian sausage aroma, and began cutting up broccoli, with my Safeway purchase of Hansen's diet root beer in hand when I heard blood-curdliing screams coming from outside. I tuned my ears and listened closer, as I tried to distinguish whether the cries were one of joy or one of terror (the threshold between the two can often be narrow). After a few seconds, it registered that it was a scream of terror, and I quickly opened the door to our porch and heard a woman's desperate shrieks as she stood by the side of the road with her Golden Retriever, watching her home go up in flames. I quickly alerted Joel, who was on the phone, that we needed to call 911.
We ran out to the sidewalk, as there were many neighbors already responding to her hysterical shrieks. She had just emerged from her house and was limping away from it at the encouragement of the nextdoor neighbors. She was convulsing and gasping for air, as the shock and utter terror was too much to take in.
My eyes filled with tears as I watched in horror the angry orange flames consuming her house. Less than 10 minutes ago, I had walked by and there had been peace. Life has a way of turning in on itself within seconds to reveal its destructive underbelly.
There is something about fire that deeply disturbs me. It always has, since I was young. Burned out houses have always intrigued me in a dark sense. There is something haunting about them. After the immanent destruction, only bones are left: the life and spirit that reside are vanished. Apart from the obvious loss of keepsakes like photos, for example, there is something symbolic about fire that is so disturbing. I felt so deeply for the horror that was taking place in front of this woman's eyes. All I could do was say a prayer for her, as several people were already gathered around her. I can only imagine how overwhelmed she must feel. Life is so fragile, no? There is so much that can easily slip from our perceived control. May we have a secure peace in spite of the precariousness of life. Praise to Christ in whom all things hold together. In the same breath, though, I must say that I do not understand how this can be when there is so much destruction.
Yet I find hope in that often destruction can give way to life. Destruction is never the final story. That is what I praise God for, yet I weep for the woman who has must find the strength to begin again. She is without a home. It must feel so disorienting to have life stand still; to have to locate oneself in the midst of the void that is created when belonging and memories and place are ruined. God, may you be near to her in a tangible and experiential way. Be near to all of us who constantly walk the tension between destruction and creativity, each one flowing into the other. May we pay attention to our own destructive tendencies that lie dormant, like dry grass so vulnerable to the stray flame. Be our water, Lord, in the midst of this dry land.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
West Coast summer excursions and Kayaking foibles
It was difficult to get back into the routine of school largely because the summer was so much fun. As soon as classes were out at Mars Hill on June 28th, it was ready-set-go to pack the outdoor activities into approximately the ten-week window of sun that the Pacific Northwest is blessed to receive. Joel and I headed back to Michigan for the 4th of July and enjoyed Kathy's homemade apple pie and corn on the cob, and many laughs with family, and some dang good Margaritas with Abbey and John, and some stellar fireworks, and an All-American day at the Lake.
The end of July brought a long weekend trip out to Montana to visit Josh Vandermeer at the outdoor adventure camp he works at. The drive through eastern Washington and Idaho felt like we were outlaws on the western prairie, driving through the desert heat with the full moon overhead. I always find it quite fascinating that once you drive over the Pass, in about 50 miles the desert creeps up on you unexpectedly. it feels like being on a movie set, I think--the ability to be transported into a different environment within a matter of minutes. I love it. The desert is so mystical to me, and it was refreshing in a hot and dry sort of way because Seattle had been so saturated with rain this summer. I love extreme temperatures because there's no guesswork involved in what to wear: hot= tank tops, Tevas, swimsuits, lots of water; cold=sweaters, heavy coats, Grande Mochas. Seattle is not so straightforward--even the weather here is passive-aggressive!
Back to Montana--it was an amazing weekend: white-water rafting, kayaking, and other sorts of wild activities such as going down through the rapids completely underwater in my kayak because I panicked and didn't wet-exit.... Very frightening experience because it was my first time white-water Kayaking. Josh ended up flipping me over when I had been underwater for about a minute because I lost my presence of mind. I am thankful that nothing worse happened, but the experience made me think just how paralyzed I can get in the midst of intense experiences, and how easy it can be for fear to rule me. God was quite near that weekend as He used that experience to give me a fuller picture of what it means to be at the end of myself, not able to do anything, needing someone to intervene. The simple truth of Christ as Savior impacted me in a new way. I have never had the experience of totally being at the end of myself and my perceived resources. It made me so thankful for each breath that I am granted each moment... that I deserve nothing that has not been given as a gift through the Lord. Praise God that He sustains the earth and loves us enough to intervene for our need. He is a good God, and being in nature has such a way of speaking spiritual truths to me.
In August, Joel's sister Laura was out here visiting Joel and I, as well as her boyfriend Brent (the three of us are the ones in the hotspring--Joel's taking the picture). We spent time camping and lodging at the Crescent Lake Lodge, and travelled to the most northwest point in the continental U.S., Cape Flattery, WA. Magnificent ocean, and caves and rocks, and bright orange starfish on the rocks. On our anniversary, we travelled to Kalaloch on the Pacific Ocean. Oceans have a way of making me feel like I'm about 6 years old--I get very giddy and I can hardly contain my excitement. Once we went down to the beach and discovered the water was actually warm enough to go in, we raced up back to the car as fast as we could to get our suits and play in the water!! It was glorious.
The weekend after that, we went down to Cannon Beach, OR, to have another beach excursion, as you can see below. The water was azure-blue, and amid the grey rocks and green trees, it was a color kaleidoscope. I love the ruggedness of the Pacific Coast. I am at home here.
