Vagabond

I am grieving. No, no one has died. Nothing tangibly tragic has occured to cause me to grieve, no, I am grieving the loss of a sense of place in my life. It is strange to grieve the loss of a place, and not the loss of a person or thing. In America, we seem to have grown out of a need for a sense of place. Because of the ease of travel and instant communication over long distances, families disperse like chaff in the wind as soon as they're old enough to leave the nest. There is also an emphasis on non-traditionalism, newness, the excellencies of change. We want a change of scenery, a change of situation. We are quick to separate from the past, assert ourselves over history. We are different! We will move on!

My family had moving down to a science. I am grieving the years we spent wandering the country. I bottled up my anger and hatred of moving and I stuffed it down inside. Every time we moved, I put on a strong and happy face, but inwardly, I cringed and whithered inside, waiting for the tears to fall when I was alone in my room packing boxes with my memories. I survived. I learned how to meet people quickly and adapt in ever changing, completely foreign situations. I saw new and unusual things, explored each new state and town with my family. At least I had my family. I have loving parents and siblings who are my dearest friends.

But I am grieving the loss of a sense of place. Do I feel at home in Arizona, in the desert surrounded by mountains and under a sun that feels like an interrogation lamp searing any sense of orientation from my brain? Do I feel at home in Missouri, the land green, the air thick with humidity, the rivers swollen like contented bellies with water that flows clear and blue? Do I feel at home in South Carolina or New JErsey? New York? Seattle? California? Virginia? Or any other place I have lived in or visited for any length of time?

My mom reminded me that as a Christian, our true home is in Heaven and we will never feel completely "at home" anywhere in this world. While I understand the implications of that idea, I am not willing to accept that there is nowhere in this world that I can settle in for the time being. I know many people who have found places they love and lived in the same house or town for thirty, or fifty years. The concept is ridiculously foreign to me, but I hope to experience it for my own life. At least while I am alive and on this earth, I long for a sense of place. The nomadic life is not appealing. I have tried it for twenty-five years. Now I want to find a place that feels like home, where I can live and learn, growing accustomed to the weather and the tides, the people, building memories upon memories in every square inch of a place. I still desire to travel and see the world, but I want a place in which I can look forward to returning and resting.

I had a taste of a place like this in the house my paternal grandparents lived in and where we had family reunions every summer, so I know it is possible. I have this desire to find a sense of place, so I know the nomadic tendency, although it may be inherited, is not fixed irrevocably in my blood. When I approach this subject with the Lord, He reminds me of Psalm 37:4 which says, "Delight yourself in the Lord and he shall give you the desires of your heart." Finding a place to call home is a desire of my heart.

Sigh

I feel so sad right now. It is not the kind of sadness that is gut-wrenching in its intensity, nor is it one of those, "Oh man, I just got a papercut" fleeting sadnesses. This kind of sadness sneaks up on me, little by little. One circumstance or internal struggle is met and I face it, or ignore it, thinking it can be bested. Then a new one surfaces unrelated or related to the first, and I am slightly bemused by it, but I trudge on unvanquished. Unfortunately, there are only so many of those urchins that I can fend off by myself. Lately they have been coming in droves, weakening my resolve. No sooner do I fight a few hundred off, but the next come crawling up my pant leg. I am trying to pray, but one of the little sadness buggers made its way to my ear, disguised itself as an awfully convincing truth and is whispering, "You may ask God for help, but He sure ain't hearing you." I know it is a lie, but at the same time, it feels so true right now. I could really use some prayer...and/or a really strong hug.

English Lesson

Some people should not be teachers. My "Structure and Meaning of Words" professor is one of those people. She is not actually a professor, she is a Russian born graduate student, named Tatyana. I like her name, I like her voice and her proper, precise speech. She is pleasant and has long blonde hair. Tatyana, who asks us to call her by her first name because she is not a professor, knows a lot about the rules of English and the root structure of various languages, but she cannot teach. My mom, who has been a teacher for about thirty years for good reason, says that a teacher's job is to excite the students about learning. The teacher's job is to present the material in a way that those who do not naturally care about the material will take an interest in learning for themselves.

