Really. You haven't done anything wrong. I just needed some space. And you, my friend the Internets, aren't the only one feeling my neglect. I'm avoiding real live people, too. And my dissertation, my comprehensive exams, that scholarship application, and so on and so forth. About the only person I haven't been avoiding is that guy in the bed next to me, and my clients. And I'd avoid my clients if my supervisor would let me...
I'm about to embark on what will be the busiest year of my academic career. Because I'm on an accelerated plan, my program is condensed from 4 years to 3 years, plus one year of internship. That means in the next 12 months, I'm on this insane roller coaster ride that is graduate school on speed. Practical and written comps, internship and clerkship apps, dissertation proposal defense, data collection, the list goes on and on.
But, lest I be all doom and gloom, I really do love my life right now. I'm doing exciting things. I'm spending more time with fewer people, friends and colleagues whom are dear to me. I feel hopeful about the future, and tolerant of the insanity of the coming months because of what it signifies...the climax of one of the hills on the journey of my life. The evidence of God's provision is all around me in the relationships, opportunities, and even the hard and rough areas in my life.
So, I'll be around. But, I probably won't have much to say. I hope most of you come 'round from time to time. (Read as: Don't leave me! I promise I'll have interesting things to say in time, and I will come back!)
In the spirit of the joyous nature of the Christmas break I am about to experience, I have been tagged by the Wonder from Down Under, Liz. Let us commence with convivality:
Six Things Nobody Particularly Wants to Know About the Person Who May or May Not Be Responsible for This Blog
1) I sleep with a stuffed gorilla named Alice. Shut. Up.
2) I grind my teeth at night, so I wear this ugly night guard thing to bed. Shut. Up.
3) I'm allergic watermelon. Clear the way to the toilet!
4) I eat cottage cheese with...potato chips! Yum!
5) For many, many years, I wanted to be a primatologist. You know, like Jane Goodall. I still love chimps, bonobos, gorillas, organgutans.
6) I think red heads are sexy. That's why I married one (kinda).
Monday, December 18, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Lament for a break...
5 days off, and I'm drowning in school. And practicum. And clients. And TA work. And graduate admissions stuff. And trying to have a life.
I'm living for Jesus and that massage I have scheduled for Friday.
I'm living for Jesus and that massage I have scheduled for Friday.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Hold the wheel and drive. Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there.
Being a UPS driver is what defines much about my father. Daddy always smelled slightly like burnt fuel, cardboard, and sweat. When I think of him, my mental picture is of him in his browns, smiling. He smiled a lot when I was a kid, even if he wasn't always happy.
Those browns were his uniform in most domains of my life. Daddy might have worked seemingly endless days and nights, but he coached my softball team. He showed up for school events. I remember waiting to see him hurrying across the field in that distinctive brown uniform. Hurrying to write out the batting lineup before the game. Hurrying to make it to my basketball game before the second half. Hurrying to awards night. Hurrying to church youth group. Always in those browns.
Daddy was not always an easy man to need. His struggle with depression and his anger hurt me as a child. I got yelled at. Spanked out of anger. Called names. I feared one day his anger would consume him. He'd have a heart attack. He'd die. He'd leave and never come back. He threatened to do any and all of those things at times. It was not easy.
Things got better. Medication helped. Daddy has spent the last several years growing, changing, regretting. Apologizing. Loving. Able to express the side of him that was obscured by his depression and rage for much of my childhood. It has been amazing to get to know the man who is so much like me. I always wondered who I was like in my family. Now I know. I have a father who I can relate to. We are affectionate these days. Like we are making up for those lost years where he raged. That time when my passion, my strong will, and my defiance were intolerable to him has been redeemed. I see his delight in me, my life, my joys, when we talk.
I remember other lessons with him dressed in those browns. Pulling me out to the garage to teach me how to change my spark plugs, change the oil, build something, fix something. He was dressed in those browns at every family dinner during the week before going outside with us kids to mow the yard, or to practice my softball swing, or my brother's jump shot. He even got that high school boyfriend of mine a UPS hat, the one he hated so much because the guy treated me poorly.
