On feeling underwhelmed...

Maybe this is a common feeling for people, but finishing school - completely finishing - is about the most underwhelming thing I have ever experienced. I just don't know what to do with myself right now.

I no longer have papers to write or research to do. I don't need to log on to my online classes and get discussions posted. I'll never have another spring or Christmas break which means I'll never need to cram as much as I can into a week or two, for fear of missing out on something while I'm doing homework. I won't ever utter those three little words so many people have heard from me the last few years: "I have homework."

I woke up last night from a medicated stupor, sure that there was something I needed to be concerned about (other than my puppy who ate a couple chicken bones yesterday). And there was nothing. Really. Just...nothing. So I went back to sleep and that was that.

I'm likening this feeling to the 4th of July. It's sort of the same thing. Everything starts out a little slowly, then ramps up until CRASH! BOOM! The giant finale we've all been waiting for! The pinnacle of the show...they break out the big guns and give us the best they've got! And it's all very exciting for a few minutes and then....it just ends. There's no winding down. It's just over.

So now I'm struggling with the idea of what to do with myself. I need to clean and rearrange much of the house. I have a ton of recipes that I'm dying to try out (though with Christmas only 2 weeks away and me hosting dinner, I don't know that many new recipes will get tested in the near future). I want to start consulting brides again. I definitely want to start writing in earnest. There are plenty of things that I want and need to get done, but for now? I think I'll just revel in the fact that, while it took me waaaaay too long to complete, I've just finished my degree. I'm just going to be okay with that and get the massage I've been (quite literally) aching for, for so long.

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On taking stock of life....

Thanksgiving, much like the dreaded Valentines Day, is a day when the retail industry seems to prey on our overly-consumerist brains. We spend tons of cash on food, to say the very least, and Black Friday...well, let's not even go there.

People tend to rag on Valentines Day quite a bit for being a consumer driven man-made holiday designed to guilt us into buying expensive chocolates, flowers, and jewelry to prove to that we love someone. I, for one, used to be adamantly opposed to Valentines Day. Unfortunately, I did not have a good reason. I just was. But then, after finding someone who could make me like Valentines Day for all the traditional hullabaloo (yes, I get flowers every year), I began to think differently about the day.

We all lead very busy lives. None of us seem to have enough time in the day to manage all the things we need to do and people we need to see. I have three calendars for three different parts of my life and I still can't seem to keep everything straight (though I do manage to keep a good portion of it under control). So isn't it kind of nice to have that automatic reminder every year on February 14th to tell the people in our lives that we love them?

Sure, sure. We should tell people we love them every day. But honestly, the only person who gets a daily "I love you" from me is my husband. That leaves a substantial portion of the people in my life to whom I definitely do not say that to often enough. While Valentines Day has taken a romantic tone, there's no reason that we shouldn't be reminded to say "I love you" to everyone that day.

The same is true of Thanksgiving. A holiday that's riddled with tradition, at least in my family, is also a good excuse to take stock of the things for which we are thankful. I was challenged by a friend to try to find something to be thankful for each day this month. Some days were easier than others, that's for certain. But I have a hard time believing that any of us could go a single day without finding something to be thankful for. Even on the hardest, darkest days of this year, there has been a glimmer of thankfulness (even if it was hard to find and I really had to hunt it down).

We should be thankful for many things every single day. Thanksgiving is just a good reminder of that...even if you spend the entire day drugged up on tryptophan, watching football (which is what I usually end up doing).

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On being SAD....

I have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Winter is, without question, the worst time of year for me. This is not surprising or new information for anyone who knows me. I survive the first half of winter through the knowledge that Christmas is coming which means baking and parties and music and general excitement are well on their way. I survive the latter half of the season through the knowledge that spring and summer are mere weeks away.

When I first found out I had SAD, I muddled my way through it by going to a tanning salon every day at lunch for a few minutes of my ever-needed UV rays. For many years of my life, I was a bronzed goddess not in the dead heat of July, but in the blizzards of January. The humor in that is another thing that helped me get through the winter season.

For a long time, I never told anyone why I was a) so damn depressed for four to five months out of the year or b) why I was so incredibly tan (thereby leaving myself open to the scrutiny of vanity). Anytime someone asked how I was doing, I would typically respond with, "I'm okay...just ready for winter to be over." The reaction was (and remains, to this day), "What?! I love winter! Winter is great! How can you hate winter? You're from Colorado!"

I hated that reaction. I hated it because no one knew why I hated winter so much and I really had no interest in telling anyone WHY I hated winter. I still hate that reaction. The first big snow of the season is rough on me. The time change makes it worse (though, mercifully, this year both happened pretty close to each other so it's been a little easier).

About five years ago, I finally started telling people why I was so depressed during the winter and why I hate the season so much. All my friends know that I live for Christmas, so I'm sure it was a bit of a relief to finally understand why I was so schizophrenic about winter. I'll never forget where I was or who I was with the first time I really opened up about what is "wrong" with me. See, all of my friends (my husband included) really love winter, cold, snow, all that jazz. I'm pretty much the only one that would rather have it be 85F and blazing hot than have to deal with layers of clothing and scraping my car, blah blah blah.

I remember getting a card from some of my girl friends shortly after letting everyone in on my SAD secret, reminding me that they'd be on my case to get me out of the house and that it was going to be their mission to make me enjoy winter (one friend actually got me to enjoy small-ish roadtrips recently so I have faith that she can work the winter idea).

Winter is still torture for me. I still hate it. Looking out my window right now, there's nothing but hazy fog and cold. And wind. Gross.

But winter is becoming a warmer and warmer time of year for me, thanks to the community I've surrounded myself with and engaged in. It's what I love so much about being in community. It's the place where we can lean on each other at our weakest and celebrate at our strongest. Contrary to what Simon & Garfunkel would have me believe, I am not a rock. I am not an island. None of us are, if we're completely honest with ourselves. I have always believed that we, humans, are designed to be in community. It wasn't up until very recently, however, that I really started believing that for myself. The beauty (and often, the challenge) of being in community is being able to admit when we need help. In it's purest and most basic form, community is the place where we all have needs and we all have something to offer. We don't trade bread for meat anymore, or clothing for milk. Rather, we trade jokes for laughter and dinners for togetherness. I can buy just about any physical "thing" I want. What I can't buy, and what I desperately need my little community for, is those very intangible and very necessary "things": laughter, comfort, peace, understanding, conversation.

I need my friends and my community every day of every year. But when I need them the MOST, they are ever present, ever ready. They know that I just need a little nudge (and a cute pair of winter boots) to get me out the door, into the cold to be with them when they are at their best and I, at my absolute worst.