The inverse of this equation would be that a bad teacher is someone that makes you hate a subject you normally find interesting. This is the case with Tatyana. I signed up for this class, mostly to avoid a worse class and because the time fit in my schedule better, but I was excited about the subject of the class. I like studying languages and specifically the roots of language, where words stemmed from other languages or situations, the meaning behind our words and how they changed over time, the changes in pronunciation. Those are things I like to study on my own when I find an interesting word or name. I was looking forward to studying such information in the "Structure and Meaning of Words" class. Instead, this is my most infuriating and mind numbingly boring class.

Tatyana stands in front of the class behind her computer, back straight, facing the class with a straight face. The Power POint slides to her right are filled with information about phonological words, listemes, and language rules. All of the definitions and even the examples and tangents are taken straight from the chapter we read before coming to class. Not only are the slides redundant, but the teacher doesn't deviate from the slides. She reads each point word for word. No one is listening. Well, the girl with the long brown hair pulled up in a ponytail is listening. She is the only one to raise her hand when the teacher asks a question. I try to listen, but mostly I am not. I write about not listening instead.

I hear, "Gabrielle's father is an axe-murderer."

That sentence brings my head up in curiosity. Tatyana says the sentence again to demonstrate the structure of the English language. It is the most interesting thing she has said so far.

I am disappointed. I am disappointed because the teacher is so uncreative. Surely she could lecture without taking the exact phrases from the chapters. Surely she could move from behind the computer. Surely I could pay attention in a class that is all about a subject I enjoy outside of school. But, no, I am not interested. I wish my mom could give her lessons in teaching. Tatyana cannot teach.

My head lifts again when I hear Tatyana read a new sentence two different ways, "'He said,'Frankly, I do not want to go to class.' or you can say, 'Frankly,' he said, I do not want to go to class.'"

I raise my eyebrow and think to myself, "You and me both, kid. You and me, both!"

Pardon my French

I am beautiful, gorgeous, actually.

Well, maybe, according to the magazines in the grocerly line. If I lost fifty pounds I will be really and truly beautiful.

Maybe they're right.
So, I am beautiful if I lose fifty pounds!
And well, if only I was four or five inches taller like the models on TV.

I guess I am beautiful... if I lose fifty pounds, were four or five inches taller,
and as the ads in the salon windows say, if I was a little more tan and not so white.

I might be beautiful if I lose fifty pounds, were four or five inches taller, if I was more tan... and you know, I saw that celebrities are getting plastic sugery now!
So I guess I could be beautiful if I lose fifty pounds, were four or five inches taller, if I was more tan, and maybe if I downsized my nose, made my full lips fuller, turned my DD into EEE...

and maybe I can at least be slightly pretty if I wear contacts and have surgery to turn my big green eyes into even bigger brown or blue... and if I straighten my curly hair and grow it out longer.

You know, now that I think about it, if I could just lose fifty pounds, and if I were four or five inches taller, more tan, and if I downsized my nose, upsized my lips and chest, wore contacts to change my green eyes to brown or blue, straightened and grew out my curly hair, then and and only then would I be really and truly beautiful!

On second thought, in response to this, I will use one word I have never before used in my life:

BULLSHIT!

Like the Weather

I like to think that changes are easy to handle, that they are good, that I like them. In all actuality, they scare the crap out of me. Sure I like to know new people, visit new places, have a growing family, learn new things, experience adventures, but sometimes I would rather shut myself into my little house, close my eyes and hum to myself pretending nothing unusual is happening.

Change cannot be avoided. The moment we are conceived, our lives are determined by change. We change physically in the womb and once we are born, we change physically until the day we die. Even our bodies, once we no longer inhabit them, will be effected by change and deteriorate in the ground. The Bible says that once we reach heaven we will be changed in the twinkling of an eye.

