Today, I was catching up with an old friend, whom I'll call Jane here. Jane's my year, so eventually we were going over the highlights of our first year at college. She's also Buddhist so when I brought up church, she was really surprised.
"Wow so you are not...open anymore?" she asked, and I assumed she was referring to my old days of switching on and off as a Unitarian.
"Um, I guess I'm still accepting of other religions?"
"Really? But Christians are pretty intolerant."
"Um, well I mean, that's because we want everyone to get saved, right?" She knows, maybe more than I do, about all that; she and her father used to be pretty into Christian spirituality themselves.
"So you now believe in heaven too." She stared me up and down like I had physically transformed because of my beliefs, as if she hadn't noticed before that now my clothes and skin and expression apparently screamed "Believer in Heaven- Beware!" Then after a brief moment, she said, "Are there Buddhist temples at your college too though?"
I said, "I don't know. Probably."
"Why don't you go to those and try it out?"
I made a face. "Because I'm not Buddhist?"
"Well how do you know you're Christian then? If you don't try all other flavors of ice cream, how would you know chocolate's your favorite?"
"It's not a matter of favoritism, Jane," I told her. (By the way, chocolate is far from my favorite.)
"How would you know God wants you to be a musician and not a writer, if you liked music and writing equally?"
That was tough. "I don't know--I guess He tells you through prayer, right? And He provides the path for what He wants you to be?"
"That sounds right." Jane shrugged. "Well apparently, He wants me to be Buddhist."
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
ldb: recipe for disaster
Being single at 23 is like, the worst thing ever. The worst. Especially if your best friend is still 22 and getting married in three months to some weirdo. WHY DIDN'T SHE TELL ME??
That's what our fight was about, anyway. Laurie asked me to be her maid of honor last week. And I was like, "...What? You mean if you ever get married right?" I was kind of joking but she stared at me and she was like, "Well yes, I am getting married in three months." And I thought she was joking back so I replied, "Wow, you barely know this guy, and you've already planned your wedding date and everything? Does he know?" To which she widened her eyes and said, "What?" To which I responded, "Wait...what?"
Apparently, Oscar already proposed to her maybe two weeks ago. And the first person she called was apparently me, except that I have absolutely no recollection of this. Laurie said it was at around 2 in the afternoon, on a Thursday, which meant that I was at work either changing diapers or making snacks or...something. Sober. Drug-free. Except Laurie didn't believe this and got mad, and I got mad because she's only known Oscar for less than three months and she's not even getting married in a church since Oscar is Taoist. And apparently he wanted to elope that Thursday afternoon but Laurie said no and turned it into an engagement. And Oscar smokes. And he's really, really into nightclubs, if you know what I mean.
The only thing Laurie said to all this was, "What are you, my grandma?" I said no. Then she said, "Well you want to be my maid of honor or what?" I told her I'd have to think about it because I didn't want to be maid of honor if Oscar was involved, and she kicked me out of the apartment.
I felt terrible but had honestly thought Oscar was just a tentative punching bag for all the misery and anger she suffered after her most recent ex-boyfriend ended their relationship, which, by the way, lasted three years through college.
But today, Laurie called me to tell me that she was mistaken and she had apparently called up an old friend from college about the engagement and not me. I was staying at our neighbor's apartment, and she didn't sound embarrassed or apologetic at all about calling the wrong person or kicking me out. All she said was, "Accidentally called Lena instead. You guys sound alike, okay? Now come home," then hung up.
We went shopping and celebrated all evening, and I didn't say another bad thing about Oscar. To be honest, if Laurie really likes him and wants to be with a smoker for the rest of her life, so be it. Staring at the diamond ring on her left hand, I'm actually secretly jealous. What's it like to make that kind of impulsive life decision? What's it like to raise your chin proudly and trust your own crazy ideas in a society where everyone thinks you've brewed up a recipe for disaster? Suddenly I wish I was the one who had scored an Oscar.
That's what our fight was about, anyway. Laurie asked me to be her maid of honor last week. And I was like, "...What? You mean if you ever get married right?" I was kind of joking but she stared at me and she was like, "Well yes, I am getting married in three months." And I thought she was joking back so I replied, "Wow, you barely know this guy, and you've already planned your wedding date and everything? Does he know?" To which she widened her eyes and said, "What?" To which I responded, "Wait...what?"
