Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Boggarts, or What are You Afraid of?

I look forward to my commute these days. Instead of listening to the same five terrible pop songs over and over again on the radio, I am instead immersing myself in the world of Harry Potter. I don’t feel like I’m wasting my time stuck in traffic if it means I get to listen to Jim Dale read me another chapter of the story. Let me tell you, Quiddich – especially Lee Jordan’s commentary – is much more entertaining aloud than on the page.

I’m on book three, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. It’s arguably the best of the seven (emphasis on arguably). The third book is my favorite for a few reasons. The characters aren’t in their angsty phase yet. It has Quiddich, but also classroom work. You delve into the stories of Harry’s parents. Hermione slaps Malfoy. And Harry finally has people on his side, adult-people who loved his father and love him. They’re happy for the moment.

We also meet one of my favorite characters: Professor Lupin. He reminds me of every teacher I ever admired. There are some slight differences (you know, having to do with the moon), but Lupin engages his students, expects them to do well, and gives them practical training that turns out to be very useful. He inspires respect, gets involved in their lives, and allows them to be children while at the same time helping them mature. He’s an educator – a shabby, prematurely-gray educator.

In one of Lupin’s classes, he brings a boggart to the students. What? You say you don’t know what a boggart is? Shame on you, Muggle. Shame. In Rowling's world, it is a creature that hides in the dark, and when forced to emerge, takes the shape of whatever scares you most. The students have to literally face their worst fears – giant spiders, failing grades, mean professors, zombies – and laugh at them. The counter curse is “Riddikulus,” which turns the feared item in something humorous. It changes fear into silliness.

We all have boggarts in our life. They are the things that take the shape of our biggest fears. It is that person who implies that we cannot accomplish our dreams. Or someone we are afraid to lose in order to pursue passion. It is our reasons, our excuses for not moving ahead.

The fear is always real – that emotion that stops us in our tracks, that feeling that drains our face of blood and our stomach of buoyancy. But the thing causing our fear? It is most often unfounded. If he loves you, he will love your dreams and stay. If she tells you it cannot be done, she does not know you or what you are trying to do. And if the reasons to not seem bigger than the reasons to do…laugh at them.

They don’t seem so scary now.

I fear to try, because I fear to fail. My boggart would simply berate me for being foolish, afraid, alone, and a failure – none of which are fair, honest, or true. I would prefer a severed hand, I think. When we grow up, our fears become less external and more internal.

I struggle to laugh at them because they feel so real. The boggart speaks in a voice I know all too well – the voice of my friends and family, the voice of myself. And yet, put some helium in that boggart’s voice, and all of a sudden, a cartoon is telling me I am not good enough. I can’t believe that.

We all have our boggarts. Are we brave enough to face them? To laugh at them? To call them “riddikkulus” to their faces and carry on anyway?

When all else fails, think of Snape in that dress. That’s funny enough for anyone.



What’s your boggart? And how can you laugh at it today?

Image from: http://harrypotter.wikia.com/

Saturday, August 13, 2011

24, or Jon Foreman Always Knows How I Feel

If there's one person in this world who knows how I am feeling, it's Jon Foreman. I'm not saying right now, that we have some psychic emotional link where he can feel my emotions at any given time. That is ridiculous. (Or is it?) [It is.]

No, I mean that for however I'm feeling, there is a Switchfoot/Fiction Family/Solo EP song that covers it. It helps that Jon seems to write songs on meaningful days. Significant days. Like birthdays.

I had a birthday recently. Monday, in fact. I turned 24.

People at work kept asking me how old I was turning. I hope I never become that person who is ashamed of the years that she's seen, but it still struck me as odd. When I answered, the person asking me nearly always scoffed at me with a tiny little laugh of derision or a bemused glance. Both spoke volumes; they said on the surface, "You're so young," and underneath, "I'm so insecure" or "I'm so old" or "I feel like so many years have gone by."

I think it annoyed me, because I feel like those laughs and glances stole from me the validity of getting older. I should be allowed to feel the years pass. I'm allowed to feel old, because, as I mentioned to a few of them, this is the oldest I've ever been. And just that gives me the opportunity to stop and reflect, to not dismiss this age.

I am the oldest of most of my friends. I am the youngest in my office. And I am this age, right now.

