Memories from Miles Away

A few semesters ago, I took a personal and exploratory writing course (creative non-fiction). One of the assignments was to use the first several paragraphs of Mary Clearman Blew's essay "The Sow in the River" from her book "All But the Waltz" as a structural template for writing about our own memories of a specific place. Here is the piece I came up with...

Among the skyscrapers to the west of the river in northwest Portland, where 21st Avenue cuts a ribbon of pavement and gathers the colorful thronging crowds into its valley between opposing ridgelines of shops and boutiques, a stately brick walkup apartment building stands. It is on _______, about midway between 21st and 23rd on a quieter stretch. From where I have stopped walking and looked up from my place on the damp sidewalk below, I can see the building, a solid and dignified interruption of the frilly Victorians. I can even see the symmetrical row of maples, providing rain-dappled shade and a filter of privacy over the windows.

I know from my past that if I were to keep walking towards the building and open the door and go up the plush, carpeted stairs and down the corridor to the studio, I would find the space light and airy, the hardwoods shining, and the view into the courtyard green and lovely. But from where I stand the apartment is tucked away and invisible, as distant as my memories of the year I was 23, when I lived in that studio on _______ with my cat and my solitude and the trees outside my window whispering dreams and my fiancé in an apartment two stories below.

My memories seem to me as intangible as the whisperings of those trees. Is it possible, standing here on this damp pavement of a worn sidewalk in this lively district of Portland where the sounds of horns and footsteps and laughter and rain blur into my interior silence, watching the doors of the building open and close as strangers I will never meet spill out onto the sidewalk and wend their way up the street to disappear in the ever-changing flow of the crowd, to believe in any moment but this one? The past fades with their footsteps. I cannot trace a path among them that could be my own. How can I place faith in memory, which shifts and sways and fades and falls, sepia-toned, beautiful but dead as the leaves that are stripped off a maple in autumn?

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #8

No matter how good it smells, one should not use Febreze as a substitute for perfume. (Although I am the queen of using products in ways for which they were not intended, I have never actually tried this. But still...)

Latté

The word latté appeared in my last post eight times. Mmmm... latté.

Starbucks Coffee vs. Starbucks Coffee

While in P-town this weekend, I decided to ride the rails (lovingly known by Rose City inhabitants as MAX), get myself downtown, and spend my very last dime on a Starbucks latté. I got off the train at Pioneer Courthouse Square (ah! the inexpressible joy I felt at the familiar sight of this brick-inlaid community gathering place filled with all the squawk and beauty of the thronged masses of Portland humanity!) and fairly danced into Starbucks. After waiting in line for an interminable period of time, I was finally served my steaming cup of frothy milk and espresso by an impersonally surly barista. When I checked to make sure it was my order - "This is a half-caf latté, right?" - he looked at me with a mixture of pity and amusement, and speaking very slowly, as though being extra patient with a person with cognitive disabilities, confirmed with clear and careful enunciation, "Yes, this is a half-caf grande latté." Satisfied, I took a sip, savoring the aroma. Yes, I decided, truly this was a cup of coffee one could almost be tempted to sell her soul for.

Skip forward - a day and many tears later, I found myself back in small town exile. Faced with frugality imposed by my dwindling flex dollar account, I resigned myself to the sad knowledge that my Portland latté would be my last espresso for a very long time. Plain coffee would be my fate until I found some way to resurrect my now-dead checking account. And if I wanted to wallow, I'd make it black. But wait! I thought to myself, grasping for any rationalization, shouldn't I compare my fabled Portland taste sensation to a campus Starbucks latté, just in case I was romanticizing just a wee bit? Yes, indeed. That would be the only sensible thing to do. And so, heart racing, I stepped up to the counter and ventured hesitantly, "Um, could I please have a grande decaf latté"? (From a purist standpoint, I was leaving the opportunity for another latté open. After all, can one really, in good conscience, compare a half-caf latté to a decaf one?) And when it was delivered into my open, waiting hands, I realized.... no, it doesn't compare. It just doesn't. Smiling barista notwithstanding.

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #7

Don't use bar soap as a substitute for shampoo. Especially not Irish Spring deodorant soap. Even if you run out of shampoo. Cetaphil might be better, but I still don't recommend it. Take my word for it and just don't do it!