We are born with particular abilities and personalities, but even those are effected by change as we grow in maturity and intelligence. The thoughts that crossed my mind as a teenager are not of the same interest to me as an adult.

We cannot escape from change. The world around us changes each day. The sun rises and moves across the sky, the moon follows. The clouds that were in the sky yesterday are not in the same place today, nor are they the same formations or even the same clouds! The birds that sang a few hours ago change their tune as night descends. The water standing in a puddle in the morning will be kissed by the scorching afternoon sun and the puddle will be dry by evening with the former droplets now dancing in the air somewhere.

While living in Missouri, I welcomed the intense thunderstorms that would rise up and shake the earth or the sweet Spring days. I could feel in my spirit the change of seasons before they even arrived. In the Spring, my physical being quickened inside of me, warming like the ground beneath my feet, while in the fall, my spirit would nestle down in quiet waiting for the world around me to change. The feelings were as tangible as the change of weather and I appreciated them because I felt it prepared me for the change ahead.

In Tucson, it is harder to be influenced by the change in weather because it is less drastic as in other places. I don't feel connected to the physical changes around me. They just happen and I just go along, sometimes shocked at the jarring heat or lulled into a stupor from the virtually undynamic fall and winter. There are changes. The changes are only more subtle.

The weather in Missouri reminds me of one aspect of change and the weather in Tucson reminds me of another. There are times in life that changes are drastic like the oncoming of a tornadic storm. In the morning, the sky can be clear and sunny, but by the afternoon, the air is damp with heavy humidity, the sky has turned green and before you realize where it comes from, the tornado has dropped down on top of your house. Change can be like that. For once, it seems that I have a handle on things. My life goes along blissfully and I think I actually can see clear enough to know where I am going. The next moment, something completely unexpected falls down in front of me and I have to reevaluate life or head in another direction. Other times, changes mirror the weather in Tucson in that life is marked by small, incremental changes. The changes seem insignificant at the time, but once I stop and look back on where I have been since the changes began, I see that a whole year has gone by and it felt like just yesterday I looked at the world in a different way!

I don't know why life is defined by change. Maybe it is God's way of reminding us that we don't know everything, that He can handle anything that life throws at us, that he orders even the most impossible, jarring, ridiculous of situations, or maybe it is His way of demonstrating that while all life is marked by change, in contrast He is the unchanging, forever loving, consistent God. He is the only true constant! That is the most comforting to me, that despite all of the unsettling changes that occur, I can always know that God loves me the same as He did the day before. The only thing that changes is my understanding of His goodness.

Thirst No More

The intense thirst surprised me the most when I first moved to Tucson. No matter how much water I drank, my throat was still dry and every fiber of my being begged for more. It is so dry in the desert that any water on my skin evaporates before I knew it was there. After some time in the desert climate, I realized that either my tolerance for thirstiness increased or my body acclimated itself to living off less water because I could go hours and hours without drinking anything.

While this tolerance is more convenient, it is also dangerous. People in Tucson constantly warn newcomers to keep drinking water even if they don't feel thirsty. Apparently it is common to forgo water so long thinking you are not thirsty, but in actuality dehydration sneaks up easily and before you realize it, your body can go into shock because it needs water so badly.

When I am under the intense, bright sun of the desert and my thirst increases, I think about these verses:

Revelation 7:13-17
Then one of the elders asked me, "These in white robes—who are they, and where did they come from?"
I answered, "Sir, you know."
And he said, "These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore,
"they are before the throne of God
and serve him day and night in his temple;
and he who sits on the throne will spread his tent over them.
Never again will they hunger;
never again will they thirst.
The sun will not beat upon them,
nor any scorching heat.
For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd;
he will lead them to springs of living water.
And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

Bored metaphors and similies

Blah blah blah... I am slowly going crazy, crazy going slowly am I, slowly going crazy I am, am I crazy going slowly?

My eyes are watering.
My eyes are watering like a wet frog newly emerged from under a lilypad.
A lion staring at his lock of hair is not as bored as I am.
Boredom sits in my mind like a cackling evil cricket.