A Slightly Annoyed Valentine's Day Letter.

Hey you,

It’s February 14th, 2011. Today, Oregon had a light drizzle in the morning that fooled us into thinking that the gray skies would just hide the sun for a while. Not so, as the skies opened like a hatch to dump water down onto my windshield during my commute home. I talked to Mom and Dad on the way home until it got too rainy, then I turned off my phone to concentrate on the road, the rotation of my wheels a backdrop to thoughts too dark to speak aloud.

I dropped some books off at the library and went to the gym, which was awfully quiet for a Monday. Running put some endorphins in my system, but I think I’m pulling that same muscle again because it’s starting to ache. The problem is, undoubtedly, that I run like an uncoordinated goose, all knees and elbows. Now I’m at home, waiting for Nicole to come over, bringing an action movie for our evening in.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. Where the hell are you?!?

You must be alive. There’s no way that I’m going to rob the cradle that much. But other than that, all I know is that you’re not here and that pisses me off. And you know what else pisses me off? Thinking that you might be on a date right now with someone who isn’t me. Well, lady, have fun, because it won’t last. He’s mine, ultimately. You’re just the appetizer.

I’m sorry – Valentine’s day is for lovers, and I don’t have you yet. I started out this day very strong and brave, happy to love those in my life who support me while I’m waiting for you. All of those people whom you now know, either in person or through pictures and stories, who have sustained me and loved me when you haven’t been able to. And I am thankful for them, and I love them more than I can say.

But everything around me is shouting. Either the world is saying, “Sex is the most important on this and every day” or the Christian culture is saying, “Just wait on the Lord for your future spouse and be a nun until then,” or the Christian counter-culture is saying, “Celebrate your singleness and sexuality, but we don’t know how to do that and it’s the Christian culture’s fault.” It all sucks, as does the flowers and the surprise dates and the chocolate – well, not so much the chocolate. I had plenty of that without you.

I’ve been listening to this song non-stop, called “To Whom It May Concern,” by this new fantastic band, The Civil Wars. It’s just been playing over and over in my car, in my office, in my mind. The chorus says, “I miss you, and I haven’t met you.” Love, there are no truer words, and yet that does not suffice. How do I miss someone whose face is a blur, whose arms are wisps of smoke, whose voice is barely a puff of breath on my cheek?

I’ve lost many of my romantic notions, the inner cynic so close to the surface. In those hormone-strewn days of high school, I bought a journal “by” (how can a journal be by anyone?) Rebecca St. James, called the “Wait for Me” journal. I had lofty goals of writing in it daily about how God would bring us together, and when I found you – at a Christian college, of course – I would read pieces of it at our wedding and we would cry blissful tears along with the entire congregation. Eh, never happened. And good ole RSJ is getting married now, so I think either I missed the bus on the letter thing, or it just doesn’t matter. Now, if you’ve written me letters, that’s a wholly different story. There’s nothing sexier than a man who writes letters. You can quote me on that.

If I laid everything else down – my expectations, my fears, my insecurities, my loneliness – I know why I haven’t met you yet. You’re not done baking. That’s what my mom would say whenever one of us kids had just woken up from a nap, cheeks still red and warm, eyes drowsy, brow furrowed because the world just seemed so loud and fast compared to the comfort of dreams. Still baking, she’d say, and it applies to everything. You’re not ready for me. And I hate to say it, but I am not ready for you. I’m still baking, each day getting a little warmer and a little browner and a little more firm. I’m becoming the Christ-image that he wants me to be, and you are too. And I don’t want you until you’re “done” – that is, until your life is ready for a hot biscuit like me. And then we’ll keep baking together, our warmth feeding each other’s growth. It’ll be the greatest and hardest thing we’ll ever do.

But for today, February 14, 2011, I hope you had a good day. I hope you saw the sun, whether it was figurative or literal. I hope you ate a cupcake or two, smiled at your friends, worked hard. I hope you watched a good movie or read an excellent book. I hope you dropped that girl off early…or had a good time with her. Whichever one. But mostly, I hope, just before you fall asleep, you think of me and feel my breath on your cheek. I’m here.

I love you. I'll see you soon.

Love, Sara.

