When I was younger (and Catholic), I used to give up something every Lent. I was partly inspired to do so by my many Muslim friends who fasted during Ramzan, and partly by some little religious twinge I experienced as that time of year approached. (Incidentally, I always found the period between Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday particularly depressing, although I'm certain it wasn't in contemplation of Christ's tribulations.)
The one thing I remember resolving to give up year after year (with varying degrees of success) was sweets. I soon realized (although I suspect I knew deep down all along) that my reason for this was anything but spiritual. True, it was a huge sacrifice, probably harder than anything else I could have given up. I've an inordinately sweet tooth, which resulted (and still does) in a constant (and largely unsuccessful) battle with my weighing scale. So when I decided to give up sweets during Lent, it had very little to do with Christ and everything to do with my midsection.
As I came to realize this, I took the easy way out. I simply stopped giving up anything. And since then, even when I've felt the urge to try again (maybe not something as obviously self-serving as sweets but perhaps a little more spiritual), I always decided against it, with the excuse that I would end up making it about myself or giving up altogether. I've also told myself that giving stuff up for Lent is largely a Catholic thing -- so I don't need to do it anymore.*
So I haven't given up anything for Lent in ages. But this year, I feel a bit guilty. I've finally acknowledged that I've been lazy about dealing with the real problem. If I end up making my Lenten sacrifices about myself, the right thing to do would be to find a way to make it glorify God. The problem lies with me, not with the sacrifices.
I've finally realized this three-quarters of the way through Lent. But isn't Lent just a symbolic period in preparation for Easter? There's no reason why I can't start now, is there? Of course there isn't.
Now that that's settled, the question is this: which of my many vices will I give up?
*I know that in some traditions, penance during Lent is supposed to make up for our sins, and that, as I've been put right with God through Christ, I don't need sacrifices to justify me in God's sight. But human hearts and minds don't submit willingly to God (mine most certainly don't), and I do believe that sacrifices focused on God can help us bring our desires more in line with His.
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Friday, March 07, 2008
Sunday, December 02, 2007
The secret signature of my soul
Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of -- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop, or the clap clap of water against the boat's side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it -- tantalizing glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest -- if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself -- you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt, you would say, "Here at last is the thing I was made for." We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.
Have you experienced this? This sense that you were made for something more, a deeper longing for something greater that even you can't define? Does it feel like what C.S. Lewis describes. . .something just beyond your reach, "promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away as they caught your ear?"
Does it always remain beyond our reach? Or do we choose -- because we are too afraid, or too busy, or too comfortable with our lives as they are -- to not reach out and grasp it?
And if so, is this lack what makes us exist instead of LIVE, settle for functionality instead striving for PASSION and practice religion instead of pursuing a RELATIONSHIP with our Creator.
Is it a fruitless endeavor, at least in this life? Will we go to our deathbeds still longing for something we've never been able to reach? How do we find the "echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself?" And what if we lose the desire altogether?
--The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis
Have you experienced this? This sense that you were made for something more, a deeper longing for something greater that even you can't define? Does it feel like what C.S. Lewis describes. . .something just beyond your reach, "promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away as they caught your ear?"
Does it always remain beyond our reach? Or do we choose -- because we are too afraid, or too busy, or too comfortable with our lives as they are -- to not reach out and grasp it?
And if so, is this lack what makes us exist instead of LIVE, settle for functionality instead striving for PASSION and practice religion instead of pursuing a RELATIONSHIP with our Creator.
Is it a fruitless endeavor, at least in this life? Will we go to our deathbeds still longing for something we've never been able to reach? How do we find the "echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself?" And what if we lose the desire altogether?
Thursday, November 29, 2007
To know or not to know
At one time or another, we've all been through it. We stand in front of a (metaphorical) closed door, faced with two choices. We can either open it and deal with whatever is behind it, or we can leave it shut and never know.
I've been asking myself which course I would take. Would I rather know, even if the answer turns out to be something I really don't want to hear, or would I prefer to let it remain unknown.
When faced with this dilemma in the past, I've always opted to know, no matter how painful. And painful it has been. But the need to know has always trumped the fear of getting hurt. "I just want to know! I can handle anything as long as I know!" But then, more often than not, when I have found out, I've realized that I'd have been better off not knowing. Surely the wise people who came up with sayings like "ignorance is bliss," and "what you don't know can't hurt you" were right. No?
I'm in a situation now where I could either let the door remain shut and retreat quietly, or open it and face one of two possible solutions -- one that I want -- very much -- and one that I don't -- very much. If I leave it, there won't really be any adverse effect -- after all, if I don't know what could have been, I can't really count it as loss. On the other hand. . . oh, the possibilities if it turns out to be what I want! And yet, even as that unconscious smile begins to appear at the thought of what could be, I'm reminded of what the alternative could mean.
But the familiar mantra is never far away. If only I knew. I could deal with anything, if I just knew!! I can't stand not knowing!
In the end, I know I will choose to find out. I am, after all, in the business of finding things out. I just hope I can deal with the consequences.
I've been asking myself which course I would take. Would I rather know, even if the answer turns out to be something I really don't want to hear, or would I prefer to let it remain unknown.
When faced with this dilemma in the past, I've always opted to know, no matter how painful. And painful it has been. But the need to know has always trumped the fear of getting hurt. "I just want to know! I can handle anything as long as I know!" But then, more often than not, when I have found out, I've realized that I'd have been better off not knowing. Surely the wise people who came up with sayings like "ignorance is bliss," and "what you don't know can't hurt you" were right. No?
I'm in a situation now where I could either let the door remain shut and retreat quietly, or open it and face one of two possible solutions -- one that I want -- very much -- and one that I don't -- very much. If I leave it, there won't really be any adverse effect -- after all, if I don't know what could have been, I can't really count it as loss. On the other hand. . . oh, the possibilities if it turns out to be what I want! And yet, even as that unconscious smile begins to appear at the thought of what could be, I'm reminded of what the alternative could mean.
But the familiar mantra is never far away. If only I knew. I could deal with anything, if I just knew!! I can't stand not knowing!
In the end, I know I will choose to find out. I am, after all, in the business of finding things out. I just hope I can deal with the consequences.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
A tough decision
A recent chat I had with a friend about a career decision he was facing set me thinking. If I had the opportunity to work on behalf of someone who everybody knows has caused a great deal of pain and suffering, but has not yet been tried, and therefore not convicted, would I take that position?
Arguments in favor: everyone is innocent until proven guilty; even the most heinous of criminals is entitled to being treated fairly; and, careerwise, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime.
Arguments against: well, everything else. . . that, despite the fact that he has not been convicted, his crimes are well known and documented. Could I, well aware of the atrocities this person has committed, willingly ally myself with him?