Any milestone is significant for me. If I am ever a mother, I am going to be one who commemorates every little thing. I can't help it! Dates and markers are how I measure time, places I can pause to look back and look forward all at once. I need those markers.

I am 24.

23 was significantly insignificant. Most of it was quiet. I stayed in the same job, the same apartment. I went to concerts, read books, saw plays. I watched a lot of television and movies. I went to the gym some, ran some. Ate a lot of ice cream and scones.

People shifted around me. I had a roommate come and go, celebrated her wedding to another friend. I celebrated the engagement of a friend.

And there were some big events. I saw new places. I went abroad and traveled by myself. I traveled with a friend. I lost a grandparent - one who had already been lost for many years.

This is what life is like, a whole lot of little things surrounding some big things. This year has flown by, and I'm not guaranteed any more. Do I feel like I have done all I can with what I have been given? Would God look at the log of my time and be pleased?

I don't know. I don't think so. Not fully. Good thing I don't think he keeps a time-log, and his Grace is new every morning.

Three days after my birthday, a baby was born. I know and love his parents. 24 years ago, I was that baby, with the entire planet just waiting for me. And in some years, maybe I will be the parent, waiting to open up the entire planet for my child.

But right now I am 24. My world is ever changing, shifting in tiny ways. It is growing bigger and closing in smaller. I am seeing God and maybe at 24, I won't be afraid to let him in. Not to be afraid, that is what 2011 is about. That is what 24 is about. I'm singing, Spirit, take me up in arms with you.

Take it away, Jon.

Twenty-four oceans
Twenty-four skies
Twenty-four failures
Twenty-four tries
Twenty-four finds me
In twenty-fourth place
Twenty-four drop-outs
At the end of the day

Life is not what I thought it was
Twenty-four hours ago
Still I'm singing, Spirit, take me up in arms with You
And I'm not who I thought I was twenty-four hours ago
Still I'm singing, Spirit, take me up in arms with You

Twenty-four reasons to admit that I'm wrong
With all my excuses still twenty-four strong
See, I'm not copping out, not copping out, not copping out
When You're raising the dead in me

Oh, oh, I am the second man
Oh, oh, I am the second man now
Oh, oh, I am the second man now

And You're raising these twenty-four voices
With twenty-four hearts
With all of my symphonies
In twenty-four parts
But I want to be one today
Centered and true
I'm singing, Spirit, take me up in arms with You
You're raising the dead in me


Oh, oh, I am the second man

Oh, oh, I am the second man now
Oh, oh, I am the second man now
And You're raising the dead in me

I want to see miracles, see the world change
Wrestle the angel, for more than a name
For more than a feeling
For more than a cause
I'm singing, Spirit, take me up in arms with You
And You're raising the dead in me

-"Twenty-Four," Switchfoot

Thursday, August 11, 2011

What I'm Reading - Angelou, Hunger Games, Harry Potter, and Divine Right

July was a good month for reading. At this time last month, I already had four books under my belt. There were a lot of factors - trip to Minnesota, obsession with the Hunger Games, no social life - and I doubt that month's success on the book front will ever be repeated. I'll just justify all of my future failures by saying, "I read nine books in July, though!"

Anyway, I always like to give a more extensive rundown on the books I read. I'll do so in a shortened way, since it's been a little while since July ended and who knows how much I can remember from alllllllll the way last month.

Hallelujah! the Welcome Table - Maya Angelou: I'm going to admit something that I'm not proud of. I've never read any Maya Angelou. I've probably read a poem here or there, but I've not read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and all of those other famous books. I know, I know; I'm horrified too. Anyway, I listened to this book on tape (which is silly, because it was on CD which I converted into mp3 files - why do we still say book on tape?), and it was perfect. This collection - read by the author, who has a lovely deep wise old woman voice - is composed of short stories revolving around food memories. Angelou starts at her childhood and works her way through young adulthood into success and power. But the food is the star, and not just what she ate but how she felt and what it meant to her. Her grandmother is a beautiful figure at the beginning of her life, and Angelou herself seems to turn into her, taking over the role of cook and protector as she becomes a woman. I highly recommend this book - lovely reading, even if you're a terrible cook (such as myself).

