Category Archives: Contemplations

Why Winning can be sad

I got the job I did. . .because someone else lost it.

I suppose some people would say, “That’s their problem, not yours,” or “for a good reason, probably” or some other sort of thing. But the girl is younger than me, and failed her boards twice. She can’t re-take them again until October. And so she is orienting me to her job for a week, and then will no longer be able to function as a PTA until she re-takes (and passes) her boards.

It would be no overstatement to say that this arrangement can at times feel very awkward, especially since I’m going to be making my first attempt at passing the boards this Saturday. I’m nervous about taking my boards, and so I inherently want to talk about it. Working right along side someone who has failed to pass it–twice–doesn’t make me any less nervous. But it also makes me horribly awkward about saying anything about my attempt. I can’t say, “I’m nervous, but I’ll probably do fine” to her–how could I?

For her part, she has been incredibly sweet and helpful about orienting me and showing me around, and seems not have the slightest shred of resentment toward me for literally taking her job out from under her. All the more–how could I possibly talk to her about my anxiousness concerning the boards?

Today we had a little break-through as we both talked openly with each other about studying for them. I showed her the app I’m using; she showed me her notecards. It was most pleasant. We were on even footing.

She has this graciousness thing down pat. She’s even going to bring me in a cookie recipe we’d talked about. Me? I feel incapable of being a gracious ‘winner’. What do I say? What do I do? I say, “thank you for everything” and she says “of course!” with her sweet smile, and somehow I just feel kind of slimey, even though I’m glad to have this job and I think it will be a good fit. The thing I most want to say is “welcome back! I missed working with you!” when she passes her boards. . .

Posted on August 3, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, Daily Log | Leave a comment

I told you it would be tedious

I don’t know what to write. Yep, it was the first day of my job. Yep, I came home and ate ice cream and read words on a glowing screen.

To me, this poses many deep and great questions to which I don’t have the answers. . .yet some how makes very clear that answers must be sought. And I’m not talkin’ about the ice cream.

What is life really all about? (Pretty sure we’re still not talkin’ about the ice cream, but you can double check me on that.) And I don’t mean what we say. I mean what we live.

In various points of my life I have frequently wondered what other people see when they look at me. Not because their opinion matters, but just that I am always wondering what the birds’ eye view says, if you strip away all of your pretensions about what you think you mean and just see what is. And maybe other people aren’t a high enough view to see that, really, but I know I am to the point where I realize it sometimes doesn’t seem to matter what we think we mean, as much as what is heard or understood. And so sometimes I think it is time to stop telling other people what I mean. . .but for one thing, telling only just myself what I mean sometimes seems just as pointless–and for another, I don’t know what else to do.

I want explain myself thoroughly to everyone, want life to be thoroughly explained to me. I can “mean” all I want that the explanations wouldn’t change anything, but that doesn’t change my desires for those explanations. But at the same time, I can somehow see, through a distorted half-squinting, that all these attempts at meaning and explanation are causing harm. . .building up more pretensions, and meanings and explanations and all sorts of things that don’t seem to change what really is, but somehow just create another invisible barrier to grasping the “is”. Yet still I reach for explanations as though it were a key that could unlock blindness.

(I rather suspect this reads as written by one who has just worked their first day on the new job and then eaten a lot of ice cream, followed by too much glowing screen time. Sometimes, that’s just the way the day goes down.)

Posted on August 1, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, Daily Log | 2 Comments

Where Are You?

I think we have a lot of contemporary messages telling us how we ought to pray. Some of us are more susceptible to certain messages than others. I guess I can be pretty susceptible to the ones that basically boil down to “stop whining.” The ones that say you are always supposed to be grateful in your prayers, and never really cry out, because God is a good God and you aren’t going through anything that isn’t a blessing. You have nothing to say to Him except “thank You.”

I have struggled with that, because to me that seems dishonest. To pray, “gee, thanks so much” when your heart feels like it’s being torn in a million pieces feels like politely telling your grandma thank you for the ugly uncomfortable sweater that you secretly hate. It may be polite, and it may be proper, but it is hiding what you really think and feel.

Adam and Eve hid.

God didn’t say, “Thanks for hiding; I really didn’t want to see that, yo.”

He said, “Where are you?”

He doesn’t want us to hide; He wants us to come to Him, even in our sin and shame and brokenness, and to be honest.