As we struggled through the pros and cons of the situation, I remembered my previous post about the movie Dead Man Walking, how Sr. Helen Prejean remained firmly on the side of a convicted killer, despite everyone around her condemning her for her decision. And I thought of Jesus and the company he kept -- people who had not yet been tried or convicted, but about whose sinfulness nobody had any illusions.
But I still wasn't convinced. This person's crimes are on a much larger scale than your average criminal. And I wasn't entirely sure that my friend really believed his arguments about fairness. Intellectually, yes. In his heart, not really. What also concerned me was whether he could, if he came across the people whose lives had been ruined by this person, justify his decision to them and to himself with a clear conscience.
I told him to pray about it. His immediate response was "Ugh. Praying -- the answer is no." My response: if that's the case, I know what I would do.
But when I thought about it afterwards, I realized that I was pretty sure that my friend had not really prayed about it, but had simply assumed what the answer would have been if he had. But I'm not entirely convinced that would be the answer.
After pondering this for a few days, I'm still not sure what I would do if I was in his shoes. But after thinking about it, I do have this to say to him: go back and really pray about it. You might be surprised!
Arguments in favor: everyone is innocent until proven guilty; even the most heinous of criminals is entitled to being treated fairly; and, careerwise, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime.
Arguments against: well, everything else. . . that, despite the fact that he has not been convicted, his crimes are well known and documented. Could I, well aware of the atrocities this person has committed, willingly ally myself with him?
As we struggled through the pros and cons of the situation, I remembered my previous post about the movie Dead Man Walking, how Sr. Helen Prejean remained firmly on the side of a convicted killer, despite everyone around her condemning her for her decision. And I thought of Jesus and the company he kept -- people who had not yet been tried or convicted, but about whose sinfulness nobody had any illusions.
But I still wasn't convinced. This person's crimes are on a much larger scale than your average criminal. And I wasn't entirely sure that my friend really believed his arguments about fairness. Intellectually, yes. In his heart, not really. What also concerned me was whether he could, if he came across the people whose lives had been ruined by this person, justify his decision to them and to himself with a clear conscience.
I told him to pray about it. His immediate response was "Ugh. Praying -- the answer is no." My response: if that's the case, I know what I would do.
But when I thought about it afterwards, I realized that I was pretty sure that my friend had not really prayed about it, but had simply assumed what the answer would have been if he had. But I'm not entirely convinced that would be the answer.
After pondering this for a few days, I'm still not sure what I would do if I was in his shoes. But after thinking about it, I do have this to say to him: go back and really pray about it. You might be surprised!
Friday, September 28, 2007
"This we know, all things are connected"*
Most people are aware of the concept of six degrees of separation -- that you can connect yourself to any person in the world through six people. . . as in you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows that person. Yup, I think that's six people.
Now, thanks to Facebook and other social networking sites, there are even fewer connections between each of us. Or I guess the connections might be the same but these sites allow us an easier way to discover them. And yet, when we do find these strange connections, it's mind-boggling!
Case in point:
Last week, someone, a complete, total, random stranger -- let's call her Hakusakana -- added me as a friend on Facebook. I saw that she knew one person on my friends list, a professor at the J-school -- Srisri (who knows the most random people, particularly South Asians, in such random ways that I've ceased to be amazed by his connections). I also gathered that she was a Sri Lankan who was in Japan. So figuring that she was not some person who was randomly adding friends, I accepted her request. A couple of days later, I got an email from her, saying, in essence, "I didn't know there were Tamils in Japan. Are you in Tokyo? Do you want to meet for coffee?"
I assumed from her email that she was an ethnic Tamil, but found out later that she was Singhalese. In any case, I figured, "Why not?" and we decided on a time and place. We met up and she told me that she was visiting Japan for a couple of months. I asked her how she knew Srisri and she told me that someone had put her in touch with him a few months ago when she was in Europe. First semi-random connection established (semi-random, because I guess I actually met her through him, although her connection to him was pretty random in itself).
As we talked, I mentioned that I'd lived in Minnesota. "Oh, you lived in Minnesota! Do you know these two girls. . .?" she started. Even before she finished her sentence, I knew whom she was talking about. I'd met Mindh and Deep (the former a Singhalese painter, the latter a Tamil dancer) through some acquaintances who were alums of my college. The two run an organization that hosts performances by artists in diaspora, and I had wondered, because of Hakusakana's interest in art and in Sri Lanka (her profile made both pretty clear) if she somehow did know them -- the Sri Lankan art world is tiny indeed. So while amazed at the second random connection, I was not entirely surprised by it.
As we chatted about her experiences, I remembered that she had contacted someone else on my list of Facebook friends. I knew him, Yip, also Sri Lankan Tamil, because he went to my high school (in India) several years before I did, and my parents knew his. But I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how she would know him.
"Oh," she said. "My husband went to school with him." Then she stopped and looked at me. "Wait! You went to school with Yip. That means you went to school with my husband!"
We stared at each other in shock. How does a random stranger turn out to be the wife of someone you went to school with, albeit a few years older? She seemed a bit worried at first about this, uncertain about whether I actually knew him, and if so, how well I did, and if so, if we'd been on good terms. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure that I didn't know him personally but that I would recognize his name. At first she wouldn't tell me his name, and, though I was dying to know, I didn't push her. After a while though, she relented. And I found that I actually did recall his and his brother's names and even vaguely remembered what they looked like. (When I got home later, I called Nev and asked him if he remembered them. After thinking for a bit, he said "Oh yeah yeah yeah! His brother was a goalie on the soccer team!")
As I returned home, I pondered the past few hours. I was struck by Hakusakana's pretty crazy experiences over the past few years but also by the strange ways in which we were connected. How do you meet a person whose path would normally never cross yours (different backgrounds, grown up and living in different parts of the world) with the only obvious thing in common being tenous ties, on both sides, to one little island on the other side of the world. . . and then find several people whom we both knew in so many weird ways?
I guess the world is not as lonely a place as it sometimes seems!
*a quote attributed to Chief Seattle, patriarchof the Suquamish Indians.
Now, thanks to Facebook and other social networking sites, there are even fewer connections between each of us. Or I guess the connections might be the same but these sites allow us an easier way to discover them. And yet, when we do find these strange connections, it's mind-boggling!
Case in point:
Last week, someone, a complete, total, random stranger -- let's call her Hakusakana -- added me as a friend on Facebook. I saw that she knew one person on my friends list, a professor at the J-school -- Srisri (who knows the most random people, particularly South Asians, in such random ways that I've ceased to be amazed by his connections). I also gathered that she was a Sri Lankan who was in Japan. So figuring that she was not some person who was randomly adding friends, I accepted her request. A couple of days later, I got an email from her, saying, in essence, "I didn't know there were Tamils in Japan. Are you in Tokyo? Do you want to meet for coffee?"