Catching Fire/ Mockingjay - Suzanne Collins: These books are what I imagine ... well, I was going to make a drug addiction reference, but 1) it may be bad form, and 2) I'd have to google drugs and their effects, as I'm incredibly naive when it comes to drugs. Regardless, these books are addicting to the max. Since getting hooked, I've gotten three of my friends on the drug, and one read the trilogy in as little as a week. The books are not mind-blowingly well-written or impressive; they're just engaging, suspenseful, and intense. People die in incredibly gruesome ways, but that's balanced by an epic love triangle that puts Edward, Bella, and Jacob to shame (in my opinion - don't murder me, Twihards!) so these novels have a little something for everyone. They're just SO GREAT. I must say that as a writer, I'm quite impressed by Collins's openness to letting her characters change. Not to let them do so would be dishonest and false, and the books would fall flat. The reader knows when she's being lied to. But it can be scary for the author - and the reader. In these books, the characters are changed irreparably, and sometimes not for the better. A bold writer allows this to happen, and these books are popular because of the engaging and realistic characters.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone - J. K. Rowling: After the initial devastation following the realization that Stephen Fry does not narrate the U.S. Harry Potter audiobooks, I've settled in quite nicely, listening to a bit of magic on my morning commute. While I miss Mr. Fry, I enjoy the many voices of Jim Dale. The book itself is brilliant. Certainly, Rowling grows in her understanding of her characters and her world as she goes along, thus making the latter books of the series more rich, complex (sometimes convoluted), and dark, but this is where it all began. Privet Drive. A cat that turns into a woman. A kindly old wizard. And a flying motorcycle. I'm an old softey, but two parts almost forced me into tears (this recent tendency is going to be unpacked very soon). The first was when Hagrid speaks those famous lines: "You're a wizard, Harry." Especially with the saga ending and just seeing the final movie, that line is where it all began. The second part was when (SPOILER ALERT) Griffindor wins the House Cup. It makes me want to go to boarding school in Scotland. Preferably a wizarding one.

Divine Right's Trip - Gurney Norman: I've wrote on this book so many times during college, and yet I can't in good faith recommend it. If you, dear readers, are not disturbed by f-bombs, incessant drug use, some strange hippie worldviews, and a scene of nudity/sex, then please read this book. If you are disturbed by them, well, still read this book. Don't blame me, though, if it all gets to be too much. The first half is too much. It's dark and sad, confused and lost, spiraling down and down as our friends D.R. and Estelle keep stepping back from each other and into other things. But in all of the times I read this book, I never realized how utterly beautiful the second half of the story is. I don't want to give it away, but it is about a man finding himself in the land, hard work, and a community. Maybe it's just the age I am, but it resonated with me, deep within my chest. We're all looking for something. The trick is to find it in beautiful things.

There you have it! Now, on to August books! What are YOU reading?

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Something's Coming, Something Good...

"...if I can waiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"

A little West Side Story for your evening. Classic musical theatre is useful for everyday situations.

But this lame post is here to whet your appetite for more literary goodies from my newly 24-year-old mind.

The plan is that 0nce I stop feeling like my stomach is eating itself (i.e. tomorrow), I will post again.

On the docket:
Birthdays. Books. John Paul White and my grandma. SG[B]A Day 3. Lists.

"Aren't you all excited now? ... No, I don't want your money, sir." (Name that musical! I told you that musicals are applicable to life!)

So, until tomorrow, when hopefully my entrails will behave and my mind will be sharp!

Sunday, August 7, 2011

An Open Letter to Alfie Boe (and a Love Letter to Les Miserables)


Dear Alfie Boe, Britain’s Favourite Tenor,

Hello, my name is Sara. We’ve never met, and we’re not likely to, but I have a few things that I want to tell you, openly, on the Internet.

1) Congratulations on having an amazing name. It has a great number of syllables. It has many pleasant consonant sounds – L, F, B – with plenty of vowels. My regards to your mother, who made an excellent choice.

When (if) I ever get a dog, cat, or child, I’m naming him Alfie. If it’s just a dog or cat, his whole name will be Alfie Boe. I assume the child will have a different last name, though middle name is still open for discussion.

