[prose#18] Lin-Manuel Miranda is a Poet

Today was a long sort of a day. It's fall here in Oregon, supposedly, but the sun is bright and the temperatures in the low 80s. I'm never eager for summer to flee with the memories of cloudless days and lazy walks down my small town streets, but at the same time, this strange weather messes with my mind and heart. Usually when it's nearly October here, the trees start to change and the air starts to bite. But not quite this year. While the trees are beginning to erupt into flame, the warmth of the outside air confuses my body, this physical flesh that is invisibly grounded in the tides and the spinning of the earth. My bones know when the outside world isn't as it usually is, and that knowledge of my body affects my entire being and mindset - especially mindset. The rain can wait, but the heat can leave. For once, I'm ready to leave summer behind for the next season. Part of growing up means accepting and even welcoming the changes this world brings us.

This week I've had to deal with lots of other grown-up things. I've had lots of appointments, trying to finally get my medical insurance going. I got a cavity filled, I have an eye doctor appointment tomorrow. When I sit in the waiting room, I feel like a child again, except my mother isn't there, reading a magazine and answering the hard questions for me. And dear Hugo, my red car, had his own medical appointment with the mechanic the other day, always stressful when you're single and work and have no public transportation. I thought he was better, but today his "check engine" light -- which I paid a handful to get rid of -- told me he's not. Meetings, appointments, cleaning, cooking, all of these adult-ish activities pull me down. I want to revert back to that child who, after going to the doctor with Mom, is rewarded with a cookie and a hug, both of which are a necessary gift.

Today, I did a lot of driving, a lot of thinking about art, and a lot of panicking. I had the chance to talk to a writer today, a woman who is doing it, making it as someone who writes books for a living. Somehow, these meetings rarely encourage me. I learn so much about the process of publishing and writing, but instead of being thankful for the inside look, I let the information stress me out, wear me down. I leave thinking I'm incapable and unable, because it seems impossible that I could possibly do as this writer does. And then, spending time on the college campus I so recently left, I felt old and heavy with life. I walked past the 18-, 19-year-olds, studying for exams and going on late night Taco Bell runs, and I was going home to do the dishes and organize my bills. Disconnect was the word of the night.

Getting in my car for the seven-minute drive home, my iPod lit up as I put it into its dock. I knew I needed melody, for the silence would demolish me. The finale to the musical In the Heights came up. In the Heights took Broadway by storm in 2008, the unconventional telling of the way of life in the Washington Heights area of New York City. A lower-income neighborhood mainly populated by Hispanic immigrants, they fight to escape the poverty and maintain the community, to gain personal power without losing their heritage. The story is mostly told through rap/R&B songs, with some boleros, salsas, and traditional Broadway ballads thrown in for good measure.

The musical is the creator, Lin-Manuel Miranda. He started writing the show in college, a way of processing his own life, community, and heritage. After college, he began an eight-year process of work-shopping the show, making ends meet with odd jobs, composing on the subway, before -- finally and against all odds -- the show opened on Broadway, winning multiple Tony Awards and a Grammy. Miranda played Usnavi, the main character, because Usnavi was him. And he did so with such pain and pride, the lyrics flowing off of his tongue with ease.

Miranda is not a singer. He has good pitch, a good ear for music, but his voice cannot hold a candle to other Broadway leading men, not to mention even those in his show's ensemble. But it didn't really matter because they were his words, and he loved them as they came out of his mouth. They are embedded within him. This is most obvious in the rapping he does within the songs, created and performed in a beautiful poetic style that pays attention to the sound of words and the pattern they are put in. The man is a poet.

As I listened to the resolution of this musical, the final song where Usnavi reconciles his dreams with his reality, his hopes with his fears, his desires with his needs, I began to cry. Yes, it had been a terribly long day, filled with frustrating moments and grown-up stressors. But I cried because Usnavi found a home and chose his own life, and Miranda found a home and chose his own life. And he created a brilliant piece of theater that discusses socioeconomic disparities and racial tensions and rising property values alongside community life and new love and lasting friendships. Not only that, he believed in his work enough to work on it for eight years. Eight. He worked it to the bone, so much so that only one of the original songs made it from the beginning to the end of the process and saw the Broadway stage. Miranda believed he had something to tell the world, that his story was worthwhile and should be fought for. And because no one else would fight for it, he fought himself. And in 2008, he found himself rapping his Tony Award acceptance speech.