That is the essence, I believe, of true community and true friendship. Knowing that where one of us ends, another can pick us up and keep us going...it's a perfectly lovely way to live life. We fill in each others gaps. We are wonderfully broken individuals for whom togetherness has provided a safe place to be put back together, in whatever tiny ways we can do that.






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On preparing for parenthood....

I have recently discovered there is nothing my dogs won't eat.

When my husband and I first adopted them nearly 3 years ago, they came to us with instructions to feed them only the highest quality (and most expensive) organic dog food imaginable.

Then we learned that they'd been eating bacon double cheeseburgers while in foster care. Imagine our surprise when finding this out (from the same foster care giver that had "suggested" we feed them the pricy organic food)! The pups immediately went on a strict diet of affordable puppy chow twice a day and walks around the neighborhood before each meal...they lost weight FAST! Even their new vet was shocked when they first came in weighing 22-pounds and just a few months later, a svelte 17-pounds each. "If people think your dogs looks too skinny," she told us, "it means they're healthy. Most people overfeed their animals and think 'fat' looks 'healthy.' It's not."

So with Leo and Suki down to a normal, healthy weight and looking sleek and happy, the madness began.

First, they ate all our candy we brought back from Mexico. I have no idea how they even got to it considering it was on a table top. Then, they broke into a bag of tortilla chips and went to town while we were at work. That's when we started puppy proofing the house with locks on every cabinet that contained food. It worked for a while.

Then we moved to a third floor apartment.

That's when Leo ate the house clean of chocolate. I know, I know...chocolate could kill a dog. NOT THESE ONES! I came home one day to discover that all the chocolate in the candy dishes was gone. Sigh. Then, while I was in the shower one Saturday morning and Todd was out of the house, I walked into the living room to find Suki chowing down on graham crackers and marshmallows that were supposed to be taken to a friends house for fondue that night. She had the most pathetic "I'm not guilty" look on her face...it was hard to be mad, except that I had to re-purchase the fondue fixin's.

Another time, Todd took Leo out with him and I left to go to the gym, so Suki was locked in the kitchen by herself. Suki busted out of the kitchen and found Halloween candy and ate herself stupid on candy corn. I honestly have no idea what possesses my dogs to do what they do. While we were living at the apartment, the dogs discovered that trash was their favorite thing to eat in all the world. Too many times, they got into the trash and again ate themselves stupid (er than they already apparently are). So we child-locked the trash.

Then they discovered the tupperware cabinet. Fortunately, they only chewed up one or two dishes so it wasn't that big of a deal.

May of this year, Todd and I bought our first house in the bustling metropolis of Arvada. The dogs always seem to get really anxious when we pack up the house to move and this would be their second move with us...but I was so excited for them! They'd have a nice big house with a giant back yard and tons of room to run and play! They love the yard, almost as much as Todd and I do (though Todd might like it a little less than me since he's the one that does all the yard work *grimace*)!

We all know how moving into a new place goes. There are boxes and bags all over the place, half of them unmarked or have unknown contents. One such bag existed during our move and was left in the kitchen where Leo and Suki get locked up when we're not at home. We hadn't yet lived in the house for three days when Leo discovered one of those giant chocolate orange things in the bag and decided to eat it...all of it. Suki helped too...and the ensuing mess was almost unimaginable. Then they managed to break into the garage (which at the time was full of things to give away, donate, recycle, whatever) and found a box of Hershey's Kisses....and ate almost all of them, foil and all.

Up until this point, at least they were eating actual food, whether it was for doggies or not. Food it was.

Then they broke into the Tupperware cabinet and chewed up almost ALL of my Tupperware (fortunately, for them, it's still usable, but c'mon). Child-locked that cabinet.

Then they broke into the pantry (which I was convinced had a door too big and heavy for them to open) and chewed through a package of cookies that had a CD-ROM in it...and ate the CD. Yes, a compact disc! Child-locked that cabinet.

Then they broke into my baking cabinet. It has pie plates, mixing bowls, Pyrex measuring cups, all that good stuff. It also holds my deep fryer, that I keep filled with oil most of the time. It's been in that cabinet, at that height, the entire time we've lived in the house and never once have they gotten into that cabinet. I was sure the cabinet was safe. Until I got the following phone call from my husband:

Todd: The dogs got into your baking cabinet. They dumped out the deep fryer and ate all the oil.
Me: WHAT THE %#@^&%^@!!!!!!!!!!!

The rest of the conversation was a bit of repetition of that. Leo and Suki puked their guts out all night and generally looked miserable. Plus, they weren't allowed to have dinner that night or breakfast the next morning (not out of punishment - we're not that mean - but for safety reasons). It was a pretty horrible night for all of us (I'm a giant worry-wart and didn't sleep much that night for fear that my dogs would die in their sleep). But they ended up being just fine and no worse for the wear except that their fur is extra soft and shiny and they reek of vegetable oil (which is a nice change for Suki as she generally has a stench of tortilla chips and pee).

So we emptied out what remained of the oil in the fryer, cleaned it with soap and water and put it back, none the wiser.

Not three days later, I came home to find that they'd gotten back into the baking cabinet and had this time pulled out my antique marble rolling pin, gnawed down one of the handles and scratched the hell out of the marble. MARBLE! My dogs ate MARBLE! So Todd child-locked that cabinet.

The only remaining cabinet in our house that does not have a lock on it is the one containing our cookware and my KitchenAid stand mixer, which is worth more than Leo and Suki combined.

Suffice it to say, our house is 100% prepared to be inhabited by children someday...but based on what our dogs have done in the last three years, I'm a little concerned about the shenanigans a tiny human could get into...

On cooking up a human...

I was recently required to write a poem that had to do with something "work" related, but also had to be something entirely different. For the assignment, I needed to find the etymology of the topic I chose (baking, which should come as no surprise) and various words related to the topic. Here is what I came up with:

It’s a dry heat required for this technique.

Brewing up perfection

Layer upon layer, a masterpiece I create.

Every morsel, every crumb, every sacrificial taste

Transforms with each kneading twist of my hand,

Preparing for the final moments of searing heat.

Baubles of many colors, decorations abound.

I am a confectioner of incredible feats!

She is my soufflé of epic flavor;

Leavened and soft, sweet to the mouth, comfort to touch

Icing covers her as she rises from the fire.

My work of art, a delicious success.

__________________________________________

Todd came up with the idea to use baking as a "human factory"...he posted his version over on his blog. It's substantially more creepy than mine, but that should also come as no surprise

On wishing away the time....