Daddy wearing those browns put me through college with a company scholarship. I remember how insulted he was that one year, when I was dating this jerk of a guy in college. Daddy got that guy a job at Christmastime working at UPS, and then jerk guy was too embarrassed to go out to dinner with my family after work wearing those browns. My dad knew what it meant, he wasn't just ashamed of his uniform, he was ashamed of Daddy.
The biggest accomplishment in Daddy's life is his safe driving. When he hit 25 years without an accident, there was a big to do. A company party, a nice blazer, a free vacation. The "Circle of Honor" they call it. I remember every year, my dad perusing the company reward catalog for his safe driving award for the year. The entertainment center in my parents' den. The under cabinet radio sitting in our storage unit, as we have no place to put it. Daddy and the whole family poring over that catalog, trying to choose the only type of bonus he ever got.
And those driving skills have saved our asses a few times. Daddy's skills were the difference between fiery crash and a close call on some family vacations. The way he taught me to drive still echoes in my head from time to time in sticky situations.
Daddy kinda feels like the outsider sometimes. Unlike Mama, my brother, and I, he doesn't like to read or think about big things. He does not think highly of himself. He struggled to finish high school, but his children both have graduate degrees. His wife at times has been a writer, a painter, a minister. Daddy does not see his ability to build over half of our house, or to fix most things as impressive. He thinks he's a dim bulb compared to all the shining stars in his family. But, he has his 27 years safe driving.
Until yesterday. It was a fender bender. The witnesses left, so no one to testify to whose fault it was, and the accident is inconclusive. No one was hurt, thank God. He didn't get fired, but only because he does have so many years of service under his belt. Now, for 12 whole months, one slip up, one ticket, one accident...on the job or off, and he loses his job. And definitely no more cool vacation, no more perusing the catalog. Daddy saying things like, "Driving is the one thing I'm good at, and now I'm not good at that."
I cried when I found out. Not out of disappointment. But out of shared sadness at the hurt, the injury of something key to one's identity. But I can't wait to get home for Thanksgiving. To give Daddy a hug. To tell him, no matter how many years of safe driving he has or doesn't have, that he has one of the most amazing accomplisments of all: that I feel completely loved and honored to have such an amazing man be my Daddy.
Those browns were his uniform in most domains of my life. Daddy might have worked seemingly endless days and nights, but he coached my softball team. He showed up for school events. I remember waiting to see him hurrying across the field in that distinctive brown uniform. Hurrying to write out the batting lineup before the game. Hurrying to make it to my basketball game before the second half. Hurrying to awards night. Hurrying to church youth group. Always in those browns.
Daddy was not always an easy man to need. His struggle with depression and his anger hurt me as a child. I got yelled at. Spanked out of anger. Called names. I feared one day his anger would consume him. He'd have a heart attack. He'd die. He'd leave and never come back. He threatened to do any and all of those things at times. It was not easy.
Things got better. Medication helped. Daddy has spent the last several years growing, changing, regretting. Apologizing. Loving. Able to express the side of him that was obscured by his depression and rage for much of my childhood. It has been amazing to get to know the man who is so much like me. I always wondered who I was like in my family. Now I know. I have a father who I can relate to. We are affectionate these days. Like we are making up for those lost years where he raged. That time when my passion, my strong will, and my defiance were intolerable to him has been redeemed. I see his delight in me, my life, my joys, when we talk.
I remember other lessons with him dressed in those browns. Pulling me out to the garage to teach me how to change my spark plugs, change the oil, build something, fix something. He was dressed in those browns at every family dinner during the week before going outside with us kids to mow the yard, or to practice my softball swing, or my brother's jump shot. He even got that high school boyfriend of mine a UPS hat, the one he hated so much because the guy treated me poorly.
Daddy wearing those browns put me through college with a company scholarship. I remember how insulted he was that one year, when I was dating this jerk of a guy in college. Daddy got that guy a job at Christmastime working at UPS, and then jerk guy was too embarrassed to go out to dinner with my family after work wearing those browns. My dad knew what it meant, he wasn't just ashamed of his uniform, he was ashamed of Daddy.