I don't think I have the vision, the strength, the passion to go that far for that long. But Miranda did not give up, and seeing that man's joy and love for the art he created, I know he must say it is worth it. I want my art to be worth it. I want to love what I am doing so much that I will fight for it for years. My poetry is not able to be rapped, it doesn't ebb and flow with the movement of language, but it has its own rhythm. I just have to solidify it, be prepared to make it better, and believe in it and myself. Lin-Manuel Miranda is a poet, and his poetry made me cry. I want to move people that way. Maybe then, real life - the muggy weather and endless appointments - won't matter so much.

[prose#17] The Art of Being Alone

Life as a single girl is really easy in some ways. The obvious benefit: my time is my own. If I want to go out to eat with friends, I do it. If I want to put on my stretchy pants and eat ice cream while watching a Project Runway marathon, I do it (often). Related, my money is my own. I decide how to spend it and I don’t have to justify every purchase (see the boxes from target.com, amazon.com, and oldnavy.com in my recycling).

But, as I’ve also alluded to (in this and every post), life as a single girl is also incredibly difficult, especially a single girl in the church - a topic for another time. Even a girl like me who loves silence and solitary ventures gets the mopeys. That’s why I’m trying out new things to do by myself. I’ve already gone to church by myself, hikes by myself, shopping by myself, coffee by myself. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff that even attached (coupled? paired?) people do when needing some time away from their significant other.

I took a step today, though, and tried something else alone: a movie. Now, I’ve heard some people go to movies by themselves for fun. I can’t say that’s been my experience, but mostly because A) I don’t go to many movies, because B) they’re expensive and C) if I’m going to spend $10.50, I want to go with someone I care about and pretend the two hours we spend in dark silence are quality time. But I watch movies alone in the comfort of my living room – how is that any different?

Well, let me tell you – it’s the stigma. The social awkwardness of being alone in public. It’s like waving a giant flag that says, “Hey! I’m single and probably don’t have any friends. But don’t be sorry for me! I have a winning personality!” Or so implied most of the folks I told that I was going to see a movie alone. The conversation went like this:

Friend: What are you doing today?

Me: Going to see a movie.

Friend: Oh, with who?

Me: No one.

Friend: (silence)

Me: I’m going by myself.

Friend: (silence with sad eyes)

Then I had to backpedal and say how it was good for me to try it and I’ve never done it before and how it’s okay that they couldn’t come and they shouldn’t feel bad. And I meant all of those things – I just wish I didn’t have to say it, since saying it made me feel like I was waving that flag from earlier.

The truth was, I wanted to go see Inception again. It was playing at the local cheap theater for five bucks, and I knew it’d be worth it. None of my friends could come, which was fine. So I went. By myself.

The theater I went to is run by this one guy who also runs the adjoining drive-in. He’s basically our little town’s movie guy. I don’t know his name, but he’s always there. We don’t even get tickets at this theater. We just pay him five bucks cash (no credit cards), and he tells us the movie’s on screen 1 or 2. It's way less sketchy than it sounds, I promise you. That's just how things happen when living in a small town.

The movie theater is bigger than it looks, with orange chairs and faux wood paneling that were totally groovy in the 70s. The locals know that the back seats are the best, because they're cushier and don’t make you feel like you’re sitting on steel beams by the end of the movie’s exposition. They also rock, which is delightful. Just don’t rock too much – they squeak.

There’s only one other person in the theater as I make my way to a squeaky chair in the back center. She’s one row in front of me, two seats to my left. She sits very still, her gray hair perfectly coiffed and her white sweater with rosebuds on it very clean. Not exactly the target audience for the psychological awesomeness that is Inception, but I do not judge her because she is alone and I am alone.