2) You grow a really great beard. Not a lot of men can do what you can do. I’m sure you keep it nicely trimmed for the show, but seriously, from the photos, it’s excellent. It doesn’t look patchy; it’s a great thickness and color. It might be one of the best beards I’ve ever seen (save for Bill Jolliff, a former professor who plays the banjo – don’t worry about it).

3) You reignited my love for Les Miserables. And you made my mother cry.

My love for the musical Les Mis came about long before you even existed in my life, but not nearly as far back as my friend Karith, who used to listen to the whole show every night before her childhood bedtime. She is a true lover (and defender - don't even try to cross her) of the show.

I don’t fit into Karith’s category. How I made it through a childhood of classic movie musicals and three years of obsessive musical theatre classes without knowing this show is beyond me. I did see the school version when I was a freshman in high school. My high school's chief rival put it on, and all I remember is being in love with the boy playing Valjean. He was a senior, a redhead, and had played Jesus in Godspell. (A side note to any men reading this: if you play both Jesus and Valjean, I will love you.) The show itself was lost on me.

It's no surprise then that I first became truly acquainted to Les Miserables because of a boy.

My first year of college, I was in love (again, and almost for real this time) with a gangly theatre major who was roommates with my best friend. He was focused, passionate, and artistic – everything I loved and desired. And his favorite musical was Les Miserables. He had a poster in his dorm room, he regularly referenced Colm Wilkinson, and he had even read the Victor Hugo novel. I needed to impress him, and Les Mis was my chance.

So, over Christmas break, I bought the Complete Symphonic Recording from iTunes, 2.7 hours of pure musical goodness. Downside: it didn’t star the original Broadway cast, instead pulling stars from performances all over the world. Michael Ball made it on, but no Colm. I also started reading the book, nearly 1500 pages of descriptions of sewers and wagon wheels.

Suffice to say, it didn’t impress him as much as I had hoped, but I started to shift my affections from this gangly kid onto the story and the sound of Les Mis. It is an epic production, three hours of love and loss, betrayal and second chances, revolution and commitment. The opening chords and repeated musical themes drew me in again and again until I had the whole thing memorized.

It’s not just that the music is amazing and the story is amazing, but it’s that both complement each other and create meaning and hope. The story itself contains all of the best plot points: a flawed protagonist, an overzealous antagonist, a love triangle, near-misses, delightfully grungy and seedy comic relief, battles, martyrdom, and prostitutes. What more could you ask for?

More than that, it is a story about redemption, about the goodness of God and how His goodness can flow through His people. It’s about the dangers of legalism, of becoming the judge and jury for the world. And it’s about seeing the little, the downtrodden, the broken and loving them, no matter what it costs. In that way, you can change the world and redeem it through the sweet love of God, even as this place is broken, dirty, and heart-wrenching. Valjean is saved by grace, and he extends grace to others, shaming some and lifting others out of their own horrors.

The story ends with death and with life, as every good story should. But you already know this, Alfie Boe. Because you live it eight times a week.

Over the next few years, other musicals came to the forefront and Les Mis got pushed to the back. I remained close friends with this gangly kid who introduced me to Les Mis. He, of course, was the first one I called when I found out there would be a 25th anniversary concert shown on OPB. Filmed at the O2 in London, it was bound to be a magical experience, even over the television.

Alfie, oh Alfie, it was. From the first time I saw your magical beard and your crinkly eyes and heard your undeniably beautiful voice, you rocked my world. Colm was – and continues to be – incredible, of course, as he proved in the concert’s epilogue. He originated the role, but you – with your opera training and rock-and-roll heart – made the role different and stronger, giving the notes a different sort of power that moved me to emotion. And even as you did not move about the stage, your eyes acted for you, with the milky brown warmth of pain and grace.

It wasn’t just me. All of us watching that O2 concert gasped when you hit the “2-4-6-0-1,” and we closed our eyes to bask in the final note of “Bring Him Home” that rang out clear and pure like a tinkling of crystal. All you did was stand behind a microphone, and it was powerful beyond belief.

When I went to my parents' home a few months later, I saw that they had the concert saved on their DVR. My grandparents were there too, and during a lazy afternoon, I fast-forwarded the show to “Bring Him Home” – I just wanted to listen to it once. As soon as the orchestra started and you sang the first phrase, I looked over at my mother, and tears were running down her cheeks. She’s a crier, but not about music. The combination of the song and your mad pipes and just everything overcame her.

