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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