The biggest accomplishment in Daddy's life is his safe driving. When he hit 25 years without an accident, there was a big to do. A company party, a nice blazer, a free vacation. The "Circle of Honor" they call it. I remember every year, my dad perusing the company reward catalog for his safe driving award for the year. The entertainment center in my parents' den. The under cabinet radio sitting in our storage unit, as we have no place to put it. Daddy and the whole family poring over that catalog, trying to choose the only type of bonus he ever got.
And those driving skills have saved our asses a few times. Daddy's skills were the difference between fiery crash and a close call on some family vacations. The way he taught me to drive still echoes in my head from time to time in sticky situations.
Daddy kinda feels like the outsider sometimes. Unlike Mama, my brother, and I, he doesn't like to read or think about big things. He does not think highly of himself. He struggled to finish high school, but his children both have graduate degrees. His wife at times has been a writer, a painter, a minister. Daddy does not see his ability to build over half of our house, or to fix most things as impressive. He thinks he's a dim bulb compared to all the shining stars in his family. But, he has his 27 years safe driving.
Until yesterday. It was a fender bender. The witnesses left, so no one to testify to whose fault it was, and the accident is inconclusive. No one was hurt, thank God. He didn't get fired, but only because he does have so many years of service under his belt. Now, for 12 whole months, one slip up, one ticket, one accident...on the job or off, and he loses his job. And definitely no more cool vacation, no more perusing the catalog. Daddy saying things like, "Driving is the one thing I'm good at, and now I'm not good at that."
I cried when I found out. Not out of disappointment. But out of shared sadness at the hurt, the injury of something key to one's identity. But I can't wait to get home for Thanksgiving. To give Daddy a hug. To tell him, no matter how many years of safe driving he has or doesn't have, that he has one of the most amazing accomplisments of all: that I feel completely loved and honored to have such an amazing man be my Daddy.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
I'm so funny...
I selected this photo from my personal collection today as my desktop background. You know what this is?
It's a picture I took of a hungry hippo at the zoo in Budapest, Hungary this past summer.
IT'S A HUNGRY HUNGARY HIPPO!!!!
*I laughed at that for so long. I'm giggling now.
It's a picture I took of a hungry hippo at the zoo in Budapest, Hungary this past summer.
IT'S A HUNGRY HUNGARY HIPPO!!!!
*I laughed at that for so long. I'm giggling now.
Friday, November 03, 2006
“You should make a woman angry if you wish her to love”
I have been absent from the blog world as of late. I probably have more clear thoughts and provocative fodder than I have had in a long time. However, hard thinking and personal reflection consume my energy in what is an already challenging schedule. Like small children do before making a large developmental leap, I have been conserving my energy and even regressing. I hope this regression is in service of a large leap that will take me over this current chasm in my life.
What is that chasm? It's the chasm of anger. I am full of a raging, seething, permeating anger. I've been making angry mix cd's. Lying on our bed screaming from time to time. It's the type of anger that makes me miss the release of having a sibling with whom to wrestle. My husband (an only child) is confused with my assertion that my wimpish jabs on his shoulder are signs of affection. I want to wrestle someone. I want to hold someone to the ground, and fight against my own being held.
One of my mentors said that it's like God is holding me in his lap while I punch the hell out Him with my elbows and fists, kicking and screaming. "I don't want this! Let me go!" What I'm angry about seems inconsequential, but what is important is that I am angry.
What makes me more angry is the admonitions of Christians not to be angry or to move on too quickly. The implication that my anger is wholly selfish, misplaced, or wrong makes me want to kick people in the teeth. As if anger is something you get beyond without falling completely into it. I'm screaming into the abyss. I'm Zach Braff and Nathalie Portman in The Garden State. And avoiding the anger doesn't work. And turning the anger inward isn't good. I did that for years, and it destroys you. The only choice is to leap, arms back, curly locks spreading behind me, into the full consuming darkness. That. That jumping. That's my faith. Faith that in the midst of shit, God somewhere smells like roses.