That’s what you do. That’s what Les Mis does. It overcomes and it is about overcoming. And so, as you are doing a show tonight over in London at the Queen’s Theatre, I’ll be heading downtown to see the U. S. touring group's final performance in Portland. And I’ll be thinking of you and wishing you well, that your voice is strong and you bring Valjean to life on the stage as you did over a television screen.

It’s a story that is worth being told.

Love,
Sara

P.S. The beard is great. Keep the beard.



Image from alfieboe.com

Friday, August 5, 2011

Guest Post #JonAcuff

My friends and I have this annoying tendency (well, annoying to everyone in the immediate vicinity) of hashtagging everything in verbal conversations. We use it as a summary tool. A very annoying summary tool.

Well... #GuestPost #StuffChristiansLike #TODAY.

Yup, the world-famous Jon Acuff, creator of Stuff Christians Like, deigned to let me guest post today! I love Jon's site and his humor, so I'm pretty excited that he let me give my take on the world of Christian culture. Jon, thanks for letting me pop by and share about my experience with the Christian College Jennifer Aniston!

So...read it, if you aren't allergic to laughing. I mean, you may laugh because you find it humorous, you may laugh at me, or you may laugh with derision, but at least you're laughing. That is, if you're not allergic.


(And if you're new here because you are as big of a fan as I am of Jon and Stuff Christians Like, welcome! Take a look around! See what there is to see! Happy to have you here!)

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

SG(B)A May 8, 2011 - Planes, Trains and Buses

I had my list of things to do once I landed. I had to have a list. In my over-planned mind, I worked it out. Airports are going to be foreigner-friendly. They’ll be expecting me to need things. The employees should be kind, and they probably will speak slowly to me. Get as much as I can before leaving the airport, because once I’m out there, I’m on my own. Alone. In the wilds of Scotland.

This was the part of the trip I had been dreading. Somehow, I needed to find my way from the airport in Edinburgh to the bus station in Leuchars, where my friend Koh would pick me up and take me on another bus to St. Andrews. But until I saw her smiling face in Leuchars –pronounced “Lukers,” like the name I like to tease my brother Luke with – I was alone in Scotland.

I had planned as much as I could. I printed off copies of train tables, maps, and bus routes. But it was the little things: where is the bus stop? How do I know when to get off the bus? Will there be an ATM machine? What does their money even look like?

Mind you, I had never ridden public transportation before. I live in Oregon. We have trees here; we don’t have good public transport. You could say that about most places in the U.S.: unless you live in a large metropolitan area, you’re pretty much on your own. Maybe it’s part of the American dream – “use your own feet.” By feet, I mean car. I got pretty comfortable riding the MAX train into the city of Portland, but even so, I had never been on a bus, save for the charter bus we used on our sixth grade field trip to the Omaha zoo, and maybe another one in high school when we traveled to Northern California on choir tour. Those weren’t real buses – they stopped where you wanted them to, and you didn’t pay a fare.

Well, I was about to figure it out: in a foreign country. Extremely jet-lagged. We landed at 8:00 am, Edinburgh time. That’s roughly midnight back in Portland. And the sun was up (assumedly, behind the dismal clouds), and my day was just beginning. Not that it had ever really ended.

I walked through customs confidently and grabbed my hiking backpack full of things, saying a quick prayer of thanks that it arrived in Scotland along with me, and then standing in the middle of the terminal, I started my list.

Money. ATM by the wall, check. Bathroom, check. Bus stop. Praise the Lord and the lovely Scot who designed the airport. The bus stop was literally steps away from the doors of the airport. Life was good. Now to figure out the bus system.

I looked at a timetable. There sure were a lot of numbers on it. Numbers for buses, numbers for times. As a lover of literature, I do my best to stay away from numbers as much as possible. Luckily, I had written down the times for the buses before I came. I knew I would be confused.

So I knew the bus was coming at 8:30. But what bus? How was I to know where I was going? That was a little easier than I thought, once I saw the bus. Apparently, they have both numbers and words on them. Great – I can deal with that.

Once on the bus, I allowed myself one moment of gloating. Anyone who looked at me may have thought I had a mental disability, because I was grinning at no one and nothing in particular. I was in Scotland.