Apparently, Oscar already proposed to her maybe two weeks ago. And the first person she called was apparently me, except that I have absolutely no recollection of this. Laurie said it was at around 2 in the afternoon, on a Thursday, which meant that I was at work either changing diapers or making snacks or...something. Sober. Drug-free. Except Laurie didn't believe this and got mad, and I got mad because she's only known Oscar for less than three months and she's not even getting married in a church since Oscar is Taoist. And apparently he wanted to elope that Thursday afternoon but Laurie said no and turned it into an engagement. And Oscar smokes. And he's really, really into nightclubs, if you know what I mean.
The only thing Laurie said to all this was, "What are you, my grandma?" I said no. Then she said, "Well you want to be my maid of honor or what?" I told her I'd have to think about it because I didn't want to be maid of honor if Oscar was involved, and she kicked me out of the apartment.
I felt terrible but had honestly thought Oscar was just a tentative punching bag for all the misery and anger she suffered after her most recent ex-boyfriend ended their relationship, which, by the way, lasted three years through college.
But today, Laurie called me to tell me that she was mistaken and she had apparently called up an old friend from college about the engagement and not me. I was staying at our neighbor's apartment, and she didn't sound embarrassed or apologetic at all about calling the wrong person or kicking me out. All she said was, "Accidentally called Lena instead. You guys sound alike, okay? Now come home," then hung up.
We went shopping and celebrated all evening, and I didn't say another bad thing about Oscar. To be honest, if Laurie really likes him and wants to be with a smoker for the rest of her life, so be it. Staring at the diamond ring on her left hand, I'm actually secretly jealous. What's it like to make that kind of impulsive life decision? What's it like to raise your chin proudly and trust your own crazy ideas in a society where everyone thinks you've brewed up a recipe for disaster? Suddenly I wish I was the one who had scored an Oscar.
Monday, June 28, 2010
comfort (1/4)
When my dad passed away in a motorcycle accident on a hot Tuesday morning, they found a train ticket and a white note in his jacket pocket. The ticket was to go to New York City that Friday. The note simply said: "Ella Moy."
At first, my mother was more baffled by this than by her husband's death. "A divorce lawyer?" she guessed. "One of his mistresses? God forbid--a love child! What was he going to do? Leave you to raise her?" I wanted to kindly reminded her that I was nineteen and no longer really needed "raising," except in the monthly allowance they gave me to spend at college. But as weeks passed, even if my dad had cheated on her dozens of times and fought with her every minute he had been alive, his absence began to pain her more than all that hurt combined.
We resided in Illinois. I was on scholarship at the University of Chicago and lived at home since we were close enough to the school. That summer, I decided to pass up my internship at a film studio in California to be with Mom. It was difficult watching her sweep her hands across photo album pages, reliving only happy memories of her and my dad in her mind. It was heartbreaking listening to her screaming and crying alone in the living room, waiting for my dad to come home at 2 in the morning like he used to. The yelling was the same old, "How could you do this to me?," except that this time there was no calm, drunken masculine voice to reply back, just her own echos bouncing off the walls. Even though she reenacted these scenes, she no longer remembered that any of it was Dad's fault. She only fought with herself.
Finally, it was September and I was heading back to school for my second year when my mom sat me down, surprisingly calm and cheery. "Listen, Allie," she began, placing her hands on top of mine and smiling. "I've got the most wonderful idea."
"Okay," I said hesitantly, preparing myself to agree to any idea about to come out of her mouth.
"Well, your father and I had been discussing this for a while now," she said, and I stared at her, bewildered. "Yes, I know what you're thinking, how can she and Dad agree on anything? But we really think this is the best for you. And we think you should transfer to New York University."
"Uh--wha, excuse me?"
"You really like film, don't you? And NYU has such a great film school, I've heard it's called 'Tisch School of the Arts'? I believe you know of it--well it's simply the cream of the crop!"
"Mom, I'm majoring in Economics. I want to go to business school."
"Then why did you have an internship at a movie company?"
I stared at her, and she beamed back cluelessly like I was denying everything her mind recalled I ever told her. "I was going to do marketing, not filming."
"Okay, well I can see that," my mom said, not the tiniest bit thrown off. "But we always thought you'd be wonderful studying film."
"I'm not interested in that."
"Well, I'm very interested." Mom took away her hands and reached into her pocket to reveal a small, folded white piece of paper. "And while you're in New York, be sure to find this girl, Ella Moy. Her mother and I are very close."
That's how I ended up in the busiest city in America, I guess. Just a second-busiest city girl, sent on a mission her father left behind by her unstable mom. Before I left for junior year at NYU, my mom's psychologist reassured me that things were looking up, and that all the shock was slowly leaving her. "Sending you to solve one of your father's mysteries will only boost her mental stability," he told me, like I was some kind of junior detective. "And you seem to be holding up pretty well with the death."