I assumed from her email that she was an ethnic Tamil, but found out later that she was Singhalese. In any case, I figured, "Why not?" and we decided on a time and place. We met up and she told me that she was visiting Japan for a couple of months. I asked her how she knew Srisri and she told me that someone had put her in touch with him a few months ago when she was in Europe. First semi-random connection established (semi-random, because I guess I actually met her through him, although her connection to him was pretty random in itself).
As we talked, I mentioned that I'd lived in Minnesota. "Oh, you lived in Minnesota! Do you know these two girls. . .?" she started. Even before she finished her sentence, I knew whom she was talking about. I'd met Mindh and Deep (the former a Singhalese painter, the latter a Tamil dancer) through some acquaintances who were alums of my college. The two run an organization that hosts performances by artists in diaspora, and I had wondered, because of Hakusakana's interest in art and in Sri Lanka (her profile made both pretty clear) if she somehow did know them -- the Sri Lankan art world is tiny indeed. So while amazed at the second random connection, I was not entirely surprised by it.
As we chatted about her experiences, I remembered that she had contacted someone else on my list of Facebook friends. I knew him, Yip, also Sri Lankan Tamil, because he went to my high school (in India) several years before I did, and my parents knew his. But I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how she would know him.
"Oh," she said. "My husband went to school with him." Then she stopped and looked at me. "Wait! You went to school with Yip. That means you went to school with my husband!"
We stared at each other in shock. How does a random stranger turn out to be the wife of someone you went to school with, albeit a few years older? She seemed a bit worried at first about this, uncertain about whether I actually knew him, and if so, how well I did, and if so, if we'd been on good terms. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure that I didn't know him personally but that I would recognize his name. At first she wouldn't tell me his name, and, though I was dying to know, I didn't push her. After a while though, she relented. And I found that I actually did recall his and his brother's names and even vaguely remembered what they looked like. (When I got home later, I called Nev and asked him if he remembered them. After thinking for a bit, he said "Oh yeah yeah yeah! His brother was a goalie on the soccer team!")
As I returned home, I pondered the past few hours. I was struck by Hakusakana's pretty crazy experiences over the past few years but also by the strange ways in which we were connected. How do you meet a person whose path would normally never cross yours (different backgrounds, grown up and living in different parts of the world) with the only obvious thing in common being tenous ties, on both sides, to one little island on the other side of the world. . . and then find several people whom we both knew in so many weird ways?
I guess the world is not as lonely a place as it sometimes seems!
*a quote attributed to Chief Seattle, patriarchof the Suquamish Indians.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Published authors
I wandered into a bookshop during lunchtime today in search of a guide book for my trip this weekend (yes, I'm actually venturing outside of Tokyo-- yaay! But more on that later) I stopped in front of the shelf displaying the latest arrivals. . . and what do you know? There, sitting on the shelf, was Gio's new book.
And, right below it was the book that Pendio edited.
It was very strange. How does one go all one's life without knowing ANY of the authors of any of the multitude of books displayed in a bookstore, and then suddenly, in one day, find that one knows TWO of them (and interviewed a third)?!?! Weird, I tell you!
I felt a prick of pride, particularly on seeing Gio's book. I've been receiving vague updates on its progress for the past few years, so to actually see the finished product, so prominently displayed, gave me goosebumps. With a huge grin that I couldn't wipe off my face, I picked it up, read the introduction, flipped through it, and debated whether my wallet could bear the dent buying it would leave. In the end, I didn't. I think I might still buy it (and yes, read it!) despite my woeful lack of knowledge about (and interest in:() the subject.
And now, methinks, maybe it's time to write my own. What say you, good reader? Actually, I have sort of thought about it (well, in the vague way that one would consider climbing Mount Fuji--which, incidentally, I'm also contemplating doing. . .sigh, I've such high hopes for my life). I even have the makings of an idea for a book--although even the thought of pursuing it makes me want to go take a nap. Only problem (or I guess I should say, one of many problems). . . I have the attention span of a comatose grasshopper. So whether I could finish writing an entire book is highly questionable. And even if I managed to miraculously plough through one, all the waiting around for publication would be enough to drive me to the madhouse. So maybe not? I can always live vicariously. I'm sure Gio has quite a few more books up his sleeve. . .
And, right below it was the book that Pendio edited.
It was very strange. How does one go all one's life without knowing ANY of the authors of any of the multitude of books displayed in a bookstore, and then suddenly, in one day, find that one knows TWO of them (and interviewed a third)?!?! Weird, I tell you!
I felt a prick of pride, particularly on seeing Gio's book. I've been receiving vague updates on its progress for the past few years, so to actually see the finished product, so prominently displayed, gave me goosebumps. With a huge grin that I couldn't wipe off my face, I picked it up, read the introduction, flipped through it, and debated whether my wallet could bear the dent buying it would leave. In the end, I didn't. I think I might still buy it (and yes, read it!) despite my woeful lack of knowledge about (and interest in:() the subject.
And now, methinks, maybe it's time to write my own. What say you, good reader? Actually, I have sort of thought about it (well, in the vague way that one would consider climbing Mount Fuji--which, incidentally, I'm also contemplating doing. . .sigh, I've such high hopes for my life). I even have the makings of an idea for a book--although even the thought of pursuing it makes me want to go take a nap. Only problem (or I guess I should say, one of many problems). . . I have the attention span of a comatose grasshopper. So whether I could finish writing an entire book is highly questionable. And even if I managed to miraculously plough through one, all the waiting around for publication would be enough to drive me to the madhouse. So maybe not? I can always live vicariously. I'm sure Gio has quite a few more books up his sleeve. . .
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Where's the Harry Potter magic?
After witnessing the frenzy that was the release of the final Harry Potter book, I figured I should find out for myself what the big deal was. So I finally went and got Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone -- yes, yes, I confess I am just now reading the first one. The Harry Potter phenomenon too has managed to completely pass me by . . . I do indeed live under a rock.
I'm almost at the end of it and I must say. . . I DON'T GET IT! I don't see what the hype is all about! I've read The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings several times and loved both (I even confess to shedding a few tears while reading the latter) . And I've been known to read random children's books well into (and past) my teens, just for kicks. So you would think that I'd be well on my way to heading up the Tokyo Harry Potter Fan Club.
But sadly, the most I can say for Harry Potter is. . . meh. The descriptions are vivid, the plot has held my attention and it has an element of suspense. I concede that it's above average. But I can't for the life of me see what makes it the worldwide phenomenon it has become. I've looked and looked, hoping the magic (heh heh) would emerge with each turn of the page, but haven't had any joy so far. And I am convinced there must be far better books lurking in obscurity in the world of children's literature that are more worthy of the attention this series has garnered.