I just looked at my desk calendar and realized that 2010 is much closer to ending than I thought. Frankly, I'm looking forward to it ending. The universe can have this year back, for all I care.

2010 has been a year of unimaginable pain, heartache, stress, and general disappointment. It's also been a year of strength, joy, and celebration. Neither outweighs the other; all of the emotions I've experienced this year come and go. I'm a veritable karate kid of emotion...they all wax on and wax off from time to time.

I've put myself and been put through an extraordinary amount of insanity in the last 10 months. The next three are almost guaranteed to be the least stressful months I've had in recent history. 2010 has increased the amount of snark that comes out of me. It's also made me more aware of the person that I am, the behaviors I exhibit, the people I allow in my life. As a general rule, I'm just more aware of my life and myself. It would be silly if I had gone through all of this year without learning at least something from all of it. What a waste that would have been.

The last time there was this much stress in my life, I was surrounded on all sides by my very best friends. I had a community of people that loved me, believed in me, and wanted the best for me. I came to a breaking point and just sort of fell apart and fell on my friends. I was strengthened by their passions and visions in their own lives. It was a surreal, sort of "Let go and let God" kind of experience.

This time around, I still have the same friends, but our sense of community is much different than it was five years ago. We have all gone slightly different directions; we don't even live all that close to each other anymore (thought, mercifully, we're all still in the same city). Three of us got married (which means that our little group got a brand new member in the form of someone's wife...and she is, well, a perfect fit in every way) and that changed the dynamic drastically. Some of our concerns remain ever the same and some are quite different.

Because of all of that, and because of my own insecurities, I fell apart not on my friends, but into myself. I nearly refused to talk about my life because I hate sounding whiny and I hate not being in control of myself and my life. Thus, I found myself raging internally, never really letting any of my friends see just how deeply hurt I was. Some of my friends knew, just because of how well they know me. Some were even expecting me to go all Mount Vesuvius on them... and they were ready and willing to be there when I did. I just never ended up doing that.

But maybe because of, or in spite of, my stubbornness, I learned that I am capable of much more than I'd ever thought. I can manage my stress in ways I've never been able to before. I can plan the hell out of events, vacations, my calendar. I can think and wish the most hateful things. I think it's in some of those moments that I'm able to (sort of) come to a comfortable place of letting go, knowing that karma can be a real bitch. I desperately hope that it is. I also know that I can't control that and that the only things I can control are my reactions.

So 2010, thanks for all the fun times, exciting moments, and exotic vacations, but if you could hurry through the next 90 days and get the hell out of my life, I'd greatly appreciate it.

On not being the best....

At some point in every life, there is a moment of inferiority. Whether it's real or not is beside the point. Every person, at one time or another (or multiple times for some), will feel inferior to someone or something.

I struggle with my own inferiority complex on a fairly regular basis. We're talking nearly daily. I'm not as thin as that person, not as athletic as another, not as smart at this person, not as successful as that one, not as valued (professionally) as that person, not as talented as the next one.

And in fairness, I'm thinner, smarter, and more successful than someone else out there in the world. So what's the point of feeling inferior?

Sometimes, I think it's okay, even healthy, to have an inferiority complex. It gives me something to push toward, another goal to achieve. It certainly has pushed me to do some things with my life that I probably wouldn't have done otherwise. I also think that we all need to feel inferior at some point in order to maintain a sense of humility.

From time to time, it's okay to get a simple reminder that I'm not as amazing as I might think I am. Don't get me wrong. I think it's fine to be proud of one's accomplishments. It's more than okay to toot your own horn every now and again. We all need to feel like we're great at SOMETHING. In fact, I firmly believe that all of us are really great at at least one thing. In our own circle of friends and peers, there's probably at least one thing that we really, truly are better at than anyone else.

From personal experience, I can assure you that failure is not the worst thing that will ever happen. Feeling like a loser is not going to end your world. I failed an entire college course once. It was a horribly sinking feeling...mostly because I knew I'd have to take the class again and paying for it (again) was going to be no easy task (this was before I started taking out loans en masse and was paying out of pocket). I don't like to lose and I don't like to fail. But learning that I can bounce back from a pretty spectacular tumble was one of the more important lessons I've ever learned. I sulked and licked my educational wounds for a while. I felt stunned when I saw that failing grade on my transcript. I never really told anyone about failing that class.

Failure is embarrassing, there's no questioning that. Copping to it, admitting your own inferiority, is never easy. It is, however, necessary. I feel like, the sooner you fail, the sooner you can learn to deal with it, move on, and learn how not to fail the next time.

So here's my way of encouraging you to cop to your failures, however hard it may be. And as another tiny bit of encouragement, remember that while there will always be someone out there who is better than me at something, anything, I likely guaranteed to be better at something, anything, than someone else...same goes for you.

On coming to terms with fear....

I have yet to meet someone who doesn't have a fear of at least one thing. Most people seem to have fear of heights or spiders or snakes or something like that. My list of fears is pretty strange, to say the least. I'm afraid of wet paper, depths, and mushrooms.

Wet paper makes my gag reflex kick in immediately and with a vengeance.
Depths stems from an incident in South Carolina when I was 15. I haven't felt the same about the ocean since. Watching Finding Nemo even makes me have minor anxiety attacks.
Mushrooms, well, they're just weird and gross. Why would someone eat a fungus? I don't get it.

But the other night, a new fear was introduced to me. The fear of completion.

I have a few friends who are writers, two of whom (one being my husband) who are actually, legitimately published. Todd has a contract with a small publishing house in Colorado and Ben recently won a pretty BFD award for Writer's Digest. Both have been pursuing writing for a looooooong time and I know absolutely for certain that Todd would like his writing career to be his ONLY career.

So when he completed his first novel, he immediately began sending the manuscript to agents, publishers, anyone who might want to take a look at it. Because if you're going to work that hard to complete a novel, the intention (probably) is to get it out into the world.

Ben brought up this whole fear of completion as it relates to writers. He suggested that a lot of writers simply don't finish a piece because once they've completed it, one of two things generally happens:
1. There's nothing left to work on; and/or
2. They have to DO something with the piece.

I don't understand #1, just because there's always something else that I want to write (granted, I write more article-style and not novels, though my husband is trying to pursuade me to write one). The second fear, however, I kind of get.

See, in my dream world, I'm a contributor to Vanity Fair. I love reading that magazine, I respect the talent of many of the writers (even if I don't always agree with their POV), and I want to be part of something bigger than me, professionally. I figure, the only way that I'll ever get to be a contributor is to actually submit a piece for review. I always seem to say, "Someday, I'll be brave enough to submit to Vanity Fair. Someday." Why not today?