"I'm fine," I told him curtly, not wanting to get into it too deep. "And NYU will be great."
At first, my mother was more baffled by this than by her husband's death. "A divorce lawyer?" she guessed. "One of his mistresses? God forbid--a love child! What was he going to do? Leave you to raise her?" I wanted to kindly reminded her that I was nineteen and no longer really needed "raising," except in the monthly allowance they gave me to spend at college. But as weeks passed, even if my dad had cheated on her dozens of times and fought with her every minute he had been alive, his absence began to pain her more than all that hurt combined.
We resided in Illinois. I was on scholarship at the University of Chicago and lived at home since we were close enough to the school. That summer, I decided to pass up my internship at a film studio in California to be with Mom. It was difficult watching her sweep her hands across photo album pages, reliving only happy memories of her and my dad in her mind. It was heartbreaking listening to her screaming and crying alone in the living room, waiting for my dad to come home at 2 in the morning like he used to. The yelling was the same old, "How could you do this to me?," except that this time there was no calm, drunken masculine voice to reply back, just her own echos bouncing off the walls. Even though she reenacted these scenes, she no longer remembered that any of it was Dad's fault. She only fought with herself.
Finally, it was September and I was heading back to school for my second year when my mom sat me down, surprisingly calm and cheery. "Listen, Allie," she began, placing her hands on top of mine and smiling. "I've got the most wonderful idea."
"Okay," I said hesitantly, preparing myself to agree to any idea about to come out of her mouth.
"Well, your father and I had been discussing this for a while now," she said, and I stared at her, bewildered. "Yes, I know what you're thinking, how can she and Dad agree on anything? But we really think this is the best for you. And we think you should transfer to New York University."
"Uh--wha, excuse me?"
"You really like film, don't you? And NYU has such a great film school, I've heard it's called 'Tisch School of the Arts'? I believe you know of it--well it's simply the cream of the crop!"
"Mom, I'm majoring in Economics. I want to go to business school."
"Then why did you have an internship at a movie company?"
I stared at her, and she beamed back cluelessly like I was denying everything her mind recalled I ever told her. "I was going to do marketing, not filming."
"Okay, well I can see that," my mom said, not the tiniest bit thrown off. "But we always thought you'd be wonderful studying film."
"I'm not interested in that."
"Well, I'm very interested." Mom took away her hands and reached into her pocket to reveal a small, folded white piece of paper. "And while you're in New York, be sure to find this girl, Ella Moy. Her mother and I are very close."
That's how I ended up in the busiest city in America, I guess. Just a second-busiest city girl, sent on a mission her father left behind by her unstable mom. Before I left for junior year at NYU, my mom's psychologist reassured me that things were looking up, and that all the shock was slowly leaving her. "Sending you to solve one of your father's mysteries will only boost her mental stability," he told me, like I was some kind of junior detective. "And you seem to be holding up pretty well with the death."
"I'm fine," I told him curtly, not wanting to get into it too deep. "And NYU will be great."
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
an excerpt from traveling mercies, part 2: conversion
I got in bed, shaky and sad and too wild to have another drink or take a sleeping pill. I had a cigarette and turned off the light. After a while, as I lay there, I became aware of someone with me, hunkered down in the corner, and I just assumed it was my father, whose presence I had felt over the years when I was frightened and alone. The feeling was so strong that I actually turned on the light for a moment to make sure no one was there--of course, there wasn't. But after a while, in the dark again, I knew beyond any doubt that it was Jesus. I felt him as surely as I feel my dog lying nearby as I write this.
And I was appalled. I thought about my life and my brilliant hilarious progressive friends, I thought about what everyone would think of me if I became a Christian, and it seemed an utterly impossible thing that simply could not be allowed to happen. I turned to the wall and said out loud, "I would rather die."
I felt him just sitting there on his haunches in the corner of my sleeping loft, watching me with patience and love, and I squinched my eyes shut but that didn't help because that's not what I was seeing him with.
Finally I fell asleep, and in the morning, he was gone.
One week later, when I went back to church, I was so hungover that I couldn't stand up for the songs, and this time I stayed for the sermon, which I just thought was so ridiculous, like someone trying to convince me of the existence of extraterrestrials, but the last song was so deep and raw and pure that I could not escape. It was as if the people were singing in between the notes, weeping and joyful at the same time, and I felt like their voices or something was rocking me in its bosom, holding me like a scared kid, and I opened up to that feeling--and it washed over me.
I began to cry and left before the benediction, and I raced home...under a sky as blue as one of God's own dreams, and I opened the door to my houseboat, and I stood there a minute and then I hung my head and said, "Fuck it: I quit." I took a long deep breath and said out loud, "All right. You can come in."