At one point, I found myself praying repeatedly, “God, I just don’t even know how or what to pray.”

Recently I found myself drawn to reading the Psalms, and I realized that was His answer. The majority of the psalms are prayers, and they’re full of things like “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” They’re full of people crying out to Him about they way they have been wronged by this world and the people in it. Full of people asking God to be near, asking why He isn’t near, asking for blessings, asking for deliverance, asking for vindication, asking for mercy.

And God didn’t say, “You’re not supposed to talk to Me like that! Eat your peas and carrots; they’re good for you.” He preserved those prayers for us. Those honest prayers that said, “My God, why are You doing this to me?”

He doesn’t want us coming to Him pretending that everything is okay and then trying to deal with our hurt and confusions ourselves, without Him. When we are hurt and confused is right when we should be going to Him, but often we can find ourselves not wanting to approach God until we can come to Him with the “right” attitude. Because God is good, so if you’re not being grateful, you’ve got an attitude problem, right? Get back in line!

God is good. That’s why we don’t have to hide from Him. That’s why we can call out to Him for mercy and love. That’s why we can bring our brokenness to Him. That’s why we don’t have to wait until we can make ourselves perfect enough to approach Him. That’s why we can call out to Him and say, “Where are You?”

Posted on July 11, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, God, Me | 4 Comments

Your pulse is in the waves, the tides. . .the weather is Your breath, Your sighs. . .

We say You are above every power. . .but we see so little power in this world, we don’t even know what that means.

The unstoppable forces of nature–yes, that we can understand. No one harnesses a tornado.

But King of kings? What does that mean? We have no respect for wordly powers–they are figureheads. The are self-important. They are brutal or their rule is impotent. What does it even mean to be cared for by someone in a position of power?

A priest, to intercede? We don’t understand. We see empty, powerless forms, we see scandals. We don’t see a holy mediator between Almighty God and fragile man. We don’t even know what it means to prophecy. It sounds like something that should go on a late night paranormal activity TV show, not a way to seek God’s will. We think of cults and horrible things when we hear that word.

A shepherd, then, who tends his flock. But we, we have veal barns. Caring for your animals is such a quaint thing, out-moded, practical only as far as a hobby–for those who are naive and romantic. Certainly nothing you’d lay your life down for. How absurd.

Well. . .like a master. Like a servant looks to his master, the head of the house, for the provision of his needs. How do you mean? Like, at work, when we know they will squeeze us to get blood out of stones, and demand more for less all the time? No one cares for us there. How do mean, like the head of a household? No one is home.

Like a father his children. . .but how many do not even know their fathers? Needs become institutionalized.

Like a bridegroom his bride. . .but no one believes love is forever. You hope it will last, but you’ll probably go through several spouses. . .marry for money; it’s easier.

All our analogies are breaking down. We don’t understand what it means to be loved and cared for. We don’t know what authority means, we don’t know what protection means. “Rescue” is something that only happens in fairy tales. People just look after themselves, that’s all. . .

God says He loves us, and we don’t even understand what He’s saying. It’s a foreign word, one we don’t understand. That He would die for us–what do you mean? It’s a parable–a joke–a myth. Even fairytales struggle to have someone die for someone else. It just isn’t realistic

We’re so confused.

We could almost believe in an all powerful evil being, because evil we understand. But an all-powerful good being, loving being? It sounds like nonsense. What is good? What is love?

Love makes the oceans pulse, but we cannot comprehend it.

Posted on May 3, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, God | 2 Comments

Beauty

Today I recognized a little of what Job felt.

No, I don’t mean the “woe is me, disaster has befallen me” part. I mean the part where Job says “I put my hand over my mouth.”

I decided to look at photography, and so I went on Flickr.

There is the greatness that inspires you to greatness, and there is greatness that says, “okay, you can be quiet now; the professionals have arrived.”

I desire to look for the sake of the first; I am afraid to look for sake of the second.

So often when I get into a slump of sorts, I find myself thinking that I have nothing worth saying, nothing worth showing, nothing worth sharing. Compared to what else is out there, the words that I find are pale and weak; the experiences shallow and with few facets, the things I create childish and unimaginative, the thoughts repetitive and irrelevant. I lift my hand over my mouth.