I don't know what my senior writing project will entail, if it's a solo or group project, if it's supposed to be a singular piece or a compilation. No idea. But I think I'd like to create something that's worth submission to some credible magazines. But I do worry about the day that I actually complete a piece like that. I worry about holding the paper or staring at my computer, all the while thinking, "Oh crap. It's finished. Now I have to DO something with it." I worry that I'll pore over and over and edit the hell out it and basically torture the piece; edit it into submission, if you will. I worry that, even though I know it will be rejected, I'll consider that rejection the Simon Cowell of my writing career, however brief and fledgling it may be. I worry that I'll give up before I give myself another shot. I worry that I'll find it easier to sit on the piece, never submit it to anyone, and carry on with my meager existence, just so that I don't have to feel the sting of rejection.

It was suggested that I also mention the fear of success in concert with the fear of completion. I just don't really have a fear of success. I desperately want to taste success in my life. I want to be a successful career person, I want to succeed in the kitchen, I want my marriage and family to be wildly successful. Fear of success? Not me.

But I need to get over the fear of completion in order to even get a chance at success.

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On being beaten up....

Ever have those days when you feel like you've been hit by a MacTruck? I'm sure most of us can think of a day when we'd had too much to drink or stayed out too late the night before. Going to work and sitting behind a computer for 8+ hours seems like pure torture.

I went to an indoor trampoline center the other week for a friend's birthday. I have an unconditional love of trampolines. I grew up with one (okay, my neighbor had one, but we were always over there jumping) and can't wait to get one of my own in the backyard. But at 30 years old, I'm not sure my body was well-equipped to deal with the aftermath of two solid hours of jumping, flipping, and general madness. I felt like I'd had the crap beat out of me and I felt like that for nigh on a week. Will that stop me from trampolining again? Absolutely not.


But what about when you take an emotional or psychological beating?

Normally, when I feel like that physically, I just go to bed early, take some pain meds, and drink a couple glasses of wine. If I'm feeling especially crummy, I'll throw in a salt bath for good measure.

Sadly, there are no salt baths for the emotional beatings, are there?

It's frustrating to feel taken for granted or (probably worse) totally disregarded. The last several weeks have brought a number of those situations my way. School was strange, twice not having anyone in my peer review group choose my work to review. I mean, I'm nearly fundamentally opposed to peer review groups as it is because I'm totally unsure of their purpose, but since it's an assigned task, I deal with it.

I've had my opinions, beliefs, politics, and reasons come under heavy fire this summer for reasons that I don't understand. At one point, I really just threw my hands up and said, "I'm going to be a Communist for Halloween; they practically think I am anyway!" I had someone question why I keep fighting for the "same old thing." Why do any of us fight for something we believe in? There are hills I'm willing to die on, and that particular topic happens to be one of them. But I won't get into it right now.

Some really insulting statements have been hurled at me with no regard for how the hell it might sound, much less how it might hit me.

This isn't a cry for sympathy. Not even in the slightest. I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me.
It's more about trying to find a way to be less affected by the stupid things people say and do.
There are times when I know know KNOW that what was said wasn't intended to be hurtful; it just came out wrong or I was in a vulnerable place and I took it wrong. Lord knows, I've been on the giving end of those statements.
But other times, it's painfully evident when a statement was made with intention. And those are the ones that I can't wrap my head around. Those are the ones that I can't seem to reconcile or "get over."

So what does one do with THOSE MacTrucks? Certainly wine can help, but that wears off far sooner than the shock.

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On getting from there to here....

My educational pursuits have been many. I just completed a pseudo-documentary on my college experience for one of my classes so it's something that's been on my mind for a while. And, not long ago, my husband posted his own blog about his life as a student. He dared the rest of us to bare it all as well.

I went to the same school from the time I was 4 years old until I graduated high school at age 18. I remember almost all of my teacher's names (there is one I wish I could forget because she was so horrible, but alas). I was wildly involved with my school for as long as I can think. I was one of only two junior cheerleaders the school ever really had and I was hooked from then on.
I started cheering for those Crusaders when I was 7 years old and kept on going right through grade 11. I was a decent student, but probably could have applied myself better, especially in high school. In grade 4, in the horrible teacher's class, I was seated in the very back of the classroom and had a terribly difficult time doing math problems. My teacher told my mother I was probably developmentally behind the rest of the students and I was promptly sent to Ms. Prichard, the school's remedial teacher.
She was amazing. "Yes, your daughter has trouble with math," she told my mom. "But she's not stupid. She just can't SEE the blackboard!" So I got glasses and, on recommendation of Ms. Prichard, I wound up in piano lessons with Mrs. Moore. Apparently being able to read music while playing the keys was going to help my math skills (teaching me to multi-task, essentially). I fell more and more in love with music and continued to harbor a hatred for my grade 4 teacher and math.
Junior high was an horrific existence, as I believe it is for about 90% of humanity. Mean girls, Queen Bees, bitches, and all that. It was stupendous. I made the cheerleading squad the summer before grade 7 and didn't look back. I showed those horrible girls who never thought I'd make it...and I have Danielle, Casi, and Jodi to thank for that.

This is when music really started to take hold of me. I went to school and tolerated the studying so that I could cheer and sing. Some of the best memories of my childhood involve music. I refer back to Jodi, whom I practically idolized as a kid. She was practically perfect in every way. She sang, she cheered, everyone loved her, she was smart as hell. I still want to be her. The first time I heard her sing, I knew I wanted to be a part of that. So I fought tooth and nail to make into the show choir by grade 9...not something that was terribly common back then. And damn if I didn't make that choir for grade 9 and every year thereafter.

High school itself is a bit of a blur. I excelled in history, languages, and English. I barely made it through any of the left-brained classes. Honestly, it was torture for me, some of the classes. I can fully admit now that I cheated my way through one of my classes (which will remain unnamed) and I don't really feel bad about it. The teacher didn't give a lot of us a fighting chance.

But I made it through high school and made my way (very unwillingly) to Strathmore, Alberta, Canada where I spent a year in a discipleship program (read: Bible school). I met some really great people and amazing friends and learned a lot about myself, but not much about what I wanted to do with my professional life.


So after a summer in Mahtowa, Minnesota, I went to a small (Bible) college in Bemidji, Minnesota. Probably my worst imaginable decision to date. I hated nearly everything about being there. I hated school. I hated how mean some of the people were. The one really great thing about that year is that I met my best friend a few weeks after school started. She was and continues to be a constant source of support and reality checks.