Revisit: [prose #9] Haven't Met Him Yet

or, How Michael Buble Continues to Ruin My Life

Just saying the name Michael Buble causes hundreds of girls all over this world to fall into a dead faint, regardless if they are within earshot. The syllabus of his name have a timbre to them that reverberates through the earth's core and touches the hearts and souls of women. It's understandable - the guy sings love songs in a clear jazz voice and looks stellar doing it. Buble is this millennium's Bing Crosby: accessible and normal-looking, with a quirky personality and smooth voice. He's our go-to guy to tackle any jazz standard (runners-up: Brit singer Jamie Cullum and N'awlins boy Harry Connick Jr.).

My roommate loves him. My sister loves him. Even my mom brightens a bit when she hears his name. I too enjoy his music, but I'm not quite as smitten with him. He causes me to be "that girl" that I hate so much: the hopelessly pathetic romantic. When I listen to his music, my heart pangs and I start looking around wistfully for someone to fall in love with - a dangerous occupation when walking down the street.

He's hard to avoid these days, Buble, especially with his hit single "Haven't Met You Yet," an anthem for every single girl (or guy, but let's be honest - girl) about waiting and wishing and hoping. I love the song, I do. It has a good perspective on this whole looking for love journey, saying that waiting patiently is a good and necessary thing. But what I love (and loathe) even MORE is the story behind it.

Rumor is that he wrote this song in 2008 after a devastating break-up with Emily Blunt (now married to Jim Krasinski - please, someone keep me away from People.com). In late 2008, he met an Argentinian actress with about five names, the majority of them starting with L. Bada bing, bada boom: she stars in his video for the not-quite-in-love song, they're engaged, wedding on the beach.

Here is where a chorus of my happily-in-love friends chimes in with the moral of the story. All together now: "Once you begin being satisfied and stop looking for a significant other, that's when he'll show up." Next comes the part where each person tells her individual story about how she gave up on love and then love found her. And to end it all, a pat on the arm or encouraging look, followed by, "He's out there. It's going to be so great when it happens for you."

I love my happily-in-love friends. I roll my eyes at their flirting. I make "awww" noises at their romantic gestures. I dance at their weddings. I'm happy for their happiness, because I truly believe that all of us are meant to go through life with other people, and for many of us, that means a spouse. I love that they want me to experience the same joy they have, and I hope I get the chance someday.

BUT. I say bull. I don't believe that this love thing works the way they tell me it does. I don't believe that all I have to do is close my eyes and wait in order for the perfect one to suddenly appear in front of me. I believe that falling for another person is hard work and often painful - hence the term "falling." It's a risk, it's a struggle, and along with the joy comes a bunch of frustration.

Ultimately, it's like sticking your hand in a bag containing many pieces of diamond-shaped glass and a few diamonds. Sometimes, you know you have a diamond and you grab onto it. Sometimes, it's just a piece of glass, and you've got to let it go and swirl your hand through the options again. Most of the time, it seems like it's hard to tell until you look at it in enough different lights. Regardless, that piece of glass or diamond will probably make you bleed. But the diamond refracts the light in the most beautiful ways, making rainbows everywhere you see. The trick seems to be putting your hand in the bag.

Sometimes it seems that the only options presented to me are disregarding the other gender or viewing each single man I meet as my future spouse (hint: neither are healthy). Instead, I'm trying getting to know and love others. In this way, I can create a support system of people who care about me. And if sometime, my future partner finds his way into that system, I'm going to spend my time marveling at how that diamond makes the most beautiful rainbows in my life until my final days on this earth.

OR I suppose I could choose this fourth option: writing something about how I'm fine with waiting forever. It seemed to work for Michael Buble, and - let's be honest - I'd be fine with an Argentinian.

true quote of the day...

Yes, I'm bringing it back! My goal is not to post a giant long essay each day, because boy, not gonna happen. I'm thinking 2-3x per week, as the muse inspires, and the other days I'll post some darn good quotes. There are many people who have walked this earth who have said impressive or poignant things. I like that.