But while I think that it can be a very appropriate response in the face of the glory and splendor and unfathomable depths of God. . .I don’t think He meant us to live our lives in silence. I think His desire is that in Him we would also find the greatness that inspires to greatness; there is the careful reminder that He alone is The Greatness, and we are but imitators. . .but that He desires us to imitate. (Only let us not get so foolish as to think we’re the real deal.)

All the flowers are different in their beauty; I don’t wish to imitate anything I have seen this world as the one perfect ideal. But I do wish I could rise to doing something–or somethings–well. The well we recognize when we hear notes ring true and strong and clear; the well we see, when something is crafted with great precision; the well of beautiful proportions, which we recognize without even being able to identify; the well of refined skill as opposed to the careless action. The well that appears effortless precisely because so much effort has been exerted.

I want it; it alludes me.

Posted on April 28, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, God, Me | 2 Comments

Bummer

I feel kinda sad, ’cause there was a post I wanted to write–just for the sake of writing it. It was a striking (to me) vignette, and I wanted it down. But–later. I said later, not now, when I have time, soon, later. When you say ‘later’ too many times, you lose your chance. The other night I realized that I couldn’t write it. I’d forgotten too many details that transform the ordinary to the striking. I lost the vibrancy that gives writing that piquancy that sets it aside from tedious recounting. So while I know that I could patch a version of that post together. . .I lost my chance at a really good piece of writing. And that, to me, is sad.

Waaaaah!

Ok, there. Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, we can move on. (Maybe another night, I’ll take a whack at that post anyway; just not right this second.)

Right now I’m on my last clinical rotation. . .it’s short-term rehab. Everyone is old. It’s a constant reminder that you ARE going to get old. . .but that that doesn’t say much. There are so many hundreds of thousands of ways to get old. But who they are now is only a result of how they were before. . .so how, exactly, do I want to get old?

Like the 91 year old who says “honey, I can’t” to everything you try to get her to do? Or the 91 year old who still has a sassy sense of humor? The 82 year old who regretfully recounts how she used to walk outside and mow the lawn with her “John Deer tractor” and how “I thought I was exercising and working hard!” She says she knows better now, with her feet turning black from poor circulation. It hurts to watch; she has spunk and life inside but her body is falling apart. Or maybe like the lady–I don’t know how old she is or what brought her here, exactly, but she always waves and smiles from her room whenever I pass. Her trailer burnt to the ground about 5 years ago, and she was just getting back on her feet. Or so she says; she didn’t come in with much in the way of clothes, and we had to raid the lost and found to give her changes of clothes. She speaks of how she was always poor from childhood, but that she wouldn’t change anything. It was a happy life, and everyone was so good to her.

There is the obese man who wants to tell you to do everything for him, and thinks he’s tough ’cause he got a tattoo. . .and there’s the wasted away (87 lbs at last weigh in) man who doesn’t want you to even TOUCH his stuff who speaks of his time in army training when he had to live off the land in the California desert, and does things for himself when he really shouldn’t (falling and breaking your bones right about now would be a bad idea, just so you know). There’s the lady with “chronic obstructive pulmonary disease” who’s frequently overcome with panic attacks, and the lady who had the stroke who’s so depressed she sobs and sobs when she sees pictures of her family. Because of her stroke, it’s about the only way she can communicate right now, and it’s potent.

There are people who have their family visiting frequently–morning and afternoon–and there are those who are homeless and never have a family visit them. There are people who always seem to have a smile in their eyes and people you can’t seem to get to smile no matter how hard you try.

They are people.

As such, they are dying.

We all do; we all know it.

This is the part where I go:

Knock, knock. Um, God? Remember the part where I don’t work with dying people? Remember that the reason why I went with physical therapy was because people get better? Remember? Remember?

But they don’t. People die. Sometimes we’re further from it than other times, but it’s really only a delusion to say that we save anyone from death. We never really cure people. Sometimes we extend relief; sometimes mercy; sometimes love. But no field of medicine can ever offer a complete cure, a total healing.

I don’t understand why God seems to be telling me, over and over, day in and day out, this is how people get old. And after they get old, they’re going to die. And there’s nothing you can do to stop them from dying; but what are you going to do about getting old? But He won’t let me hide from this. Intertwined, interwoven, invading, unavoidable: you can’t fix other people’s lives, and what are you going to do about your own life?

Posted on March 25, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, God | Leave a comment

Away and Alone

When February starts, so does my house-sitting. It will last 6 weeks.

That sounds sort of like a long time. 6 weeks?