But I couldn't fathom going back to that school. It's the place where I first learned what crying and heartache really looked and felt like.

So I came home to Colorado.

And took a LOT of time off.

Then I decided to (sort of) declare a major in Music Production and started my core requirements at Red Rocks Community College. I did several semesters at RRCC and at some point changed my major to Social Work.
Then I quit. Mostly, just gave up. I wasn't finding myself, I was involved in some crappy things, and generally had no direction.

So I got some random office jobs here and there. During one of those jobs, I met the girl I refer to as my "Colorado best friend" and she told me, in no uncertain terms, to "get off [my] ass and do something with [my] life." So I enrolled in a "real" college: Metropolitan State College of Denver, as a Sociology major. I worked really hard at that school and somewhere in the meantime managed to get my bridal consulting license. I changed majors AGAIN, this time to Hospitality and Event Planning (yes, it's a real degree and it's incredibly hard). I did that for a few semesters before taking on a course that was so far outside my skill set, I actually cried in my professor's office.
So I changed majors again, this time to English with a Spanish minor.

I did several semesters at MSCD as an English major and absolutely loved my Spanish classes. But one class in particular, Intro to Journalism, turned me off to the school for reasons that are inexplicable to me.

I just wasn't being challenged at that school. It's not a bad school, certainly don't take that away from my experience. I has some of the best programs out there. But their English program just wasn't my style or speed.

So I changed schools yet again and dropped the minor.

My major changed slightly from Metro to University of Colorado - Denver, but not much. I went from English to English Writing. I love editing with every fiber of my being and while I don't really care for some styles of writing, I figure I should know how to write before I tell someone else how to.

For the last two years, I've been at UCD, loving every very challenging second of it. My GPA is the highest it's ever been, even while taking a full-time student course load and working a9-to-5. I've even declared a minor again....Sociology (a previous major, if you're able to keep up with all of this madness). I'd taken a ton of sociology courses previously so my current adviser recommended that I take the one remaining course I needed and officially declare it as a minor. "Might as well get the paper since you've done all the work!" he told me.

And here I am, four short months from a graduation that's taken me 11 years, 5 colleges, and 5 majors (let's not talk about the money right now) to accomplish.

I've been in school for so long that I often do one of two things: 1. wonder what I'm going to do with all my free time; or 2. flirt with the idea of getting my master's/teaching certificate because I can't imagine my life without school and stress.

I think I'll just get a massage instead.

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On finding inner peace....

Japan took me by surprise. The possibility of something, anything being as old as the things I saw there never even crossed my mind. My brother, Daniel, while living and teaching in Kyoto, had done some research into the sites he would take Todd (my husband) and me to during our visit to this mysterious and magical country. We were happy to have our own tour guide for at least part of our adventure. Trying to figure out what to see and where to go on our own could have turned ugly.

*********************************************

1397. The United States wasn’t even an idea yet. That’s when Kinkaku-ji made its mark in Kyoto.

I thought my heart stopped when I first laid eyes on this place. “It’s a right of passage for Japanese students to visit this,” my brother said. The air felt cool on my skin, as if peace itself was breathing on me. History rustled through the leaves of the trees. Centuries of kami rippled through the lake.

Zen. A word I said innumerable times that week. I don’t think a word has yet been uttered that can describe the serenity, the peace, the calm that I felt.




Nirvana. Maybe if Kurt had passed through these gates, things would have turned out differently.

I’m tall in Japan, even at my mere 5-feet-5-inches. “You can’t understand how huge it is until you’re looking at it.” My brother tried to prepare me, but nothing really could. Standing in front of a structure that massive certainly put “me” into perspective.

Three separate fires destroyed Tofokuji. Four times, the Gates to Nirvana have been re-built. The current temple has been standing since 1425. Columbus hadn’t even started thinking about his voyage yet.

“I feel so small here,” I said. My stature in the country was obvious, but my ability to comprehend the magnitude of its passion and history fell short of what it deserved.



Sight-seeing never lends itself very well to personal reflection. There’s always too much to see, too much to take in. So how did I manage to steal away nearly a half-hour simply to…consider? I thought I understood the idea of a Zen garden. It seems like a pretty easy concept to grasp—
pretty trees and flowers, sand to play with, pathways. Easy enough. The quietness overcame me in a way that, for the first time in my life, didn’t frighten or disturb me. It felt good. It felt right. I didn’t have any striking moments of clarity. The busyness of my life melted away. So this is what “just being” feels like. I want to live in that place.

I was alone with my thoughts in the garden. I have spent many years trying to find balance and order, sometimes forcing it. I have talked big talks about designing my home in a feng-shui manner. But when I stood in the center of this garden, full of sakura and tiny streams, rolling lawns and prayer temples, it all seemed so silly. As if my American mind could possibly understand the depth of Japan’s way of life. The whole garden reeked of longevity and of a balance that I could never achieve. To no one in particular, I said, “I don’t want to leave this place. I want to ‘get it’.” A group of Japanese school girls passed me on a walkway back to the main gates of the garden. “Ohayo gozaimasu!” I said to them with a slight bow of my head. Good morning! They giggled and greeted me as well which, according to my brother (whose students just happened to be mostly girls), indicated that they were thrilled I had spoken to them in Japanese…using Kansai region dialect, no less. I love it here!

*******************************************************

I want a house that sings to me. I want to live in a place where music surrounds me no matter where I go. Walking the floors of Nijo Castle, I felt artsy and full of life. The three of us removed our shoes and shuffled through the hallways. Todd’s left sock had a hold in the toe and mine were thin and grey. Daniel seemed to be the only one adequately prepared for the chill of the wooden floors. The three of us were so obviously American, but my brother, six feet tall and blond, seemed to float so easily through Japanese culture; it was as if Kyoto itself had taken up residence in his bones. “The floors creak so you know when someone is coming into a room,” Daniel explained. “It’s for protection.”

Brilliant! I thought to myself. And also a little ironic.

Something so beautiful is actually intended to warn against an attacker.

What an ingenious alarm system.

Japanese technology has impressed the world for longer than I can even comprehend.

I still want a house with floors that sing. I want to walk into a room and create a brand new musical masterpiece with every step, every day. For the rest of my life. I thought about all of the history contained within the confines of the palace as the three of us stepped outside into the courtyard, full of vendors. I smelled something familiar, yet strange. “It smells like a carnival out here!” Todd said. That’s it! I thought to myself. “That’s botamochi,” my brother told us as he bought us all the sticky sweet rice ball dessert. “It’s basically the Japanese equivalent of a funnel cake.” Nijo Castle is where I first tasted how truly sweet Kyoto could be. It was hot and sweet, it burned my mouth, and I wanted more.