The screen before me lights up with the previews – at this theater, there are no commercials for the snack bar or cell phones. No lolly-gagging, right to the point. I see the woman in front of me sit up a bit straighter. I wish I could see her face in the darkness. I wish I could sit next to her and ask what she thinks of the movie. I’ve already seen it so I know what’s going to happen, but I still get confused. I wonder if she’s confused. I rock slightly, making my chair squeak, and her head turns ever so slightly in my direction. I’m not very good at going to movies by myself, I decide.

Soon the story gets going, and I am entranced by this beautiful film and its complexities. The world is so vivid, the special effects seamless, the characters embedded into your emotions. I get caught up in the world of dreams. And then that final image changes everything that you thought you knew, and you are left plastered to your seat in a mess of confusion and wonder and happiness and frustration. It’s definitely worth the five dollars.

My Inception companion gets up right away and heads to the aisle. I have no reason to stay either, no partner with whom to make small talk or loud exclamations of movie opinions. I follow her out, and she opens the door to the bright outside world to me. I catch a glimpse of her face, and she smiles at me, a knowing smile that says, “We were just together. We just saw that world. Those people, your people are my people. And I have no idea what just happened, just like you.” I smiled back, because now we were sisters in the act of watching movies alone. Because we weren’t alone. We were together, with the characters on the screen, both part of the same world and lost in our own separate universes.

I like to think she went home, called her grandson, and said, “Guess what I saw today!” Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she went to her home, made dinner for herself, poured a glass of wine, read a book, went to bed – all in silence. Either way, I want to be her someday. I want to go to movies by myself and smile at people when I leave because I understand that the art of story touches us, both creating community where there was none and singularity within a crowd. It’s the magic of the connection.

[prose#16] Silence and Small Groups

I love to go to monasteries. There are two near my home, and I enjoy going to them for different reasons. One has many trails that take you up into the woods surrounding the Abbey. They’re each marked with ribbons and colored arrows, and because I haven’t spoken to the nice old man in a sweater who sits at the information booth and drinks orange juice, I have no idea what any of the arrows mean. I just choose one and start walking, hoping that I’ll get to see Mother Mary’s shrine. This strategy hasn’t worked thus far, so I’m still in pursuit of the peace I find when I sit next to her. I also like to walk around this monastery’s garden. It’s large and wild, with no clear path through the plants, but it looks happy and free instead of contained.

The other monastery has the Stations of the Cross leading up to the main buildings, and I like to walk them backwards, wondering at what the story tells this way. I like to sit in the church, kneel in the pews, and listen to the monks sing, but my favorite part of this monastery is the cemetery. It’s just a small one, off the side of the main campus where the library and dormitories for the seminarians are. The old crosses are placed in nice neat rows, some with rosaries. I like to sit with these old men, quiet in their graves, and when I get tired of the silence, I go into the small prayer chapel and talk to Mary or Jesus, depending on whom I feel closest to at the time. They’re both in there, frozen in a statue of suffering – Mary’s heart breaking while holding her son, whose heart has stopped. I love Jesus, but sometimes I need to talk to a woman, a human one.

My friend Jay went to the Taize monastery in France during his travels through Europe a few months ago. During his time there, he spent a week in silence, only speaking for about an hour a day with a monk to discuss his time of quiet. I was relaying this story to my friends Heidi and Caleb, and I could see in Caleb’s eyes what I felt in my own – a sparkle. An interest. Heidi’s eyes, on the other hand, widened in horror. Naturally vivacious and admittedly chatty, she said, “I could never do that.” Caleb and I found the idea to be challenging but not impossible, in contrast, because he and I tend toward silence and solitude.

I realized recently that most of my spiritual endeavors are solitary ones. Going to monasteries, reading, praying, writing – all of these I do without the company of anyone else. I am a very solitary and quiet person, who enjoys the silence and will spend whole days marinating in it. It’s what I need, it’s what my dear introverted soul and independent spirit need to keep going. The silence, though it can get heavy and burdensome, is comfortable to me.