I will probably continue to read the rest of the books in the series, because I still hope to find the magic ingredient (heh heh heh) . . . and because I'm obsessive compulsive like that. But I don't know. . .
I am well aware that this is tantamount to sacrilege in the Harry Potter world and that I am liable to be stoned to death by die-hard fans. But I am willing to brave the consequences and confess -- my name is Ini and I can't get into Harry Potter.
I'm almost at the end of it and I must say. . . I DON'T GET IT! I don't see what the hype is all about! I've read The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings several times and loved both (I even confess to shedding a few tears while reading the latter) . And I've been known to read random children's books well into (and past) my teens, just for kicks. So you would think that I'd be well on my way to heading up the Tokyo Harry Potter Fan Club.
But sadly, the most I can say for Harry Potter is. . . meh. The descriptions are vivid, the plot has held my attention and it has an element of suspense. I concede that it's above average. But I can't for the life of me see what makes it the worldwide phenomenon it has become. I've looked and looked, hoping the magic (heh heh) would emerge with each turn of the page, but haven't had any joy so far. And I am convinced there must be far better books lurking in obscurity in the world of children's literature that are more worthy of the attention this series has garnered.
I will probably continue to read the rest of the books in the series, because I still hope to find the magic ingredient (heh heh heh) . . . and because I'm obsessive compulsive like that. But I don't know. . .
I am well aware that this is tantamount to sacrilege in the Harry Potter world and that I am liable to be stoned to death by die-hard fans. But I am willing to brave the consequences and confess -- my name is Ini and I can't get into Harry Potter.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Where have all the endorphins gone?
I have been on a health kick for the past couple of months -- going running almost every morning, taking care to eat (relatively) healthy food (the last time I so much as looked at a pizza was about six weeks ago) and in smallish amounts. These phases descend on me from time to time. Unfortunately, they don't last very long, so I try to make the best of them when I am still caught up in them.
The weird thing, though, is that I find myself in a constant state of annoyance and irritability during these times. Which I find perplexing. Because, isn't exercise supposed to make you feel BETTER? Aren't those endorphin thingies that the brain releases during and after exercise supposed to increase your sense of wellbeing? In my case, it seems like the opposite happens.
Take last night, for instance. I went to bed in a slightly better mood than I've been for the past few days. But as I tossed and turned, I managed to have a mini-inner tantrum, thinking about various things, situations that bug me but are not entirely tragic or life-altering. I got so worked up that I even composed a blog entry, mostly about my work situation, which has served to enhance my prolonged crabbiness (who knows, I might even end up posting it the next time my annoyance level rises -- yikes!) The result -- I couldn't fall asleep, which made me wake up in an even worse mood today, get annoyed at the smallest things at work, and feel even worse.
Sigh! It's a vicious circle! Maybe I should go back to sleeping in and eating junk food. After all, aren't chubby people supposed to be jolly?
The weird thing, though, is that I find myself in a constant state of annoyance and irritability during these times. Which I find perplexing. Because, isn't exercise supposed to make you feel BETTER? Aren't those endorphin thingies that the brain releases during and after exercise supposed to increase your sense of wellbeing? In my case, it seems like the opposite happens.
Take last night, for instance. I went to bed in a slightly better mood than I've been for the past few days. But as I tossed and turned, I managed to have a mini-inner tantrum, thinking about various things, situations that bug me but are not entirely tragic or life-altering. I got so worked up that I even composed a blog entry, mostly about my work situation, which has served to enhance my prolonged crabbiness (who knows, I might even end up posting it the next time my annoyance level rises -- yikes!) The result -- I couldn't fall asleep, which made me wake up in an even worse mood today, get annoyed at the smallest things at work, and feel even worse.
Sigh! It's a vicious circle! Maybe I should go back to sleeping in and eating junk food. After all, aren't chubby people supposed to be jolly?
Monday, July 09, 2007
Grace. . .
I watched Dead Man Walking today. Not intentionally. I was flipping through channels, trying to find something that would entertain me for half an hour before I got down to some serious Japanese studying. I stopped when I realized what the movie was, and, although I told myself I wasn't in the mood for something so serious, I couldn't change the channel.
As the movie progressed, I kept asking myself what I would have done if I had been in Sr. Helen Prejean's place. . . would I have stood by the wholly unlikeable, somewhat sleazy, unrepentant Matthew Poncelet who was accused of (and denied until the end) raping one and brutally murdering two teenagers, or would I have turned my back on him? I knew all too well what the answer would have been. Even if something in the man had moved me to stand by him when all others had turned away, it wouldn't have lived for long past the hurt and accusation in the eyes of the teens' parents when they realized a woman of God was taking the side of their children's murderer. I would have changed sides pretty quickly -- and no doubt I would have seemed right to do so.
But I would also have lost the opportunity to help save at least one soul. Because at the end of it all, it was Sr. Helen's persistence in showing love to a convicted murderer, despite all other opposition, including his admission of guilt, that brought both him and his victims' families to at least some understanding of grace -- him to tearfully acknowledge his guilt and need for forgiveness, and them to realize how much courage it takes to extend, if reluctantly and bitterly, that forgiveness.
At Poncelet's funeral, one of the teenagers' fathers approaches Sr. Helen and tells her wistfully, "I wish I had your faith."
"No," she responds. "It's not faith. I wish it were that easy. It's work."
And so it is. Faith motivates us to do the hard and unpleasant work needed to give it meaning, to make others look at us and see something different, something that they want others to see in themselves. Fraternising with prostitutes and tax collectors didn't improve Jesus' reputation or make his social life any easier. But he knew that they, despite their hard exteriors, were the ones that needed someone to reach out to them, to care for them, the most.
And so it is today. It is the office gossip, the school reject, the town grouch, those who seem to deserve the least, who need the most. I've realized that, these days, my idea of extending grace to someone I don't particularly like is to avoid them (after all, if I stay away, I avoid confrontation and keep from making our relationship any worse. . . that's grace of a sort, right?) But not doing harm isn't equivalent to doing good. Not by a long shot. Reaching out and taking a stand for those who seem undeserving of and ungrateful for our love is hard, thankless, heartbreaking work. But those who persevere will be rewarded in the end. . . and the reward may take on unexpected shapes and sizes.
As the movie progressed, I kept asking myself what I would have done if I had been in Sr. Helen Prejean's place. . . would I have stood by the wholly unlikeable, somewhat sleazy, unrepentant Matthew Poncelet who was accused of (and denied until the end) raping one and brutally murdering two teenagers, or would I have turned my back on him? I knew all too well what the answer would have been. Even if something in the man had moved me to stand by him when all others had turned away, it wouldn't have lived for long past the hurt and accusation in the eyes of the teens' parents when they realized a woman of God was taking the side of their children's murderer. I would have changed sides pretty quickly -- and no doubt I would have seemed right to do so.