*************************************************************

1593 saw the beginnings of the beautiful castle of Osaka. What was America doing that year? It had hardly taken its first breath at that point. Settlements were barely established and this is what the Japanese were up to.

Civil unrest, bombings, and neglect all but destroyed the castle. When the castle first came into my view, I wasn’t sure what to think. I spent much of my time on the castle grounds in silence.

The history of the castle is seemingly a parallel existence to that of the Japanese people themselves. Yet they still stand, unchanged and more beautiful, more sturdy today than they were yesterday.






Mystery is a word that describes Japan most accurately for me. I spent my time marveling at what I have learned from them and what I need to, should learn, but still can’t really grasp. What would be the point of surrounding yourself with dirt and grass on one side and water on the other? No on really knows what the purpose of the dry moat is, though someone explained the possible physical logistics of this. I’ve all but forgotten. I continue to wonder: is there a deeper, meta-physical meaning that I should be trying to understand?



For the first time in my entire life, I found myself not wanting to rush home after a week away. Traveling, while thrilling, is exhausting. Here, in this place, surrounded by kind and mysterious people and places, I felt…something. Maybe it was zen. Maybe it was peace. Whatever it was, it felt right. My urges to rush about and see everything minimized in Japan. Rather, I wanted to seek out the deepest, most serene places I could and spend my time marveling and considering. Japan is a special place and will hold a piece of my heart forever. My outlook on life changes and evolves every time I go back to those memories.

On trying to figure out the point....

So here's a question that was posed the other day in my Argumentation & Logic class: What is the point of going to university?

You may think the answer is simple. I did, too. Until my professor got involved. She tends to complicate things, but I guess that's a good thing especially for the type of class it is.

Is the point to prepare yourself for a career? Most of us would say yes. Having a degree generally makes you a more viable candidate for certain positions, that's for sure. For my husband, his college education definitely prepared him for a career. He went to what my professor calls a "vocational college" meaning that pretty much every course he took would have a pretty direct impact on his future career. He is a computer science major.

I, on the other hand, am an English writing major with a Sociology minor. Clearly, neither of those are really going to help me for future careers. Maybe if I was also getting a teaching license or continuing to grad school, it would more obviously be a career-directed major. But it's not. It's a liberal arts degree. Most liberal arts degrees tend to mold the mind more than the career. I know a few philosophy majors...but really, how many paid philosophers are there in the world anymore? How many anthropologists?

And, maybe, in the grand scheme of things, there aren't all that many professional writers out there.

So what the hell am I going to school for? What is my education preparing me for, really?

In my estimation, while I'd like to be a professional writer (for Vanity Fair, if I'm allowed to be choosy), the reality is that I'm being prepared to be an effective communicator. I'm learning how to speak well and write with authority. I've seen the benefits of this at my own job a number of times already. I'm learning the best and most compelling forms of communication for any number of scenarios that I might one day find myself in. I'm better understanding how to choose my words for said situations. I'm honing my writing skills so that I can make fundamentally sound arguments for any position I take.

So no, my degree isn't vocational. Not by a long stretch. And my husband's degree is one of the furthest from liberal arts you can get.

If you have a degree, what is it in? Why did you get it? What did it prepare you for?
If you don't have a degree, what do you think the point is in getting or not getting one?



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On taking time....

I am a mere three days into the most stressful semester of my collegiate career. I've opted to take 12 credit hours during the 8 week semester using the following logic: I'd rather torture myself for 8 weeks than for 16.

Honestly, I'm not all that concerned. I took three classes last summer so how bad could it be to add one more to the mix? In my estimation, not very. I already have people looking at my cross-eyed, wondering how I manage to keep up with myself and my life. I had a friend tell me once, many years ago over dinner, that if I stopped to think about how crazy it is what I'm doing, I'd probably kill myself. So just don't think about, keep plugging along, and finish.

That's how I've been pursuing my degree for the last few years.

I started to get incredibly stressed out today over my Argumentation & Logic class, which is probably going to be the most challenging of all my courses. I have three chapters to read and close to 15 assignments to complete, all by Sunday at midnight. I almost had a nervous breakdown, but took some deep breaths and said to myself what I've been saying for years: Just do it. It's got to get done, so get it done.

Then I got a really big reality check and smack to the brain.

I reviewed the required assignments and discovered that, in reality, I only have one chapter to read, three assignments to complete from said chapter, and two other fairly low-key assignments on top of that.

Why was this a reality check?

I learned the hard way (again) that I need to slow down and make sure I'm fully understanding what's being asked of me. So many times, I find myself doing far more than I need to. Don't get me wrong...sometimes going above and beyond is good, essential even. But when it comes to schoolwork, facts are facts. I'm only being graded on the work that's assigned so (logically) I should only do the work that's assigned.

I feel like I'm learning this lesson time and time and time again. Apparently it's something that I desperately need to have drilled into my head. My thick, Type-A skull just doesn't get it sometimes.




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On breaking away...

In approximately 14 hours, I'll be leaving on a jet plane heading for Paris by way of Miami. We have a 5 hour layover in Miami, but sadly, it would cost nearly $100 to get a cab to and from the airport to South Beach. So we'll be stuck inside the Miami International Airport, my husband playing Foursquare (I will not, since I'm leaving my phone at home...but now I'm reconsidering that) and me drinking margaritas laced with Tylenol PM so that I can survive the 8 hour flight to Paris.

I have many unfinished blogs up in the queue here. Many things to say and talk about. Since Paris is basically shut down on Mondays, the husband and I may spend some time drinking champagne and writing at whatever quaint Parisian café we stumble upon. And I'll be catching up on the extraordinary amount of pleasure reading I've been missing out on the fast last several months.

Until next time...

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On taking the time to correct yourself....

Today, I have a guest post over at Initial Draft ...click on over there!





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On working hard for the money....

An interesting topic was brought up the other night. Work ethic.
Any time I hear the term "work ethic" I seem to cringe. Why? Because I've been accused of having a crappy one. My generation, in fact, has been accused of having some of the worst work ethics in the history of humanity. (Just wait until they see the NEXT generation, right?) We seem to often get accused of taking the easy way out or not sticking with something for longer than a nano-second or just plain being lazy.