Put on the shoes of the gospel of peace.

Beauty Boot Camp Baby Steps

Okay, to summarize so far...

1. Gentle facial cleanser
2. Hair gel
3. Cool shoes
4. Lip gloss
5. Hand lotion
6. A coat

Sotally Tober

"What kind of alcohol is in tequila?" - Me (after one - and only one - margarita)

"HAha, you're cut off!" - Alexandra (my sister, who also happened to be the waitress)

I wasn't actually even tipsy. It was just a word slip. I meant to ask "What kind of alcohol is in a margarita?" Guess I subconsciously already knew!

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #6

The zen mindtrick of repeating, "I am boiling, I am boiling, I am swimming in a bowl of hot tomato soup" just doesn't cut it when the temperature is 19 degrees.

Wear a coat when it's cold outside. Warmth is always beautiful.

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #5

Hand lotion, while not a good idea for use in one's hair, is an excellent idea for use on one's hands.

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #4

Lip gloss. 'Nuff said.

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #3

All-white tennis shoes are not okay, unless you are a nurse wearing scrubs, or... well... you are on the tennis court.

In answer to my inquiry about whether Converse sneakers (which I have never purchased or worn but which come highly recommended and which I aspire to someday own) come in white, resident fashion maven and beauty boot camp leader Bon said they actually do, "And that is THE ONLY acceptable form of white sneaker. But you have to get them all scuffed and dirty, otherwise you're a total dork."

I guess my continual laundering and application of liquid whitener for my canvas Keds in my adolescence wouldn't have gone over very well with her. But hey, it was cool back then (I think).

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #2

One should not use hand lotion as a substitute for hair gel.

Beauty Boot Camp, Lesson #1

Irish Spring deodorant soap does not work well as a facial cleanser for sensitive skin.

Wu-Tang!

Simple Genius

Today I invited Hillary to go to Late Night with me. It looked like she was doing homework, so I apologized for interrupting.

"Oh, no," she said. "It's okay. I'm actually pretty much done."

Homework. Done.

This is a concept I can't quite wrap my head around. Never in the history of my collegiate career can I ever remember being done -- even for a day. I have never crossed an item off my list without coming to another item that needed to be completed. Because I'm extremely slow and methodical, a perfectionist, and easily overwhelmed, and because I know that I'll never be done, sometimes I give up on the idea of even starting. Why begin something that I know I'll never be able to finish? So I resign myself to a semester of partially completed reading projects (fortunately I'm excellent at faking that I know what I'm talking about in class discussions), homework assignments turned in late, marathon paper-writing sessions, and all-nighters before major tests.

When I was younger, this worked. It isn't working anymore. No amount of caffeine in the world can relieve me of my fatigue, anxiety, and low academic self-esteem. I'd love to be able to watch a movie, go to a concert, or simply hang out with friends without feeling guilty, like there are a million other things I really should be doing instead.

"What's your secret?" I had to ask.

"It's pretty simple, really. I do my homework as soon as it's assigned. If I have a lot of reading to do, I space it out and do a little each day. There's no sense in procrastinating. I know that when it's done, I can play!"

Wow. Simple genius.

Jesus

Why did he starve for 40 days?

Why was he homeless?

Why did he challenge authorities?

Why did he defend the weak?

Why did he wash nasty feet?

Why did he die without defense?

Why did he defy racial prejudice?

Because we wouldn't.

--Jeremiah Nealon and John Paradis

51 Posts

I posted 51 times in January. I'm not sure I can top that. Quality over quantity (hopefully)!

And in other news...

I love my new haircut. I feel like a pixie or a sprite or a flower fairy or something. My hairstyle feels light and pretty and free. And my family says it makes me look more mature. I no longer look like a "round, smiling, bright, shining... M&M."

Cultural Imperialism and Ministry

I had a conversation with my mom today because of my increasing desire to go into relief work/ministry overseas. She challenged me with these thoughts and questions: Is evangelism a form of cultural imperialism? Can it sometimes do more harm than good? (A look at the history of American Indian/missionary interactions on this continent will supply one answer.) Is it condescending and demeaning to a culture to have outsiders (in developing countries, usually white) come in, assuming their way is the better one, and set to work "helping" to correct that culture's perceived deficiencies? Do relief workers sometimes fall prey to the error illustrated in the maxim "to give a man a fish will feed him for a day, but to teach him how to fish will feed him for a lifetime" (i.e. only providing short-term solutions to long-term problems)?