But I would also have lost the opportunity to help save at least one soul. Because at the end of it all, it was Sr. Helen's persistence in showing love to a convicted murderer, despite all other opposition, including his admission of guilt, that brought both him and his victims' families to at least some understanding of grace -- him to tearfully acknowledge his guilt and need for forgiveness, and them to realize how much courage it takes to extend, if reluctantly and bitterly, that forgiveness.
At Poncelet's funeral, one of the teenagers' fathers approaches Sr. Helen and tells her wistfully, "I wish I had your faith."
"No," she responds. "It's not faith. I wish it were that easy. It's work."
And so it is. Faith motivates us to do the hard and unpleasant work needed to give it meaning, to make others look at us and see something different, something that they want others to see in themselves. Fraternising with prostitutes and tax collectors didn't improve Jesus' reputation or make his social life any easier. But he knew that they, despite their hard exteriors, were the ones that needed someone to reach out to them, to care for them, the most.
And so it is today. It is the office gossip, the school reject, the town grouch, those who seem to deserve the least, who need the most. I've realized that, these days, my idea of extending grace to someone I don't particularly like is to avoid them (after all, if I stay away, I avoid confrontation and keep from making our relationship any worse. . . that's grace of a sort, right?) But not doing harm isn't equivalent to doing good. Not by a long shot. Reaching out and taking a stand for those who seem undeserving of and ungrateful for our love is hard, thankless, heartbreaking work. But those who persevere will be rewarded in the end. . . and the reward may take on unexpected shapes and sizes.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Witty and charming, or annoying and obnoxious?
In my years of fighting my (sometimes extreme) introvert-ism (is that a word?) I have noticed something unfortunate. . . it is when I try hardest to impress someone or be liked that I am at my most annoying and obnoxious. I get nervous and say stupid things and the things that sounded witty and cute in my head come out sounding like complete rubbish. And I realize in horror, as the words spill out of my mouth, that the object of my fruitless attempts to please is looking at me with a look that says something akin to "Are those words really coming out of your mouth?" or "Are you really that stupid?" or "I REALLY don't like you" or something to that effect.
Sigh, readers. I'm afraid Ini has bombed yet again:(
Sigh, readers. I'm afraid Ini has bombed yet again:(
Friday, May 25, 2007
Forward march
I am a depressive person. Ask anyone who knows me well, and they will, for the most part, agree with this assessment. Take, for instance, the times when I've had one glass of wine too many. Now when your inhibitions are lowered, your true feelings surface--if you're a happy person, you're a happy drunk, and if you're not. . . well, then tipsiness is a whole different experience. In my case, as my blood alcohol level rises, I start to ruminate on the unfair and pathetic nature of life--my life in particular--and the next thing you know, the tears, they're a-flowin'. Which just goes to show--I am a depressive person.
But I'm liking this whole new beginnings deal. New place, new life, new language, relatively new job, very few people I know. . . and I'm starting to think that I can make a go of this being happy thing too--for once. Like today. I learned something that would normally have sent me crawling off into the "depths of despair"*. Ok, I'm being a little dramatic. But it would definitely have put a damper on my mood, and at least a few tears would have been shed. But today, as I stepped on the brink of wallowing, I caught myself, sharply pulled myself out, and continued cheerily on, carefully sidestepping the angst and self-pity. For a moment, I felt the familiar pang at the thought of going back after work to my apartment and being alone with my thoughts. But I stopped myself. I've a fabulous apartment (that I've to move out of VERY soon), a nice relaxing evening, a weekend of house-hunting ahead, and a nice church to go to. And I shook off the fear and admonished myself. . . this too shall pass.
*Anne of Green Gables -- fabulous book, highly recommend it, for kids and grown-ups alike!
Update: my friend Yamu posted this in response to this entry on another site, and I thought it was beautiful. . .and true, and wanted to share it.
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost…I am hopeless
It isn’t my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in…it’s a habit.
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it.
I walk down another street.
(from the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying)
But I'm liking this whole new beginnings deal. New place, new life, new language, relatively new job, very few people I know. . . and I'm starting to think that I can make a go of this being happy thing too--for once. Like today. I learned something that would normally have sent me crawling off into the "depths of despair"*. Ok, I'm being a little dramatic. But it would definitely have put a damper on my mood, and at least a few tears would have been shed. But today, as I stepped on the brink of wallowing, I caught myself, sharply pulled myself out, and continued cheerily on, carefully sidestepping the angst and self-pity. For a moment, I felt the familiar pang at the thought of going back after work to my apartment and being alone with my thoughts. But I stopped myself. I've a fabulous apartment (that I've to move out of VERY soon), a nice relaxing evening, a weekend of house-hunting ahead, and a nice church to go to. And I shook off the fear and admonished myself. . . this too shall pass.
*Anne of Green Gables -- fabulous book, highly recommend it, for kids and grown-ups alike!
Update: my friend Yamu posted this in response to this entry on another site, and I thought it was beautiful. . .and true, and wanted to share it.
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost…I am hopeless
It isn’t my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in…it’s a habit.
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it.
I walk down another street.
(from the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying)
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Today's developments. . .
*obtained new cell phone (yaaaay!!)
*applied for alien registration card
*opened a bank account
*got a subway commuter pass
*various odds and ends at work, including changing my address in my work profile to the Tokyo bureau, getting my phone changed to my name, getting onto the Tokyo server etc.
*got approval for more Japanese classes
Yesterday was my first day at work. As soon as I sat down at my desk, a feeling of complete disorientation and aloneness overcame me. I had expected work to be an anchor, the only thing that was consistent with my past life. But perhaps this expectation was too much and as soon as I realized the tiny differences in the way things are done here and in New York, I realized how different things really were,and how far I am from anything familiar. (And when the acting team leader here, who is going back to New York in two weeks informed me of that fact excitedly, I even had to swallow a lump in my throat. . . I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be longing for New York!)
The differences were tiny -- not having headphones, a much smaller and older TV (and no CNN International :() and a desk with no drawers -- and I feel silly now that such minor changes provoked the panicky, anxious feeling that welled up inside me. Now that I'm in a better mood, I'm even laughing at myself. But I have no doubt that throughout the coming days, it will be the small things that will provoke the greatest reactions. Because ultimately, we do sweat the small stuff.
*applied for alien registration card
*opened a bank account
*got a subway commuter pass
*various odds and ends at work, including changing my address in my work profile to the Tokyo bureau, getting my phone changed to my name, getting onto the Tokyo server etc.