I'm not quire sure what to call my generation.
Gen Xers are usually those born between 1961 and 1981, so I fall into that category, but 30 years is a bit broad.
Generation Y or the Millennials are those born between 1982 and 1995 (or 1796 and 1996 if you're from Canada, but that's just making up for the old exchange rate, I think).

I was born in 1980. I think I'd fall more into the Millennials than the Xers, but I also don't like the idea of being lumped together with the likes of Justin Beiber. So I just don't know what to officially consider people my age....the Techies, maybe? I have no idea.

But I do know that I'm part of the first generation to really grow up with computers at our disposal. Most of us probably had our first experience with computers in junior high, but there are people like my husband who have been around PCs since he could sit up on his own. We're the first generation for whom our children likely will not surpass our technological knowledge and understanding. We'll be able to keep up with them...heck, they might even have to try to keep up with us!

There is still quite a bit of technology that I'm not aware of and don't understand at all. Things like the Smartboard, which is apparently this really amazing tool that teachers all through Denver Public Schools are using. I heard about it the other evening from two of my friends, both who work in education. It's some pretty impressive technology that I didn't have growing up. Hell, it was exciting when we got white boards in my school and could stop using those God-forsaken green chalkboards. I'm still a little unclear as to the purpose of the iPad, but I'm coming around (I don't want one, but I am starting to understand why someone would).

So what does all of this have to do with work ethic?
I, along with many people my age, tend to spend a great deal of time on the ol' interweb. We just do. Anything we want to do, find, see, or buy, we can get on the internet. It's our amusement much of the time (case and point: ThisIsWhyYoureFat.com / TextsFromLastNight.com / PeopleOfWalmart.com / Endless.com ...need I continue?). But why are we on the internet all the time?

Honestly?

Because we're finished with our work. It's true. We're just that efficient. I'm not saying that other people aren't. I'm just saying that I know how to finish my work quickly and effectively. I know how to do things with the least amount of effort output.

I know. I know. That last one doesn't sit right, does it? However, aren't we all supposed to be working smarter and not harder? People who sit and stare at the same document for hours boggle my mind. What are you doing? What do you need to figure out?

Technology has certainly made my generation remarkably more efficient, to be completely honest. And what's so wrong with that? When did it become not okay to be efficient? I dare you to look at my inbox or my desk. My work is done. I'm trying to find more work. I don't WANT to be bored stupid. In fact, I like the days when I'm too busy to take a lunch. I wish I had more of those days. I like feeling productive.

Just because I can finish something in a third the time it takes someone else certainly doesn't mean I have poor work ethic. It usually just means I know my keyboard shortcuts much better.

But if technology has the ability to make someone more efficient, there has to be another side to it. Technology can also make us unimaginably lazy. I'll be the first to admit that I rely really heavily on technology to do the work I hate, specifically: math. Microsoft Excel is my best friend, but sometimes, it has really bitten me when I'm working. I get going too quickly and trust a computer too much and I end up looking like a fool. I've actually been told, by my boss, on two separate occasions that I have GOT to slow down and make sure everything is correct. That's a pretty big wake-up call.

I can be the most efficient person in the world, but if I have to do the same task three times because I wasn't bright enough to slow down and double check the first time, am I really being all that efficient?

The answer, I assure you, is NO.

So the next time you see me playing on the internet, don't get mad that I'm "not working"...consider for a moment that I'm finished with my work. Consider that I might just be really efficient. And I promise I'll start slowing down to make sure I'm doing my work right the first time.

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On other people having similar thoughts....

In this post, I'm referencing one of my favorite authors, Donald Miller. He's a brilliant writer and a pretty decent theologian.

The reason I'm referencing his post, You Become Like the People You Hang Around, is because it was posted shortly after I wrote a piece about taking control of your life. Miller's musings were in a similar vein as mine. It's okay, perfectly normal, and sometime necessary to eradicate toxic people from your life.




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On changing your positions....

con·serv·a·tive
–adjective
1. disposed to preserve existing conditions, institutions, etc., or to restore traditional ones, and to limit change.
2. cautiously moderate or purposefully low: a conservative estimate.
3. traditional in style or manner; avoiding novelty or showiness: conservative suit.

lib·er·al
–adjective
1. favorable to progress or reform, as in political or religious affairs.
2. (often initial capital letter) noting or pertaining to a political party advocating measures of progressive political reform.
3. of, pertaining to, based on, or advocating liberalism.
4. favorable to or in accord with concepts of maximum individual freedom possible, esp. as guaranteed by law and secured by governmental protection of civil liberties.
__________________________________________________________________________

I blame this post entirely on my grade 9 math teacher, in a good way of course.

I mentioned the other day that I think it's funny how conservative I was in high school and how seemingly liberal I am now. In response to that, a friend asked me how and why I felt that way. I said that I find myself being far more open-minded to a variance of issues and options than I ever would have been in high school. Some people had similar reactions as I did to their lives, but my algebra teacher set off a fire-storm in my head.

"Being conservative doesn't mean being closed-minded," she said.
My brother said something similar (though I'm of the opinion he just likes to start arguments with me lately).

I agree with my former teacher (who, it should be mentioned, is wicked-smaht and I respect her thoughts and opinions a lot), but only to a certain degree. I say that because, for me, as a 16-year-old who had yet to start really thinking for herself, I was incredibly closed-minded. I never would have entertained some of the ideas that I do as an adult. I was the very idea of all the definitions shown above. I held to rigidly conservative standards, I was a traditionalist, I dressed very conservatively, but most of all, I completely shut my mind to the possibility of something else being "right" or "okay".

I was first really introduced to the idea of thinking for myself when I lived in Canada. This was how the concept was presented to me: Don't just know WHAT you believe. Know also WHY you believe it.

Ever since then, I have tried to make a consistent effort at really understanding why I believe something. I want to understand the issue, the proposed changes/reforms, and the potential outcomes of all possible options. It should be noted that I am not speaking specifically or only about political issues. Believe you me, there are plenty of those sorts of issues where I fall on every imaginable side of any fence out there.

Examples? Sure.
16-year-old me and 29-year-old me have starkly different views on abortion.
16-year-old me and 29-year-old me would fight all the time about equal rights.
16-year-old me and 29-year-old me are on way different sides of the political aisle.

But whatever, right? We're allowed to change. In fact, we all SHOULD change. I cannot imagine going through life maintaining a 16-year-old mindset. I'd be hyper-emotional, anorexic, and über-judgmental, none of which are really very appropriate responses to the myriad of issues life throws at us.

So do I think that being conservative means being closed-minded? Yes and no. I think there are conservative people out there who are incredibly closed to any change or progression. I also think there are liberal people who are "live and let live" to the point of near-anarchy. I, myself, live a rather dichotomous life really...social duality in all its glory.