These questions are weighing heavy on my heart as I think about my future. I just want to help people. It's as simple as that. I just want their basic human needs to be met. I don't want to destroy their traditional ways of life or engage in cultural imperialism in any way. However, I do believe that although truth is to be found in many different religions, it is only in Christianity that the fullness of the truth is revealed. I want everyone to know Christ because I believe that he is the son of God -- an essential person of the glorious and life-giving trinity.

I have always had trouble with the idea that salvation is for Christians only. I like what C.S. Lewis says: that every person is in flux, in a state of becoming more Christ-like or less Christ-like. Salvation seems like a mystery to me. I do believe that following Christ guarantees salvation because each Christian has asked for forgiveness and been ransomed from death and sin through his sacrificial death and resurrection. I do not believe that "works" are the way to salvation; they are the fruit of a heart that loves God and not a way to "earn" his love. I have simply always believed that God knows the heart of every man and saves whom he will (not in a Calvinistic sense of predestination, however -- I believe in free will), and that those who seek him will find him, and that anyone who prays to God by whatever name they call him will eventually meet Christ because Christ is God. I have a difficult time with the outsider/insider mentality that many evangelists seem to have ("Are you saved?"). Still, paradoxically, I have a heart for evangelism.

My mother contends that the only way to help people is to love them, not to try to change them. I agree. But how do you love people best when it seems that change is what is needed (both for yourself and others)? I can't change myself or anyone else. Only Jesus can.

About assumptions of cultural superiority and cultural imperialism: I see the many, many wrongs inflicted by and flaws and weaknesses inherent in the culture in which I have lived. But I have always had clean drinking water, sanitary bathroom facilities, access to education, plentiful food, etc., and when people don't, there is something very wrong there. It seems to me that basic relief work to amend the immediate sufferings of people must go hand in hand with trying to get to the root of and correct the deeper, causal problem. How do you, as an outsider abroad, do that without destroying a culture's traditional ways of life? How often has the problem itself been caused by imperialism? Should we all stick to solving the problems of our own communities rather than venturing out globally? If so, isn't it somewhat hard-hearted to only want to help "our own"? How do we distinguish between "our own" and the "other"? (We're all human beings.) Is it wrong to go elsewhere when there are people in need right here at home? How do we define "home"? Isn't there value to the international understandings and friendships that can be fostered by cross-cultural pollination? And why does it have to be so complicated?

Each Day a New Beginning

My old enemies, perfectionism and procrastination, are rearing their heads once again to slow my progress. I am struggling with my February resolutions, and my January ones have collapsed along with them. Have I been reading my Bible the last few nights? No. Have I skipped flossing? Yes. Have I eaten sugar? Yes. (There was that mocha that was given away for free because nobody claimed it... mmmm.... And then there was that protein bar that had just an eeensie bit of chocolate drizzled over the top... it was so easy to justify.) Have I made it to bed by midnight? Sometimes, but certainly not as the rule. Is my sink shiny? Unh-uh. Have I decluttered? Not yet. I absolutely dread doing this. I can't face my mountains of boxes... I don't even want to touch them, much less assign a place to the contents (there isn't room in my dorm anyway, even for the things I love). Last night was my goof-off night, and I had no trouble doing that, but today was my laundry and get-things-done day, and instead I spent the entire day with my family.

So. I have to start over. Today. Right now. Every day is a new beginning. And it's not as if I'm going back to square one. As one of my friends recently said, "When you're running a race, and halfway through you fall down, you're not suddenly transported directly back to the start. No. You've still made progress. When you pick yourself back up again, you're starting from where you left off (which is still halfway to the finish line)." Her remark was in reference to the spiritual life, and how when we make a mistake or fall back into familiar sin after committing ourselves to the Lord, we have a tendency to beat ourselves up, despair, and want to give up, when really we should recognize that we've begun the process of sanctification and be happy to be on the path. But I think the analogy works well in any area in which we are striving to make progress.

I am starting fresh again.

This Administration's Actions... Inconceivable!

I wonder if Dubya has ever gone in against a Sicilian when death was on the line.