*got approval for more Japanese classes
Yesterday was my first day at work. As soon as I sat down at my desk, a feeling of complete disorientation and aloneness overcame me. I had expected work to be an anchor, the only thing that was consistent with my past life. But perhaps this expectation was too much and as soon as I realized the tiny differences in the way things are done here and in New York, I realized how different things really were,and how far I am from anything familiar. (And when the acting team leader here, who is going back to New York in two weeks informed me of that fact excitedly, I even had to swallow a lump in my throat. . . I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be longing for New York!)
The differences were tiny -- not having headphones, a much smaller and older TV (and no CNN International :() and a desk with no drawers -- and I feel silly now that such minor changes provoked the panicky, anxious feeling that welled up inside me. Now that I'm in a better mood, I'm even laughing at myself. But I have no doubt that throughout the coming days, it will be the small things that will provoke the greatest reactions. Because ultimately, we do sweat the small stuff.
Monday, April 30, 2007
London
Whatever I expected from my return to London, it was not this. When I planned to stop here on my way to Tokyo, I expected a sense of homecoming, a feeling of relief and lightness after the frustration of life in New York. I expected to walk along the Thames, with my head thrown back taking deep breaths of London air, elated at being back in the only place that I had ever loved for itself. I did feel that way--for about one day.
I realized pretty quickly how much I had forgotten (or buried) about the time I lived here. It's true. . . we do start to see past experiences with rose-tinted glasses as time moves forward. But after being here for a day, the emotions of that time--both good and bad--came rushing back. London was where I formed some of my best memories, and my worst. It was where I was the happiest and where I felt the most alone. It was where I loved the most and with the greatest intensity, and where I experienced the greatest loss.
On my first day back, I basked in my pleasant memories, in the familiarity of everything I had expected. But as time wore on, the pain slowly crept back in. At first the familiar sights, sounds, smells seemed to welcome me back. But soon, that changed. At one point when I was living here, everything I looked at, smelled and tasted was tinged with utter misery and darkness. In the past few days, as I began to absorb my surroundings, that feeling returned--although to a lesser degree. And I realized that, while many of the memories have faded into the distant past and the feelings definitely long gone, the pain hadn't completely disappeared. I had peeled off the bandage too fast, expecting the wound to have healed completely, only to find festering remnants that I had just made worse.
It has been a strange few days. The night I missed the last train back to my cousin's, and spent the night wandering around Central London and shivering on the stairs outside Waterloo Station, didn't help. The return of an overload of pain-inducing stimuli didn't help. And the feeling of being suspended between the end of one life and the beginning of another didn't help.
Strangely enough, I don't feel a yearning to leave. . . I have enough good memories and people I love here to keep that at bay. All the same, I don't think I'll be returning to my beloved London anytime soon. . .
I realized pretty quickly how much I had forgotten (or buried) about the time I lived here. It's true. . . we do start to see past experiences with rose-tinted glasses as time moves forward. But after being here for a day, the emotions of that time--both good and bad--came rushing back. London was where I formed some of my best memories, and my worst. It was where I was the happiest and where I felt the most alone. It was where I loved the most and with the greatest intensity, and where I experienced the greatest loss.
On my first day back, I basked in my pleasant memories, in the familiarity of everything I had expected. But as time wore on, the pain slowly crept back in. At first the familiar sights, sounds, smells seemed to welcome me back. But soon, that changed. At one point when I was living here, everything I looked at, smelled and tasted was tinged with utter misery and darkness. In the past few days, as I began to absorb my surroundings, that feeling returned--although to a lesser degree. And I realized that, while many of the memories have faded into the distant past and the feelings definitely long gone, the pain hadn't completely disappeared. I had peeled off the bandage too fast, expecting the wound to have healed completely, only to find festering remnants that I had just made worse.
It has been a strange few days. The night I missed the last train back to my cousin's, and spent the night wandering around Central London and shivering on the stairs outside Waterloo Station, didn't help. The return of an overload of pain-inducing stimuli didn't help. And the feeling of being suspended between the end of one life and the beginning of another didn't help.
Strangely enough, I don't feel a yearning to leave. . . I have enough good memories and people I love here to keep that at bay. All the same, I don't think I'll be returning to my beloved London anytime soon. . .
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Sayonara New York!!
That's it. I've decided that I can't live without Wednesday. I miss him so much that I've decided to chuck it all in and move to Tokyo.
Haha. . . just kidding! I'm not that big a loser. . . I mean, I am moving to Tokyo, just not moving there for Weds (although Nev contends that Weds is my real reason for going there).
So yes, I am moving to Japan. . . the Land of the Rising Sun, the Land of Tiny People (I'm 5'8":(), the Land of People Whose Language I Don't Speak.
The story in a nutshell: I was hired at my current job to go to Tokyo, and have been working in the New York bureau while my paperwork gets sorted out. Now, it's all almost done, and I'm flying away on April 26, never to return. . . for the foreseeable future anyway. Of course I will still continue my blog, so I hope you will accompany me on my new adventures.
So see? I wasn't just being a dramatick (to quote Caveboy) when I was going on about the decision to take this job changing my whole life. And that was why I took 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends (which I'm already forgetting :S).
So yes, I have a few crazy, hectic weeks of packing, getting rid of stuff and shipping what I haven't gotten rid of. But after that, I'll be off to London for a few days, then on to Chapter 7 of my life. Wish me luck and blessings!
Haha. . . just kidding! I'm not that big a loser. . . I mean, I am moving to Tokyo, just not moving there for Weds (although Nev contends that Weds is my real reason for going there).
So yes, I am moving to Japan. . . the Land of the Rising Sun, the Land of Tiny People (I'm 5'8":(), the Land of People Whose Language I Don't Speak.
The story in a nutshell: I was hired at my current job to go to Tokyo, and have been working in the New York bureau while my paperwork gets sorted out. Now, it's all almost done, and I'm flying away on April 26, never to return. . . for the foreseeable future anyway. Of course I will still continue my blog, so I hope you will accompany me on my new adventures.
So see? I wasn't just being a dramatick (to quote Caveboy) when I was going on about the decision to take this job changing my whole life. And that was why I took 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends (which I'm already forgetting :S).
So yes, I have a few crazy, hectic weeks of packing, getting rid of stuff and shipping what I haven't gotten rid of. But after that, I'll be off to London for a few days, then on to Chapter 7 of my life. Wish me luck and blessings!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Life changes. . .
Over the past few days, I've been hit by two realizations--1. how much things have changed, and 2. how little things have changed, since I graduated from high school.