"We are such spendthrifts with our lives, the trick of living is to slip on and off the planet with the least fuss you can muster. I’m not running for sainthood. I just happen to think that in life we need to be a little like the farmer, who puts back into the soil what he takes out." --Paul Newman

Well, obviously, this quote is amazing because it's by Paul Newman. Paul was a man who didn't pull punches; he said what he thought and he meant what he said. He probably was a little rash, a little harsh, a little rough around the edges, but that was part of his appeal. His smokin' good looks and crystal blue eyes didn't hurt either.

This is pretty deep for a pretty boy, I must say. He's right, you know. We rush around, throwing our lives to the wind, never caring that our days are meant to be numbered and purposeful. We think if we run fast enough, we can outrun time and consequence. I know I live most of my days without thinking of death and my own legacy...until it's too late for someone else and I'm stuck looking their legacy square in the face. A sobering thing.

But we have a choice. We can "put back in the soil what [we] take out." As people are kind to us, we can be kind to others. As we receive generosity, we can give what we have to those in need. And as we are loved and encouraged, we can do the same for others. Small, simple things can mean everything in the grand scheme of the Creator. And then we'll slip off with little fuss, satisfied that we left the soil rich and full, and that the Farmer will continue to use that soil to grow beautiful things.

Three Short Words, or Encouragement

January was a lost month. The reentry into reality has been somewhat rocky, so I’m re-resolving and trying to get onto that tall, tall horse that keeps wanting to buck me off. Changing your habits can be terribly tiring and discouraging. This last week, I had a crisis of self, where I forgot all of me – my abilities, my talents, my passions – and saw myself as just a frozen pile of material things, unable to do or go or be anything worthwhile. But something wrapped my wounds.

Facebook is a mysterious thing, in that it gives us access to people we don’t even know and sometimes tells us just what we need to hear. A few months ago, I got the chance to attend a spoken word event called the Poetry Revival. I was so moved and intrigued by the experience that I wrote a piece about it, which I posted here on the blog. Poetry about poetry still makes me shake my head, but how else can you express what happens when poetry gets inside? Prose isn't built for that.

I decided to send my poem through Facebook to the three individuals who performed that night: Anis Mojgani, Buddy Wakefield, and Derrick Brown. I have this deep need to thank people for the experiences and art they create, but I am so terrible at conversation that I literally can never think of a thing to say when they’re right in front of me. I express myself best and fullest through the written word, and thus I write fan letters and poems and messages to people I admire because I feel I can actually communicate what they have done for me.

Regardless, I sent the poem to Anis months ago after editing it, but I never got around to sending the poem to the other two guys. The task just was pushed to the bottom of my to-do list. Partially, I was feeling embarrassed by the poem itself. It was, to be fair, terrible after my edits. I had edited it self-consciously instead of editing it poem-consciously. I could feel the grating of the words as I tried to make them fit and fit better. So I left it.

Until this week. I needed to finish something, cross something off my to-do list to redeem the smallest piece of my self-worth – because you know the surest way to find yourself is to DO THINGS on your to-do list– so I saw “send poem to two other guys” on the bottom of my list. So I did. I took the original draft of the poem, made a few small edits, and then found the two guys, Buddy and Derrick, on Facebook. Messages sent. Cross that off.

Unexpectedly, I received Facebook notification in my email. A message from Derrick. It said:

“this is beautiful!”

Three words. That’s all. I took in each word as if it was a lozenge quieting this raging cough of frustration and doubt. “this,” meaning the piece, right in front of him, in his hands. “is” – continues to be, at this present moment. “beautiful!”, the word I love the most followed by an exclamation point. Meant to be shouted.

That’s all I needed. I needed more than a “thank you for your time,” more than a “I’m glad we inspired you.” I needed affirmation, however slight, and it came. Maybe he didn’t mean it – maybe it was a flippant kindness. But it was the kindness I craved. I needed a fellow artist who I admire for his work in writing, performing, and publishing to tell me that my words are beautiful. It took him three seconds to type. And it gave me the boost I needed to use my words again.

Never ever underestimate the power of encouragement. Of using your words to tell someone else what good and beauty you see in him or her. Because it might be the most important thing. It might be the only thing they need.