Because faith isn't faith if I build a fence around the edge of the chasm, put up warning signs, keep myself or anyone else from falling in. Nope, faith is to keep on walking, fall off the edge, and realize God is still the same. God's the same in the sunlight and in the darkness. And it sounds trite, and that makes me angry. My lack of words to describe it make me angry. That people tell me not to say "Fuck this shit." That makes me angry. That someone is reading this right now thinking, "Aww, poor Nicole, she's angry. I hope she gets over it soon." That makes me angry.
Yet, I remain aware that anger CAN be a sin. One of the deadly ones. Jump into the abyss, but don't breathe the air. Don't let it become your oxygen. It seems key to remember what my mentor said, "God will never leave you, Nicole." And, "I just had the feeling that I wanted to kiss you on the forehead, and give you God's blessing." I imagine this middle-aged black man in his cool metrosexual glasses and black shirt placing his lips on my very pasty forehead, and I almost laugh. That God will tell someone to bless me, this fat fleshy very white ball of being pissed off.
People these days want to touch me. Professors lay hands on my shoulder as they walk by, hands that never rested on me before. And friends want to hug me "just because it felt right." There are deep pools from which I drink, but I have to keep walking. And I can't see the next one. I get oases in the desert. When what I long for is to live on the beach.
Jumping into the abyss is tiring and disorienting. My organs are in free fall, I fear they'll liqueify if I make impact. I'm suspended. There's nothing to do but to fall. Falling too fast to look around and get my bearings. Life flashes before my eyes. I'm still falling...
What is that chasm? It's the chasm of anger. I am full of a raging, seething, permeating anger. I've been making angry mix cd's. Lying on our bed screaming from time to time. It's the type of anger that makes me miss the release of having a sibling with whom to wrestle. My husband (an only child) is confused with my assertion that my wimpish jabs on his shoulder are signs of affection. I want to wrestle someone. I want to hold someone to the ground, and fight against my own being held.
One of my mentors said that it's like God is holding me in his lap while I punch the hell out Him with my elbows and fists, kicking and screaming. "I don't want this! Let me go!" What I'm angry about seems inconsequential, but what is important is that I am angry.
What makes me more angry is the admonitions of Christians not to be angry or to move on too quickly. The implication that my anger is wholly selfish, misplaced, or wrong makes me want to kick people in the teeth. As if anger is something you get beyond without falling completely into it. I'm screaming into the abyss. I'm Zach Braff and Nathalie Portman in The Garden State. And avoiding the anger doesn't work. And turning the anger inward isn't good. I did that for years, and it destroys you. The only choice is to leap, arms back, curly locks spreading behind me, into the full consuming darkness. That. That jumping. That's my faith. Faith that in the midst of shit, God somewhere smells like roses.
Because faith isn't faith if I build a fence around the edge of the chasm, put up warning signs, keep myself or anyone else from falling in. Nope, faith is to keep on walking, fall off the edge, and realize God is still the same. God's the same in the sunlight and in the darkness. And it sounds trite, and that makes me angry. My lack of words to describe it make me angry. That people tell me not to say "Fuck this shit." That makes me angry. That someone is reading this right now thinking, "Aww, poor Nicole, she's angry. I hope she gets over it soon." That makes me angry.
Yet, I remain aware that anger CAN be a sin. One of the deadly ones. Jump into the abyss, but don't breathe the air. Don't let it become your oxygen. It seems key to remember what my mentor said, "God will never leave you, Nicole." And, "I just had the feeling that I wanted to kiss you on the forehead, and give you God's blessing." I imagine this middle-aged black man in his cool metrosexual glasses and black shirt placing his lips on my very pasty forehead, and I almost laugh. That God will tell someone to bless me, this fat fleshy very white ball of being pissed off.
People these days want to touch me. Professors lay hands on my shoulder as they walk by, hands that never rested on me before. And friends want to hug me "just because it felt right." There are deep pools from which I drink, but I have to keep walking. And I can't see the next one. I get oases in the desert. When what I long for is to live on the beach.
Jumping into the abyss is tiring and disorienting. My organs are in free fall, I fear they'll liqueify if I make impact. I'm suspended. There's nothing to do but to fall. Falling too fast to look around and get my bearings. Life flashes before my eyes. I'm still falling...
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