While that’s not a bad thing, it can be a crutch. It is safe, and so often I avoid stepping out into new spiritual experiences. So I’m trying something new, some crazy and a little bit scary:

I’m joining a small group.

Okay, so I know it’s not very crazy. It’s Protestant Christianity’s favorite thing ever! Create accountability and community by breaking the church into smaller churches and getting people connected. It really is a good idea, and it’s pretty normative, as church experiences go.

I’ve been in small groups before, but usually just because it was the thing to do. It was high school, about friends, not about actual spiritual growth. It was a place to gossip while sharing prayer requests and talk about school instead of God. No real accountability sprung out, and as a more timid individual, I tended to be silent during these gossip sessions, finding my place in the corner of the room and content to be there. I smiled and chatted as needed, but I never opened myself and let my spirit out.

That’s why this concept of small groups is far scarier to me than a week-long time of silence or a solo hike through the woods to find the shrine to Mary. Silence, to me, is normal life. Small groups are out of the box. It’s a risk. I have to step out and open myself up to a group of people who I do not know and do not understand. I have to get to know these people and let them know me. I need to share my life with them, my spiritual experiences, how I feel about God. And I have to trust that they will not be disgusted by my inner workings.

It’s terribly difficult for me to go into a group of strangers and say, “Here I am.” But I’m going to do it. Because God doesn’t just speak in the silence; he also speaks in the voice of angels and small group members, and if I’m never around them, how am I to hear him?

okay, hiatus!

Well, apparently I took a hiatus for two weeks. Goodness, I hadn't realized it was so long. It was more like 2.5, since my last post was a "I'm going to not post much for a week."

It's been a busy time - editing, writing, avoiding my blog. Coming to the keyboard daily to pour myself out is both necessary and painfully difficult. I'm trying to develop blogging self-discipline, but unfortunately, this isn't the only place in my life where I'm trying to cultivate self-discipline. I'm finding that I fail more often than not.

I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. Look for me then.

Update

No post tonight, due to laziness and the fact that it's Thursday night. I'm always most tired on Thursday night.

Posts will be somewhat few this week, as I have some deadlines coming up. I have an article to majorly revise and a dissertation to copy edit, both due next Friday. Thus, this week will need to be a nose-to-the-grindstone sort of week.

In order for that to happen, though, I need to stay away from Neptune, CA. That's right, folks -- new television obsession. It's been nearly a month since Arrested Development, so it was about time. I'll write about it soon enough.

Off to bed for this night. Busy weekend ahead. Lord, give me the focus to do what I need to do fully and with my whole heart (and by that, I mean avoid Netflix with diligence).

[prose#15] Those Four Letter Words

I remember the first time I heard the word naked. I was probably eight, hanging off the edge of my friend Meriah's bunk bed. She was sitting on the upper bunk, and we were talking too loudly about things eight-year-old girls talk about. Pink things, usually.

Meriah's family was from our church, her dad the mastermind behind our weekly church dinners. They were a little edgier than my family. Besides being a good cook, her dad had been in jail, rode a Harley, and teased his wife in front of their children about stopping for quickies by the side of the road (I didn't learn what that meant until much later). My family was just the pastor's family - yawn. I mean, Meriah's dad had an earring!

Meriah's brother ran through the room and make a snide remark containing the word naked, undoubtedly for the shock value like a good obnoxious ten-year-old would do to his little sister. I looked at Meriah, puzzled. "What does that mean?" I asked her. She laughed at me. And explained. My cheeks reddened slightly. I felt like I shouldn't know that word, like it was one of the bad ones. If it wasn't, wouldn't my parents use it? Wouldn't I have been taught that from a young age? To be honest, I don't know what my family used at home to describe when my little sister hopped out of a shower, shivering before Mom toweled her off. Bare? Unclothed? Just wet?

Never fear, I often now use the word naked for a number of occasions: when looking at my short-haired dog shivering outside in the snow, forgetting my two rings on a rare occasion, when describing a particularly breezy red carpet gown at the Emmys. My folks also use the word, when applicable. It's not a naughty word in our household. We're not quite that conservative.