Yes, we as Christians need to get our self-worth from Christ, but he is so cloudy and fuzzy and wispy like cold smoke. Sometimes we need warm skin or warm words from another living this life with us. We need others to be the words of wisdom, of love and truth in our lives. And we, after we are filled, need to be those words to others. It’s our gift, our calling, our pleasure to both give and receive in turn.

Good-bye (and Good Riddence) to January

So January got away from me. It was my first experience of life speeding up beyond belief in the real-world, and all I could do was hang on. It was beautiful and sunny and warm, and rainy and dreary and stressful, and cold and snowy and sad. It was full of life and death, and new things and old things, and time zones and family and past-lives. And at the end of it, my body told me in a very forceful way to stop. I did. I had to.

So February is going to be full of writing about and processing all that January brought me. I will get back to those resolutions, because I am flexible and I am not afraid of changing my life. And you are welcome to come along and see it. Sorry I haven't been around. I've been at beaches and gravesides and bleeding on bathroom floors. But I'm back now.

2011: A post about resolving

Ah, a new year. A new start. When January 1st rolls around, there come shouts from two camps: those pro-resolutions and those against. I used to ally myself with the anti-resolutioners, taking the cynical approach. I mean, the first of January is truly arbitrary. It’s our own way of marking time. Isn’t every second the start of a new year? And so then, why resolve to do something that, when you don’t, will just make you feel terrible?

But then, then, my heart started to change. Sure, the first of the year is arbitrary, but we humans are a people of dates. We celebrate anniversaries of births, marriages, deaths, using the calendar to remember and challenge. We give ourselves deadlines and goals. Of course time is this mysterious force, but it’s how we operate – at least in the Western hemisphere.

This is how I see it: resolutions are important, almost necessary. At their very core, New Years Resolutions are about hope in change. And now I’ve started to pity those who take the cynic’s route. Maybe they are confident in themselves enough to say, “I will not start something that I know I will not finish.” But for me, I want to believe that I can change. I want to create new habits and discontinue old ones. And there’s nothing wrong with striving. Obviously, one of my resolutions isn’t to get married or to get my doctorate – both completely unrealistic – but I think I can strive for my basic life-bettering goals, most of which I’ve been trying to implement for a few months (with varying success). They just weren’t on paper.

So here we go. For 2011, my most challenging resolution is this: To be unafraid. Let me explain.

In looking ahead, I –a hopeless nostalgic – had to look back. Because resolutions are a type of labeling, of putting a name to something you’d like to change, I began to label the last few years, summing them up with a word or a phrase. As I put words to my experiences, they became richer and clearer. Obviously, one word cannot encompass the variety of experiences, the losses and joys that 365 days contain, but it shows me where God has taken me and maybe where he is going to take me.

These last few years have had a lot of changes. In short, 2006 was about aloha - both hello and good-bye. 2007 was marked by alone, 2008 by responsibility, and 2009 by letting go. Maybe those years are easy to label, given that they're college years and by their very nature consumed with transition.

This last year, though - 2010 - has been different. I haven't been in school for the first time in nearly 20 years. I marked life by its seasons, the actual weather-related seasons, welcoming spring with joy, into summer, then fall, and nearing winter. I discovered nights were for sleeping, and weekends were for playing, and all of that other time was easily filled with errands, tea, cooking, driving, working.

But at its core, 2010 was about staying. I started a new job at the beginning of the year, which was exciting and challenging, but it was at a division of the college from which I had just graduated. I continued living in my same apartment, with my same roommate. I watched her prepare for her wedding and move into her married life with her husband. I watched other friends start jobs farther away, move into new apartments, start graduate school. Everyone seemed to be moving, and I was standing still. The new job had plenty of things to learn about and from, but I found that most of the change in my life was happening around me, and I simply reacted to the change that others experienced. By association, my life was changing.

It was a year of staying just in my location. I didn’t have vacation days, so I didn’t really leave the Portland area. I went home to Calgary for three days at Easter, and I visited Medford once and Seattle once. Oh, and Boise for work, I suppose. But I felt really stuck – and not always in a bad way. Because I had to stay put, I learned to love where I’m located. I explored Portland and all it had to offer me, places I didn’t have time to go while I was in school. I went to jazz clubs and slam poetry events and plays. I tried new restaurants and met friends in the city and the suburbs, exploring their homes.