Yes. 6 weeks. 40 days and 40 nights, I say, and then everything is all right. Good things happen in 40 days and 40 nights; hard things, but good things. Things that need to be done.

I can come back on weekends and my cousin will probably be around, so it’s not like I’m really heading out into the entirely abandoned waste-land, with no food or water. But it is appropriate, anyway. 40 days and 40 nights always happen before beginnings, and after this semester, I begin. It’s always a good time to clear the air with God (or the other way around).

Posted on January 13, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, God, Me | 7 Comments

Foolish Thing

It seemed like a good idea
at the time
to speak, to pray,
“Your servant listens, send me.”

But when He hears and answers,
our hearts chill.
Where are we sent?
Against the strong, wise and cruel.

Surely we shall be found out!
Found as thus–
weak and foolish,
despised and easy to crush.

We question His perception–
with no skill,
and but a child,
and You mean to set us here?

We scramble for protection,
but not His.
This is against
pain and humiliation.

He would not wear that armor
when He came.
It did not fit,
and would have bound Him useless.

We think it depends on us–
insist it.
How we forget–
Not who is sent, but who sends.

Why does it seem easier
to question
God who formed us
than the world set against us?

Frustrate the wise, call the weak.
Those that are,
truly are not.
Impossible! See Him smile?

[Yet still we struggle, of course.
Silly, but
we seem to think
we don't make a good punch line.]

Posted on January 10, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, God, Verse | 1 Comment

Clean Philosophy

“I don’t think that’s ever been cleaned before.”

My co-worker stopped and stared at me, scrubbing away. I looked up out from my methodical task, and commented mildly “Well, there’s always a time for a first.”

She says I have OCD. I might. That’s neither here nor there. The truth is, I was bored, and when I get bored at work, I clean everything that’s ever been cleaned before, and when I run out of that, I start in on the stuff that’s never been cleaned yet.

Some people mark the new year by cleaning up. I never much seem to notice the new calendar year, but I have my own personal new year when I clean deeply and set things in order–regardless of what the weather is doing or the position of the heavenly bodies.

Cleaning makes me philosophical.

I am working (ha) on two different theories right now. The first is concerning our dual desires to be free and to be home. Being free is the enemy of clutter. Being free means you could suddenly take a train to goodness-knows-where and never miss any of your stuff. Being free means not feeling the need to keep things “just in case”. Being free means your possessions don’t own you.

But being home means you are rooted and grounded. Being home means you have memories. Being home means you have what you need right at your hands. Being home means you have time to settle down and ponder things and try things–things that tend to accumulate.

The idea is to keep them in balance. You can’t be so utilitarian that you throw out every single last little thing that you’re not using RIGHT NOW. But you can’t keep everything under the sun, either. The problem is when the two war. The concept was thoroughly pictured when I came across a pattern for a knitted baby sweater. The design didn’t particularly stand out to me, and baby sweater patterns are a dime a dozen, and anyway, I don’t know of many babies in my life at the moment. I almost dropped it in the “chuck it” pile, but suddenly stopped, recognizing it.

It was the pattern my Great-Grandmother (now deceased) had used to make a baby sweater for my mom when my oldest brother was born. My Great-Grandmother who first introduced me to the concept that People Can Make Things With Yarn. I’d inherited a lot of her sewing and crafting stuff, and while a lot of it doesn’t appeal to me. . .every piece I throw away makes me feel like I am throwing away a piece my great-grandmother.

So I stood there holding the piece of paper and trying to decide. Junk–a pattern I wouldn’t use and didn’t need? Or worthwhile–a memory of a loved one? Free or home?

I kept it.

I didn’t keep the piles of manuals on how to re-upholster chairs and decorate your entire house.

But a lot of stuff from her for me falls in the gray zone. I don’t need it; I wouldn’t use it; but I can’t quite bring myself to throw it away. Somehow there seems like there is part of a person connected to it. It’s the same reason I have troubles throwing away old letters (even if I’m long out of touch with said person), true printed photographs (even if the pictures really weren’t very good), fabric scraps related to favorite projects (you could get quilt pieces or something from that!) or any number of useless, space consuming objects. In many cases, the person I feel like I’m throwing away is me.

I haven’t figured out how to reconcile this struggle yet, but I suppose defining the struggle is the first step.