I grew up conservative about words in general, though. We couldn't say animate beings were stupid, only inanimate objects (the distinction was forged after my mother ran her knee into a cabinet, I believe). We were not allowed to tell our siblings to shut up. And we were definitely not allowed to say any four-letter-words of the cursing variety.

I was a swearing prude all of my growing up years. I chose my friends so that I wouldn't have to hear certain words. I frowned while walking in the hallways of my public high school. I grew adept at the mute button when watching PG-13 movies with my younger siblings. My mind was constantly judging those I walked to class with, and they knew it. Some of my closer acquaintances apologized when they let a four-letter word slide, and I was kind enough to forgive them.

Then I got to college. A Christian college, to be exact. Funny enough, people swore there too. Students and professors alike. There was a wide range of acceptable behaviors for those who called themselves Christians. Being involved in theatre and literature, I learned that there was a time and a place for these words, in creating a world and a character. I even realized their power when well-placed and unexpected. I could shock people by letting words fly out of my mouth that didn't seem to belong there.

And so, I started experimenting with a few "damns" here and there, usually as an expression of frustration. Then, some "no way in hells" for emphasis. These were usually said about half as loud as the rest of my conversation, though. I never wanted to say them in my normal voice. I was still ashamed. I still felt like I was being bad.

Then, one fateful day at my brand new job, my department was reorganized. Meaning, the friends I had worked so hard to get to know were, in an instant, set adrift. I alone was safe. Talking over instant messenger - my office's preferred mode of communication - a friend and I processed and cried and stormed. And I expressed my feelings: it was the shittiest day I had ever known. Typing the word made it more real. That was okay, and the word continues to be okay with me - within reason

Now, here's the problem. The more I use those four-letter-words, unacceptable in conservative culture and encouraged in shock culture, the more I rely upon them to make my thoughts and feelings known. And the more people judge me for that.

As a lover of words, I realize their power, and I pride myself on finding the right ones. In falling back on "curse" words, I am robbing the English language of elements of its power. Sure, a well-placed damn can do amazing things. But if I can only use that word to express my frustration, then I'm not a very good communicator. And if I use those words too often, then I forget their power altogether. Example? Nearly any movie that is rated R. I saw Death at a Funeral this weekend, the Chris Rock version. I thought it was hilarious, but by the end, I was so desensitized to the F-word, that I was ready to spout it off - something I have never done. I was so used to it, that I forgot it meant anything.

But the paradox is that they still mean things to other people. They still have meaning and more power than we realize. Most would say, "They're only words," and some higher thinkers would say, "They only have the power we give them." Those phrases are so true, and that's the problem. Words have to have power. They are, at their core, symbols. Similes. They represent the physical object. In our culture, we know that a metal (sometimes plastic) stick with a bowl on the end, small enough to fit in our hands, that's a spoon. A table has four legs, three, or a post in the middle with feet. And feet usually have five toes apiece, ending our legs so we have some stability while standing. The f and the two e's and the t have no meaning in and of themselves, but together? They embody a whole concept. We need them to communicate, to understand each other, to take thoughts and feelings out of this silent brain and into the space outside ourselves.

We are also judged by what we say, because we are only known by two things: our actions and our words. Yes, actions are often more convincing, but we struggle to connect without those strange noises coming out of our mouths. Because I want to be a good person, because I don't want something standing between me and the Christ I want to live within me, because I want to be ignored so that the Light can be exposed, I need to watch what comes out of my mouth. And that doesn't just go for our little few-lettered friends. That means those sarcastic remarks that dart out so quickly? That negativity that spills out like tar? That harsh judgment that burns like acid? Those need to be checked too, so that I don't offend or hurt before someone can see the light. Because even though I don't live for other people, I live for a higher power. And unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on the day), that higher power wants me to love other people.

Because of the power of words and because I'm too proud of my vocabulary, I'm going to try and halt those four letter words before they fly out of my mouth. I'm going to hold them for a millisecond before I let them go, and test them for soundness, for necessity, for reason. Sometimes, I'll be serious. And sometimes I'll be flippant. Sometimes, I'll be good and other times I'll just not care a stitch.