The end of July brought a long weekend trip out to Montana to visit Josh Vandermeer at the outdoor adventure camp he works at. The drive through eastern Washington and Idaho felt like we were outlaws on the western prairie, driving through the desert heat with the full moon overhead. I always find it quite fascinating that once you drive over the Pass, in about 50 miles the desert creeps up on you unexpectedly. it feels like being on a movie set, I think--the ability to be transported into a different environment within a matter of minutes. I love it. The desert is so mystical to me, and it was refreshing in a hot and dry sort of way because Seattle had been so saturated with rain this summer. I love extreme temperatures because there's no guesswork involved in what to wear: hot= tank tops, Tevas, swimsuits, lots of water; cold=sweaters, heavy coats, Grande Mochas. Seattle is not so straightforward--even the weather here is passive-aggressive!
Back to Montana--it was an amazing weekend: white-water rafting, kayaking, and other sorts of wild activities such as going down through the rapids completely underwater in my kayak because I panicked and didn't wet-exit.... Very frightening experience because it was my first time white-water Kayaking. Josh ended up flipping me over when I had been underwater for about a minute because I lost my presence of mind. I am thankful that nothing worse happened, but the experience made me think just how paralyzed I can get in the midst of intense experiences, and how easy it can be for fear to rule me. God was quite near that weekend as He used that experience to give me a fuller picture of what it means to be at the end of myself, not able to do anything, needing someone to intervene. The simple truth of Christ as Savior impacted me in a new way. I have never had the experience of totally being at the end of myself and my perceived resources. It made me so thankful for each breath that I am granted each moment... that I deserve nothing that has not been given as a gift through the Lord. Praise God that He sustains the earth and loves us enough to intervene for our need. He is a good God, and being in nature has such a way of speaking spiritual truths to me.
In August, Joel's sister Laura was out here visiting Joel and I, as well as her boyfriend Brent (the three of us are the ones in the hotspring--Joel's taking the picture). We spent time camping and lodging at the Crescent Lake Lodge, and travelled to the most northwest point in the continental U.S., Cape Flattery, WA. Magnificent ocean, and caves and rocks, and bright orange starfish on the rocks. On our anniversary, we travelled to Kalaloch on the Pacific Ocean. Oceans have a way of making me feel like I'm about 6 years old--I get very giddy and I can hardly contain my excitement. Once we went down to the beach and discovered the water was actually warm enough to go in, we raced up back to the car as fast as we could to get our suits and play in the water!! It was glorious.
The weekend after that, we went down to Cannon Beach, OR, to have another beach excursion, as you can see below. The water was azure-blue, and amid the grey rocks and green trees, it was a color kaleidoscope. I love the ruggedness of the Pacific Coast. I am at home here.
The perfect blend of dorkiness and endearment
Does the title of our new literary playground sound like a best seller? I thought it sounded a bit Anne of Green Gables-esque, or perhaps a bit more Tom Sawyer-esque. My first publication on my very first blog! It feels quite strange to be writing things that potentially other people could be reading (that is, if they can get past the cheechy title (that's a Luke Abernathy-ism, and that was the first adjective that came to mind--- "Cheechy," by the way, is a nice blend of both dorkiness and endearment, as I understand it--those are two qualities that I personally aim to strive for, so hopefullly every entry will have the perfect proportions of both).
Anyway, I was getting a burst of creative energy tonight after seeing Over the Rhine at the Triple Door in Seattle, and just felt a blog could be a good way to get my thoughts flowing, and also display Joel's really great photos that he takes of the beauty here in Seattle. So for those of you who have been hooked by my blog title, please continue to check back and see exactly what kind of adventures do happen on Admiral Way....
I do have to say a couple of words about Over the Rhine, though, before I sign off. They never fail to inspire me and move me to tears and laughter... they are a band that has journeyed with me for about ten years now. I was first introduced to them when I was 16 years old by Ryan Russey back in Michigan on a late-August evening after Cross-Country practice. The album was Good-Dog/ Bad-Dog, and it grew on me in much the same way that dark-roast Sumatra and Cabernet Sauvignon did in their earthy and musky way; it's like something surprising that crawls into your skin that you're not quite sure about at first, but makes itself at home (okay, it sounded like I was just describing a parasite). You know what I mean. I was hooked from that summer of 1997 on... and It's been a lovely decade.
Anyway, I was getting a burst of creative energy tonight after seeing Over the Rhine at the Triple Door in Seattle, and just felt a blog could be a good way to get my thoughts flowing, and also display Joel's really great photos that he takes of the beauty here in Seattle. So for those of you who have been hooked by my blog title, please continue to check back and see exactly what kind of adventures do happen on Admiral Way....
I do have to say a couple of words about Over the Rhine, though, before I sign off. They never fail to inspire me and move me to tears and laughter... they are a band that has journeyed with me for about ten years now. I was first introduced to them when I was 16 years old by Ryan Russey back in Michigan on a late-August evening after Cross-Country practice. The album was Good-Dog/ Bad-Dog, and it grew on me in much the same way that dark-roast Sumatra and Cabernet Sauvignon did in their earthy and musky way; it's like something surprising that crawls into your skin that you're not quite sure about at first, but makes itself at home (okay, it sounded like I was just describing a parasite). You know what I mean. I was hooked from that summer of 1997 on... and It's been a lovely decade.
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