The second theory isn’t mine, and I just spent a good deal of time trying to find the article where I first–years ago–was introduced to the theory. I couldn’t find the original article I’d read, but the theory is older than I am. It’s referred to as the “Broken windows” theory. “Consider a building with a few broken windows. If the windows are not repaired, the tendency is for vandals to break a few more windows.” The idea is about norm-settings. When in Rome, do as the Romans. And if the Roman’s don’t have any problems with broken windows, break a few more.

In some ways it makes me think about how our surroundings influence our actions. But the whole goal of the theory wasn’t just to describe what was happening; it was to reverse-engineer the problem. If dirty streets leads to petty crimes leads to less petty crimes leads to a whole city of poverty, depravity and chaos. . .can cleaning up the streets help fix the problem? (Not sure if anyone else can recognize the article I was thinking of; it was a while ago.) Because then expectations are changed. Because people are herd animals, and we tend to go with the flow, up or down.

Some of us recognize this in our own surroundings. “Just can’t work in cluttered spaces! Don’t think my best while I’m still in my PJ’s. Have to get up early in order to get anything done.” We acknowledge a bit of an avalanche effect. Granted, things avalanche down much more so than up. But the fact remains: where clutter exists, more clutter is encouraged. Where orderliness is present, orderliness is expected. Come to think of it, isn’t that one of the reasons why military organizations demand such order?

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not suggesting nor desiring military-like order in my living quarters. I did say there needed to be a balance. But I do marvel at my whole response–not just restoring order, but even to adding beauty (or things of aesthetically pleasing nature, if the feminine word ‘beauty’ derails you). I am more productive in productive spaces, yes. But I’m happier in happier spaces, too.

I don’t know if cleaning previously-uncleaned things at work makes much of a difference. I do know one of the reasons I come upon boredom at work is because I tend to be pretty good at staying on top of and anticipating things; pretty soon I’ve worked myself out of a job, so to speak. So that right there clouds the picture; but I do know that everyone was hopelessly behind before I started working again, and, peculiarly, within a few days of my being back at the helm, people caught back up. But I will admit that the fact that I cleaned the model of the spine is probably merely circumstantial evidence, and not the cause. . .

Posted on January 4, 2011 by T.T. in Contemplations, World at Large | 1 Comment

Nostalgia

nos·tal·gia
[no-stal-juh, -jee-uh, nuh-]
–noun
1.
a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one’s life, to one’s home or homeland, or to one’s family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time: a nostalgia for his college days.

I was looking at old pictures today, and considering nostalgia and what it means and why we get it. The odd thing is that the feeling I identify as “nostalgia” can be evoked even by pictures of other people–entirely unrelated to me–in places I’ve never known, not just by pictures of my own past.

I came a little closer to understanding this when I realized the root of the word nostalgia is actually acute homesickness, with “nostos” being “returning home” and algia being “pain”. What makes us nostalgic depends on what we recognize “home” being constituted of. “Home,” of course, does not merely constitute “the building you dwell in” or “where you grew up.” Home is often defined in such terms as, ” An environment offering security and happiness.” or ” A valued place regarded as a refuge or place of origin.” or “The place where something is discovered, founded, developed, or promoted; a source.” or “Feeling an easy competence and familiarity.” Home can be a place of belonging, a place where you are known and cared for, a place mutuality, a place of carefree-ness, of a feeling of everything being–or will be–okay.

They say a picture paints a thousand words, and the emotions one sees–or infers–into photographs can evoke any number meanings of home. Home is something, I guess, that we all long for, but never seem to quite reach. The-grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other-side of nostalgia is because what we feel to be missing in reality we cannot see missing in photographs. A powerful image can seem to show the Garden of Eden, but the actual presence seems to verberate with the true superficiality of the situation.

It’s like the word ‘idyllic’. One can compose idyllic photographs, but those actually there rarely felt idyllic at the time. But internal turmoil is frequently not shown in the fleeting moments a photograph is snapped. We long for the past not because we long for the past, but because it seems we had something then that we never really had–and something we are fearful we will never truly have.

Perfection. Perfection in peace, in joy, in love. . .

Perhaps that’s why Christmas is such a traditionally nostalgic celebration. More than any other popularized American celebration, it tends to emphasize those very concepts: Peace. Joy. Love. Home. We ache for them all.

Posted on December 25, 2010 by T.T. in Contemplations, World at Large | Leave a comment