I can guarantee this, though: if a young man runs through my college campus without any clothes on, I'm going to call him "naked" and not feel bad about it at all.

[guest post] Commitment Causes Us to Grow

I was privileged to connect up with Jeff Goins, a writer who's done a lot of freelance work even while having a "real job" with Adventures in Missions. Over the course of a long phone conversation, he shared with me much of the wisdom he's accumulated on his writing journey.

So, in lieu of my own post today, I'm going to repost something Jeff wrote on his blog about our generation's struggle with commitment.


We need a new standard for young people. Clearly, the impression we're giving the world is not a good one (see yesterday's post for more on this). As a twenty-something myself, I want my generation to leave a lasting legacy in the world. And right now, we're not doing that -- mostly due to our crippling fear of commitment.

I propose an alternative to flaking out: develop a discipline of making seasonal commitments.

It's okay to treat your twenties like a series of internships, but instead of changing your lifestyle every six to twelve months, try adopting a new standard: a minimum two-year commitment to anything you're serious about doing.

A lot of young adults I know skip out on a commitment once it gets hard. They don't acquire the discipline to push through "The Dip" and miss the reward that comes with persevering. At the same time, it's unrealistic and even dangerous to expect a young person who is still finding their way in the world to jump right into a commitment and stick with it for decades without question.

There needs to be a way in which twenty-somethings can acquire some legitimate life skills, while still experiencing the freedom of moving around and trying out different things.

Maybe that means sticking with a job for another year, when you'd rather walk out the door tomorrow. According to Barna Group President David Kinnaman, young leaders often leave their jobs far too soon. When you feel you're at your breaking point, he says, "stay a little longer."

Maybe it means dealing with your restlessness in other ways than just permanently skipping town -- like taking up camping or cycling. A group of men I know go on regular "man hikes" in the mountains to rediscover their rugged masculinity and to give their restlessness an outlet.

On his blog, Tony Jones wrote about how he lives two blocks from where he grew up, why he plans to staying put, and why he's not embarrassed to admit it.

My friend Josh (who moved to Oregon from Georgia about a year ago) recently admitted that it's hard to stay put in a place when youthful restlessness begins to kick in. Nonetheless, he's committed to the relationships he's built there and is sticking it out. He wants to build trust with those who have come into his life, and he knows that only comes with relationship over time.

Given the title of this blog, the mission organization for which I work, and my passion for travel, I obviously believe in the importance of leaving home. There is something transformative that happens in a person's life when he leaves that which is comfortable for the first time.

Conversely, there is great value in sticking things out. If you've done the former but neglected the latter, consider making some longer-term commitments. You need commitment in order to grow. Begin with a season -- commit to something (a church, educational track, job, or relationship) for longer than is comfortable for you.

When it gets tough, don't allow yourself to quit (unless it's unhealthy for you to stay). See how you grow as a result.


This is incredibly applicable to what I'm seeing in the lives of my former classmates and peers as they navigate this real world. Their job isn't ideal, or their living situation isn't perfect, or things aren't just as they imagined. There is something to be said for waiting, for working through and figuring out things by staying. It's not always the fun option (let me tell you how many days a week I just want to fly off to another country), but who knows what God will do if you let him. And it always requires a commitment.

[prose#14] Disney Channel Movies

I just spent two hours of my life watching Camp Rock 2: The Final Jam, a Disney Channel movie starring teen sensations Demi Lovato and the three Jonases (Jonasi?). It's not just that it was a Disney Channel movie - there have been some decent ones in the past, though I'll just leave that statement general - but Camp Rock (the original) was pretty bad and then they had to make a sequel. Not everything is High School Musical, Disney Channel! And even HSM wasn't high art. But I suppose they don't make backpack and notebook merchandise tie-ins to grainy art films.