And I lived life with my friends as their lives transitioned more than mine. I grieved with a friend as she looked for a job for months. I asked another friend to move in with me when she was looking for a cheap place to live. I walked with friends through the first months of marriage, new jobs, work samples, performances, and I celebrated with them as they came through challenges, exhausted but unscathed. I was the one in their corner, with a bottle of water or a wet towel, wiping the sweat, tears, and blood from their faces and giving them the encouragement to go at it again.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think 2011 will be like that.

My 2011 is going to be about stepping out. My life will look similar day-to-day, but I have some major trips coming up that require some bravery. I am getting out into the world, seeing new places, adventuring alone or with another person, exploring this planet. And it starts with a little weekend trip to San Diego, a place I’ve never been before. It escalates with a trip to Europe in May, my first solo overseas adventure. And then a few weeks after that, I go to see my little sister graduate from high school. And hopefully after that I will celebrate my grandparents with the rest of my family in Minnesota.

These new adventures will teach me more about myself and how I do things. I will learn to be alone in a crowd of people and one with strangers. I will hold my plans loosely, for my time is not my own. And I will pray a lot, as I venture into unknown areas – by myself but not forgotten.

Other than those physical trips, I need to step out and start making some decisions for the future. I don’t know what they’ll be, exactly, but I have a feeling they’re going to take me far away. I haven’t thought too much about that because it scares me. And yet…this year is about being brave.

I’m a fearful person. I’m anxious and uptight, and rarely relaxed. It’s true. My resolution is not to change every bit of who I am, because those descriptions are me, as unflattering as they may be. But I’m starting to realize how much my perceptions of situations as scary hold me back from going full steam ahead, instead often stopping me dead in my tracks. I don’t want to live like that, and I’m certain God doesn’t want me to either.

I saw a fantastic movie this past week. Called The King’s Speech, it’s been raved about by critics and viewers alike. It’s nominated for a number of awards over this season, and my roommate and I decided to go see it. We thought, “Colin Firth! How can we go wrong?” We promptly remembered, “Mamma Mia” and laughed, because it was a terrible horrible movie with fantastic actors in it. Why, oh why, Meryl? And Colin? And Pierce, he-who-is-suave-but-cannot-sing? But I digress.

The King’s Speech is based on the story of King George XI, who came to power by the death of his father and the abdication of his brother, a situation that England had never experienced before. This was in the turbulent time between the Great War and World War II, and Bertie – the man who would become King George – did not want to be king. The title preyed on every single one of his insecurities, all of them a fact, which manifested itself in his horrible stutter. The scenes where Bertie has to speak are incredibly heart-wrenching and painful. Bertie finds an unconventional speech therapist who assists him in managing his impediment, and the therapist does more than that. He challenges Bertie to rise to the occasion.

But Bertie is scared. He is so terribly, terribly scared. He cannot speak, he cannot rule, he cannot be strong. You see it in his face, in his eyes, the little boy who wants to run away. But he can’t – he’s supposed to be king. And in Bertie’s face, I saw my own. I saw how frightened I get of what life puts in front of me. I see how I do not believe that I am capable of handling what I must go through.

Yet I also know, as Bertie finds out, that challenges change us. I know God says he can’t give us more than we can handle, and I’m not exactly sure I believe the common interpretation of that verse, which basically boils down to believing life will be okay and only marginally difficult. Untrue. I believe that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle with his help – which is literally anything. That verse doesn’t get us off the hook – it almost lulls us into a false sense of security, and then we feel blindsided when scary things happen. Oh, we who cannot remember! How quickly we forget the provision of God!

Granted, the scary things that I see ahead of me are truly wonderful things – at least those things I can see. I’m sure I’ll have my fair share of terrible things come my way this year too. But I am determined to not be afraid this year, to let my God be my guide instead of my fear. I don’t want my fear to be the driver any longer. It costs too much and the ride is anything but smooth.

Be unafraid. Step out.

2011, let’s go.

heyyyy...

So, two weeks, huh?

Blame Baby Jesus and the semester calendar.

Coming up: post about how Mary and I probably wouldn't have been friends in high school, poem about advent (maybe), post about the concept of new years' resolutions (yeah, I know, SO original).