What brought about this realization was finding someone I've been out of touch with for a long time. . . someone who was very much like a little sister when I was growing up. When I was a child, I very much wanted a baby sister, so when my family moved next door to hers, I eagerly embraced the role of big sister to her and her sister. I vividly remember, when she was about 7, someone made her cry--I can't remember the reason, or who it was--and she came running to me, threw her arms around me and burst into tears. When I came to the U.S. for college, she was still in middle school. I saw her again a couple of times when I went back to visit, and, while she had grown and matured the way most people do with the passage of time, I could discern no drastic change.
When I found her again--more of a (possibly unwelcome) entry into the fringes of her consciousness than actually getting back in touch--I realized how much she's grown and changed. I now feel very intimidated by this person my "baby sister" has grown into. I suddenly feel old and out of it (not that I was ever really "into" it), frumpy and awkward and old-fashioned compared to this popular, beautiful young woman who seems so sure of herself and is clearly adored by those around her.
And at the same time, I realized how little I've changed. For better or worse, most people who knew me 10-12 years ago will look at me and instantly recognize me as the Ini I was in high school. Sure, circumstances have changed, and I am older (and hopefully wiser), but other than the changes that time has wrought, I am still the same person. . . through college, work, London, grad school, and work again. Even now, my closest friends are those I went to high school with half way across the world.
So, I wonder. . . would I be as shocked at the changes in others if I'd changed more myself?
What brought about this realization was finding someone I've been out of touch with for a long time. . . someone who was very much like a little sister when I was growing up. When I was a child, I very much wanted a baby sister, so when my family moved next door to hers, I eagerly embraced the role of big sister to her and her sister. I vividly remember, when she was about 7, someone made her cry--I can't remember the reason, or who it was--and she came running to me, threw her arms around me and burst into tears. When I came to the U.S. for college, she was still in middle school. I saw her again a couple of times when I went back to visit, and, while she had grown and matured the way most people do with the passage of time, I could discern no drastic change.
When I found her again--more of a (possibly unwelcome) entry into the fringes of her consciousness than actually getting back in touch--I realized how much she's grown and changed. I now feel very intimidated by this person my "baby sister" has grown into. I suddenly feel old and out of it (not that I was ever really "into" it), frumpy and awkward and old-fashioned compared to this popular, beautiful young woman who seems so sure of herself and is clearly adored by those around her.
And at the same time, I realized how little I've changed. For better or worse, most people who knew me 10-12 years ago will look at me and instantly recognize me as the Ini I was in high school. Sure, circumstances have changed, and I am older (and hopefully wiser), but other than the changes that time has wrought, I am still the same person. . . through college, work, London, grad school, and work again. Even now, my closest friends are those I went to high school with half way across the world.
So, I wonder. . . would I be as shocked at the changes in others if I'd changed more myself?
Monday, March 12, 2007
Japanese lessons--for me and Weds
Ohayo! Hajime mashite! Arigato gozaimasu for stopping by my blog. *
That's right. . . after 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends, I am now fluent! Haha. . . if only. I can make perfectly useless statements like Biji-san wa doyobi ni tomodachi to restoran de chiso pizza o ni-mai tabemachita (Mr. Biji ate two small pizzas in a restaurant with his friend on Saturday). . . I am hopeful, though, that the ability to compose such a sentence will be useful--maybe I will write a childrens' book on the Adventures of Biji-san!
And I am in the process of imparting all my Japanese wisdom to Weds, who will be flying off to Tokyo all by his big-boy-self in less than two weeks to join Okia. I am a firm believer in the notion that practice makes perfect-- so all our conversations now are strictly in Japanese. I think he's picking it up quite quickly too--I can tell by his responses that he really does have a knack for languages. His meowing sounds distinctly Japanese.
So am I going to miss my little substitute for human companionship (as Nev has taken to calling him)? Yes. Am I going to forget that he's left and go peeking under my couch and behind my bed when he doesn't answer my call? I'm afraid so. Am I going to be sad when he doesn't come trotting in, meowing seriously and insistently at me when I turn off the shower every morning? Very much so. But let's not go there yet. Let's focus instead on my efforts to making him bi-lingual!
*Hello! How do you do? Thank you very much for stopping by my blog.
Weds at two months old, about a month after Okia, my roommate then, brought him home
Weds a few months ago
Weds and me! (yes, he does sit and sleep like a human being)
That's right. . . after 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends, I am now fluent! Haha. . . if only. I can make perfectly useless statements like Biji-san wa doyobi ni tomodachi to restoran de chiso pizza o ni-mai tabemachita (Mr. Biji ate two small pizzas in a restaurant with his friend on Saturday). . . I am hopeful, though, that the ability to compose such a sentence will be useful--maybe I will write a childrens' book on the Adventures of Biji-san!
And I am in the process of imparting all my Japanese wisdom to Weds, who will be flying off to Tokyo all by his big-boy-self in less than two weeks to join Okia. I am a firm believer in the notion that practice makes perfect-- so all our conversations now are strictly in Japanese. I think he's picking it up quite quickly too--I can tell by his responses that he really does have a knack for languages. His meowing sounds distinctly Japanese.
So am I going to miss my little substitute for human companionship (as Nev has taken to calling him)? Yes. Am I going to forget that he's left and go peeking under my couch and behind my bed when he doesn't answer my call? I'm afraid so. Am I going to be sad when he doesn't come trotting in, meowing seriously and insistently at me when I turn off the shower every morning? Very much so. But let's not go there yet. Let's focus instead on my efforts to making him bi-lingual!
*Hello! How do you do? Thank you very much for stopping by my blog.
Weds at two months old, about a month after Okia, my roommate then, brought him home
Weds a few months ago
Weds and me! (yes, he does sit and sleep like a human being)
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Against all odds. . .
Ilajna, caveboy and I went to watch Gordon Chambers perform at the BAM last night. As I listened to him, and to Alice Smith, who opened for him, I started to think about people who are so passionate about something that whatever adverse circumstances they face in their quest for that thing seem insignificant. Watching the performers on stage, I was struck by the thought of how difficult it is to make it as a musician or singer or actor--and that those who aspire to such goals need equal doses of passion and perseverance; that they'd rather endure the struggles and hardships inherent in the pursuit of that goal than live life without it.
There are few people in this world with the tenacity to be that passionate--because it involves much risk and heartbreak, and calls for a great deal of strength and sacrifice. And there are even fewer for whom that tenacity endures, and the difficulties along the way don't overwhelm them.
The object of that passion doesn't necessarily have to be a goal like making it as an artist. As I pondered this, the thought kept coming back to me. . .that I used to be that passionate--about my relationship with Christ. And I also realized that I'm not anymore. I thought back to my mid-teens, when I made the conscious decision for the first time to follow Him--and longed for that passion again; when waking up an hour earlier in the morning to pray (when I was already waking up at the crack of dawn) was a joy, because it meant I could spend that time with Him; when I had the ability to see everyone through Christ-tinted lenses; and when nothing mattered as much as being in His presence day and night.