So this was my beautiful moment of conversion.
-Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies
PTL :)
And I was appalled. I thought about my life and my brilliant hilarious progressive friends, I thought about what everyone would think of me if I became a Christian, and it seemed an utterly impossible thing that simply could not be allowed to happen. I turned to the wall and said out loud, "I would rather die."
I felt him just sitting there on his haunches in the corner of my sleeping loft, watching me with patience and love, and I squinched my eyes shut but that didn't help because that's not what I was seeing him with.
Finally I fell asleep, and in the morning, he was gone.
One week later, when I went back to church, I was so hungover that I couldn't stand up for the songs, and this time I stayed for the sermon, which I just thought was so ridiculous, like someone trying to convince me of the existence of extraterrestrials, but the last song was so deep and raw and pure that I could not escape. It was as if the people were singing in between the notes, weeping and joyful at the same time, and I felt like their voices or something was rocking me in its bosom, holding me like a scared kid, and I opened up to that feeling--and it washed over me.
I began to cry and left before the benediction, and I raced home...under a sky as blue as one of God's own dreams, and I opened the door to my houseboat, and I stood there a minute and then I hung my head and said, "Fuck it: I quit." I took a long deep breath and said out loud, "All right. You can come in."
So this was my beautiful moment of conversion.
-Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies
PTL :)
an excerpt from traveling mercies
It was Sunday morning and I got to go to church with [my friend's family]. All the children got dressed up. The parents looked like movie stars, so handsome and young, carrying babies, shepherding the bigger kids, smooching in the car.
I loved every second of Catholic church. I loved the sickly sweet rotting-pomegranate smells of the incense. I loved the overwrought altar, the birdbath of holy water, the votive candles; I loved that there was a poor box, and the stations of the cross rendered in stained glass on the windows. I loved the curlicue angels in gold paint on the ceiling; I loved the woman selling holy cards. I loved the slutty older Catholic girls with their mean names, the ones with white lipstick and ratted hair that reeked of Aqua Net. I loved the drone of the priest intoning Latin. All that life surrounding you on all four sides plus the ceiling--it was like a religious bus station. They had all that stuff holding them together, and they got to be so conceited because they were Catholics.
Looking back on the God my friend believed in, he seems a little erratic, not entirely unlike her father--God as borderline personality. It was like believing in the guy who ran the dime store, someone with a kind face but who was always running behind and had already heard every one of your lame excuses a dozen times before--why you didn't have a receipt, why you hadn't noticed the product's flaw before you bought it. This God could be loving and reassuring one minute, sure that you had potential, and then fiercely disappointed the next, noticing every little mistake and just in general what a fraud you really were. He was a God whom his children could talk to, confide in, and trust, unless his mood shifted suddenly and he decided instead to blow up Sodom and Gomorrah.
-Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies
I really like this excerpt because I really love the author's writing style here. I want to write like her. I want to make clever analogies and the irrelevant relevant. Sometimes I feel like the more I read books of a certain writing style, the more I'll pick it up. I'm not sure if that's true or not but it inspires me :).
I loved every second of Catholic church. I loved the sickly sweet rotting-pomegranate smells of the incense. I loved the overwrought altar, the birdbath of holy water, the votive candles; I loved that there was a poor box, and the stations of the cross rendered in stained glass on the windows. I loved the curlicue angels in gold paint on the ceiling; I loved the woman selling holy cards. I loved the slutty older Catholic girls with their mean names, the ones with white lipstick and ratted hair that reeked of Aqua Net. I loved the drone of the priest intoning Latin. All that life surrounding you on all four sides plus the ceiling--it was like a religious bus station. They had all that stuff holding them together, and they got to be so conceited because they were Catholics.
Looking back on the God my friend believed in, he seems a little erratic, not entirely unlike her father--God as borderline personality. It was like believing in the guy who ran the dime store, someone with a kind face but who was always running behind and had already heard every one of your lame excuses a dozen times before--why you didn't have a receipt, why you hadn't noticed the product's flaw before you bought it. This God could be loving and reassuring one minute, sure that you had potential, and then fiercely disappointed the next, noticing every little mistake and just in general what a fraud you really were. He was a God whom his children could talk to, confide in, and trust, unless his mood shifted suddenly and he decided instead to blow up Sodom and Gomorrah.
-Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies
I really like this excerpt because I really love the author's writing style here. I want to write like her. I want to make clever analogies and the irrelevant relevant. Sometimes I feel like the more I read books of a certain writing style, the more I'll pick it up. I'm not sure if that's true or not but it inspires me :).
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