I'm fiscally conservative (just ask my husband), but love to buy extravagant things.
I like traditional gender roles, but I'm the financial manager of our house and my husband does far more cooking and cleaning than I do.
I have a pretty "June Cleaver" wardrobe, but there's nothing stopping me from dressing like Britney Spears to go to her concert.
I am firm in my faith, but am willing to concede that I could be wrong.

For me, yes, being conservative was synonymous with being closed-minded. My parents are wildly conservative, but they also have 30+years of thinking for themselves under their belts so we can (usually) engage in very open dialogue about plenty of issues. They respect that I have thought carefully about my positions and I respect that the fundamentals they instilled in me have allowed for our continued conversations.

I wonder though...is it possibly to be a Conservative Socialist? If so, then that's probably what I am.

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On reconciling faith with life.....

Probably most of you that read my posts have figured out by now that I am "religious." I hate that word. It has some hugely negative connotations. I also hate saying that I'm "spiritual" because, for me, it goes beyond that (though I have many many friends who consider themselves as such and I respect them for it). More and more, I find myself leaning toward saying that I am "a person of faith."

So here are some of the basics:
I grew up in a Christian home.
I love going to church and am pretty involved with my own.
I consider myself to be a Christian.

It's just that that word, in particular, also has such ugly connotations to some people. Ghandi once said that if Christians really acted the way they claim they're supposed to, not a person in the world wouldn't want to be a part of that. Sadly, that is so obviously NOT the case. The problem, I think, is that so many of us claim to live one way (love God, love each other), but we tend to be really judgmental about the rest of the world. It's difficult to reconcile the faith I grew up in with the faith I'm finding myself in.

I find myself living by the "holy" Golden Rule much of the time: Judge not, lest ye be judged.

As a greater portion of the country knows by now, Jennifer Knapp has come out...both as a lesbian and as a continued "person of faith." I have been stunned and, well, not stunned by the reaction, especially by the religious community. As soon as I read the article in The Advocate, I had two very distinct reactions: one of pride that someone of her popularity and influence could be so brave and one fearing the backlash from the community that embraced her for so long. Would they still? Would she care if they didn't? But most importantly, for me, What is my response?

I think I have several responses, honestly.
1. I don't really care about her sexuality. She's one of the most talented musicians I've ever heard and that's what I'm really interested in.
2. It's none of my business. Jennifer chose to come out; no one made her. It was something she felt she needed to do to be honest with herself.
3. From where my faith rests, I refuse to judge her. Period. I am (mercifully) not omnipotent, I didn't create the universe, and I certainly wouldn't want to responsibility of determining who is "good" or "right" and who is not.

Jennifer remains, in my eyes, one of the most profoundly influential musical influences in my life. I was talking with my husband about this very topic the other day and Jennifer's lyrics came to my mind. Her music has been (and I hope will continue to be) deeply personal. I believe that, because she puts so much of who she is into her music, it transcends boundaries that a lot of other "Christian" music simply cannot and does not.

I often struggle with contemporary "worship music" because the lyrics just sound so manufactured and repetitive. They don't feel personal. I can't resonate with them. I have a friend whom I used to lead worship with at my church... a brilliant musician and lyricist. His music affects me. It gets me at the core. So it would be easy to say, "Well, his music affects you because you know him." True. But I don't know Jennifer Knapp on a personal level. I've met her once, shared brief commentary with her on our educational pursuits, took a photo, and went home. I certainly do not know her, and yet her music continues to resonate with me.

Jennifer's music is like that perfect poem that, every time I come back to it, months - even years - later, says something different each time. She's the lyricist that people could say, "That's what I wanted to say, but had no idea how."

So now, with all the hullabaloo surrounding her, should we completely write off Jennifer and her music?
I should hope not.

Watching Larry King Live the other day when she was being interviewed, I was appalled by some of the things that were said about and to her (mostly by Pastor Bob Botsford). And here's where my opinion is going to come screaming in to this issue without apology.

I am shocked that someone who would profess to be a studied man of the Bible would come at her with the vengeance that he did. Barking religious rhetoric, interrupting Jennifer, and generally sounding hypocritical. Ironically, one of the most logical statements of the interview came from Larry King himself to Botsford: "Her 'sin' may be different than yours, but it's just different."

Hmm. Let's think on that shall we?

Botsford claimed time and time again that "sin is sin" which, if you grew up in a religious home, you know what that statement means. Yet mere seconds after making such a statement, he would back-peddle so that he could sound as if homosexuality was somehow "worse" than all the other sins. Sorry, sir. You cannot have it both ways.

I know that there are already people who are asking, "How can a person be both a homosexual and a Christian?" For me, the answer is more simple than it probably should be. I think those two things, sexuality and religion, are as mutually exclusive as politics and religion. Maybe I live in a much for idealistic world than a lot of people, but I'm definitely of the opinion that there are certain things that don't have to be in constant competition. Jennifer raised a good question (which was never fully answered) to Botsford during the interview: What if a young girl in your congregation was struggling with identifying her sexuality? Would you really want her to choose between that and her faith?

My question, to follow that one up, would be: What would you do if she chose her sexuality? Would you condemn her? Would you alienate her from the religious life she's known forever? And then, frankly, what do you think Jesus would do?

I have to believe that Jesus would welcome her. I cannot, in good conscience or faith, sit back and think that Jesus - the man that preached nothing more than love itself - would turn his back on a girl who is trying to come to grips with her faith and her sexuality. At what point are we going to stop seeing homosexuality as such a stigma? At what point can we just accept a person for the simple fact that he or she is a person?

Can you honestly imagine a world where someone who didn't like pepperoni on her pizza could be ostracized in a similar manner? That a person who suddenly outted themselves as a "person who doesn't like the color blue" should suddenly be written off even if his writings or music were some of the most profound topics to ever be broached? Let's not forget that Jesus himself was punished and ultimately killed for simply living a lifestyle that was markedly different from that of the time.

So what do you think? I am actually asking for legitimate responses here.

I'm sure that, from my friends who are also religious/spiritual/etc., there will be eyebrows raised and questions asked about this post. I welcome comments and discussion (graced with civility, of course), and I hope that those of you that don't have religious leanings will offer your comments as well. What I really hope for all of this is that we can all take a step backward and really consider what we think and feel before rushing to any harsh conclusions. I hope that whatever conclusions we all come to are well-thought and founded in reason and not just what we've always believed or been told. I hope that grace and dignity can overwhelm other, less rational reactions.




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