I really have no excuse. No 11-year-olds were in sight, yet the thousands of pre-adolescents around the world were with me in spirit while they eagerly awaited their mom's permission to turn on the television, texting their friends the entire time. Or however it is that small girls watch television these days. Me, I watched Camp Rock 2 in its entirety alone, in my apartment, on a Friday night. While wearing stretchy pants. I didn't think I'd reach the epitome of pathetic so early. And this offering was pretty awful, even by Disney Channel standards. They should have just put the Jonas Brothers in front of a white wall and filmed them sitting there and breathing for two hours. The same amount of people would have tuned in, and then we wouldn't have had to pretend to care about the poorly constructed story.

I couldn't help but feel old while watching 14- to 18-year-olds (playing 12- to 16-year-olds) prance around like summer camps where well-functioning rock bands were instantly created are the absolute norm. It doesn't seem too long ago that I was their ages, saying good-bye to summer and the memories that it contained once the air started crackling with a chill and school supply lists came out. It doesn't seem that long ago that I went to camp, though my camp was less focused on dance-offs and more focused on chapel, gross-out games, and spending nights cowering in a storm shelter (good old North Dakota summers). Even so, it's obvious how much has changed in a fairly short time - just look around at the expected cell phones and social networking sites. These media outlets are the teen's main form of communication. Back when I was in high school only a short few years ago, passing notes were still considered kosher.

In addition to feeling terribly old and out of touch, though, was the sobering realization that I missed out on some experiences that the "normal teen" (whoever she is) has, and I'll never get the chance to have them. Summer love, for instance: meeting a boy at a camp, falling deep into "love," holding hands by the campfire, tearful good-byes, and in 11 months repeat. Or even the fleeting high school relationships that come and go with each breath, each more dramatic and devastating than the last. Those are things that I have seen in Disney Channel movies and in the lives of my friends, but never had touch my own story.

Unsurprisingly, I found that those relationships often fell apart with the slightest jostle. And my friends didn't grieve through a 30 second montage set to the bridge of a powerful and popular ballad (probably by one of the child labor network stars). They grieved with their whole hearts - with tears in their eyes, and doubts in their tongues, and fear in their eyes. Even when a good-bye is said from one child to another, there is a brief flicker of mortality, of finality, of ending that is understood and that nearness scares a teenager -- unaccustomed to anything but life and beauty -- to death.

My heart is whole, despite a few dings in the paint, and I am thankful for that fact. I have seen death of "love," happen to those I love, and I have seen lifelong love begin. I know which one I'd prefer to have, so I won't covet that which I cannot have. For now, I'll just watch Disney Channel stars pretend to navigate through true love, which they probably cannot yet touch. Maybe I'm wrong in assuming they do not know love; I do not know their places in life, and some may be far beyond my maturity in this area (I mean, Kevin Jonas is married and having sex already; I'm going to pretend like the rest of the Mousketeers have no experience with either of those things).

I do know that, regardless of where they - and I - are now, before long we will stop pretending to navigate, trying instead to find our way through this mess of life. In doing so, I hope to discover a dear traveling companion who, instead of stopping and resting with me for a brief while, will begin to clear a way with me, so we can go together.

True quote of the day...

"The cliche is dead poetry."

--Gerald Brenan

And there's nothing sadder than dead poetry. Poetry should live and breathe and move of its own accord, dance and run through the minds of readers. Dead poetry does nothing.

One of my biggest artistic fears is being cliche. To be cliche is to be unaware of the complexity of the situation, of the concept, of the form. Cliches reduce massive ideas and struggles to something neat and tidy, packaged with a red ribbon bow. In doing so, the massiveness - that which makes something powerful - is invalidated.

In some sense, people want cliches. We want to be told everything will be okay. We want the three step process: lose 20 pounds, find the man of your dreams, plan meals for the week, organize your garage, get your dream job -- all in three easy steps! And it's easy to write that way, with the to-do list at the end that makes everything better. I like to wrap things up nicely - it's less messy. But it's not true.

When we read those articles, they ring false, and sometimes, if the solution is too simplistic for our problem, we end up feeling empty. I never want someone to feel empty after reading what I've written. I want them to feel full