Once the bus started moving – driving on the “wrong side” of the road, of course, which delighted me as a first-time tourist – I was glued to the window. If I could have peered out with my nose touching the glass and my fingers pressed against the window like a small child at a toy store, I would have. Instead, I tried to maintain my composure.

I wasn’t done yet. My guard couldn’t be down. I still had to catch my train. Each stop, I craned my neck to look. Finally we reached Inverkeithing, which I only knew because someone else on the bus asked the driver. It was pretty deserted. I had gotten off with four other individuals, and we were the only ones there, looking down at the tracks. I had forgotten it was Sunday, what with the multiple time zones and missing nighttime completely. That meant the station wasn’t open until midmorning. I didn’t even know which side of the track to be on.

Luckily, I wasn’t the only confused one. I hovered by the other people I got off the train with. They were my only source of information. There were two younger teenagers and two adults. I finally mustered up my courage to say hello to the teenagers, but they ducked their heads and didn’t respond. The adults were speaking French to each other, a gray-haired man of about 50 and a thin, stylish woman with short-cropped hair. Just my luck – I’m stranded, and I don’t speak French or Scottish. I knew I shouldn’t have taken Spanish in high school. Spanish is more practical? Not where I am.

The man eventually came over to me and we started up a conversation. Mostly, he eagerly peppered me with questions in heavily accented English, and I answered as best as I could. I described to him where Oregon was, described to him George Fox University. He was immensely interested in the school systems of America, as he was teacher, along with the woman. The teens were his students, and they didn’t know English very well. The lot of them were going to visit another school in Dundee. Dundee! I knew where that was. It was in the same direction as Leuchars. These people were to be my lifeboat. It’s amazing how attached you can get with strangers.

An older couple came, Americans. From the South. They asked us how to get to a city I had never heard of. People were already asking me directions, and I had only been in Scotland for an hour. I told them I had no idea and they wandered away. Perhaps they’re still wandering, for all I know.

And then I saw it coming. The train. In the window, it said Dundee. Praise the heavenly host, I was getting on this train.

I followed the four French folks onto the train, and they quickly moved up cars. The French are more familiar with trains than I am, apparently. I lost sight of the French angels who calmed my fears, while I figure out what to do with my backpack. Apparently you just leave your luggage at the back of the train in a holding area. It didn’t seem safe to me – someone could grab my bag, or switch it out with something that has cocaine in it. Or maybe I watch too many heist movies set in Europe. Regardless, wanting to blend in with the locals (not much of a chance of that, given my wide eyes), I dropped my backpack and grabbed a seat. Facing backwards next to a table.

Rookie mistake. Instant churning stomach. So I switched seats so that I was facing forwards. I could see out the window and relax for the first time. I was on the right train going the right direction to the right stop where I will meet my American friend and then I will sleep. But until then, I looked at Scotland.

Besotted with Scotland. That’s what I wrote in my journal, and I meant it. This place was unlike anything I had ever seen before, and yet, it seemed so familiar. The sky was a light gray, and from my Oregon experience, I knew those weren’t rain clouds. No, they just blocked the sky, filtering the light to a soft haze. The grass was green and wide, broken by wide fields of the most vibrantly bright yellow. Sitting in it would be like sitting in the middle of the sun, light bounding around you. They’re rapesweed, good for ethanol and some mustard. And they’re everywhere.

Everywhere, like the old stone houses and walls, wooden fences, crooked churches with crooked cemeteries. Communities that looked old and grave, telling you with their windows and roofs that they have been here for hundreds of years, outliving generations and they plan to outlive you too. And I respected them for that. The whole land breathed out a history of impermanent permanence, the feeling that everything always changes but some things are here to stay, like the stone wall separating fields and that giant sprawling tree in the pasture. It seemed tired yet forebearing and ever so warm. It felt like the strangest home I’d ever been welcome to, and I wanted to know it.

The train took me north, and I leaned my head against the window and breathed out my own history, my own travel-weary sigh of permanent impermanence, because I was not here to stay but I would never forget it. This land had already made its mark on me in a few short hours.

5/8/11 (Day 2) - Edinburgh to Inverkeithing to Luchars to St. Andrews, Scotland, Great Britain

Image copyright Sara Kelm, 2011