Today, I am anything but that--I mean, I know in my head that I have a relationship with Christ, but my entire existence is dictated by my circumstances. I am constantly in a bad mood (you should see my subway face--and the number of random strangers who tell me to smile as I walk by!), and I certainly am not "joyful always" (I Thess 5:16); I often ignore that twinge of guilt as I badmouth someone. . . and vow that I won't do it again, already knowing that I will; and praying is more of a chore than a joy. And even when I attempt to get back that passion I once had, I already know that any twist I encounter ahead will derail me.
I drew some inspiration from the passion and commitment I imagined last night's performers must have possessed to come this far. And I'm trying to pick myself up once again, and put myself back on course--with a little help from above.
There are few people in this world with the tenacity to be that passionate--because it involves much risk and heartbreak, and calls for a great deal of strength and sacrifice. And there are even fewer for whom that tenacity endures, and the difficulties along the way don't overwhelm them.
The object of that passion doesn't necessarily have to be a goal like making it as an artist. As I pondered this, the thought kept coming back to me. . .that I used to be that passionate--about my relationship with Christ. And I also realized that I'm not anymore. I thought back to my mid-teens, when I made the conscious decision for the first time to follow Him--and longed for that passion again; when waking up an hour earlier in the morning to pray (when I was already waking up at the crack of dawn) was a joy, because it meant I could spend that time with Him; when I had the ability to see everyone through Christ-tinted lenses; and when nothing mattered as much as being in His presence day and night.
Today, I am anything but that--I mean, I know in my head that I have a relationship with Christ, but my entire existence is dictated by my circumstances. I am constantly in a bad mood (you should see my subway face--and the number of random strangers who tell me to smile as I walk by!), and I certainly am not "joyful always" (I Thess 5:16); I often ignore that twinge of guilt as I badmouth someone. . . and vow that I won't do it again, already knowing that I will; and praying is more of a chore than a joy. And even when I attempt to get back that passion I once had, I already know that any twist I encounter ahead will derail me.
I drew some inspiration from the passion and commitment I imagined last night's performers must have possessed to come this far. And I'm trying to pick myself up once again, and put myself back on course--with a little help from above.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Where has all my free time gone?
So I've been wondering. . . where on earth has all my spare time gone? My very deadline-oriented new job means that, while the 9 to 6 hours are biz biz bizy, once it hits 6:00, or a little bit later as I wrap up the assignment in progress, I can leave. So what have I been doing with myself? I haven't gone to the gym, I haven't watched much TV, I haven't stayed much past six at work, I haven't hung out much with friends, and I certainly haven't been pursuing my beloved passtime of blog reading:(. But I feel like I'm running around like. . . well, like I did when I was in college. . . when I was YOUNG and had lots of energy! It looks like there's one thing after another that needed to be done YESTERDAY. And I'm chasing my tail trying to catch up with myself.
In a couple of months, chapter six will be over. And then, maybe at the beginning of chapter seven, there'll be time to spare?
In a couple of months, chapter six will be over. And then, maybe at the beginning of chapter seven, there'll be time to spare?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The answer. . .
In my last post, I wondered if happiness comes from giving or holding back. My perspective in that post was a worldy one. And I think I got some consensus that putting yourself out there, and givng and caring, you put yourself at risk of getting hurt. So should you still continue to give and love and care?
I found the answer over the weekend, while reading the book Mocha on the Mount for the Soul Per Suit an online Bible study recommended by LL Barkat. Mocha on the Mount is based on Jesus' teachings in His sermon on the mount, the "Blessed are the. . ." part of the Bible. The author, Sandra Glahn, distinguishes between happiness and blessing. Here is what caught my attention:
"Happiness depends on external circumstances--I got a new job, I got engaged, my relationships are going well. But blessing depends on being rightly related to God despite external circumstances. Horatio Spafford, though his daughters had just drowned in a boating accident, was still able to write, "It is well with my soul." I seriously doubt he felt happy. Yet he knew he was blessed. Lady Juliana of Norwich, writing in the fourteenth century, said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
"Jesus' message would never fly on Madison Avenue. Sigh up for the Christian life. Come, be poor and mourn and die!"
The author goes on to quote Ken Gire in The Reflective Life, who confesses that he wants to be like Christ in His glory, not Christ when he was hated, disgraced and spat on.
And as I thought more about this, I realized that my answer had been within my post, when I wrote that the world rejected and scoffed at Christ 2000 years ago.
Happiness in this world might require less love and caring, and more isolation and selfishness, but blessedness requires the opposite. I'm not saying that only in suffering and rejection do we find blessing--God absolutely rejoices in our happiness. But living by God's heart sometimes means loving and caring and giving even when we don't get much in return.
We still need to guard our hearts, and know when to step away and when there's nothing more we can do in a situation--after all, Christ calls us to love others AS we love ourselves. And, as a Christian, I realized that that is my part, and that is what I need to try my best to do--even if I don't always get the same in return.
I found the answer over the weekend, while reading the book Mocha on the Mount for the Soul Per Suit an online Bible study recommended by LL Barkat. Mocha on the Mount is based on Jesus' teachings in His sermon on the mount, the "Blessed are the. . ." part of the Bible. The author, Sandra Glahn, distinguishes between happiness and blessing. Here is what caught my attention:
"Happiness depends on external circumstances--I got a new job, I got engaged, my relationships are going well. But blessing depends on being rightly related to God despite external circumstances. Horatio Spafford, though his daughters had just drowned in a boating accident, was still able to write, "It is well with my soul." I seriously doubt he felt happy. Yet he knew he was blessed. Lady Juliana of Norwich, writing in the fourteenth century, said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
"Jesus' message would never fly on Madison Avenue. Sigh up for the Christian life. Come, be poor and mourn and die!"
The author goes on to quote Ken Gire in The Reflective Life, who confesses that he wants to be like Christ in His glory, not Christ when he was hated, disgraced and spat on.
And as I thought more about this, I realized that my answer had been within my post, when I wrote that the world rejected and scoffed at Christ 2000 years ago.
Happiness in this world might require less love and caring, and more isolation and selfishness, but blessedness requires the opposite. I'm not saying that only in suffering and rejection do we find blessing--God absolutely rejoices in our happiness. But living by God's heart sometimes means loving and caring and giving even when we don't get much in return.
We still need to guard our hearts, and know when to step away and when there's nothing more we can do in a situation--after all, Christ calls us to love others AS we love ourselves. And, as a Christian, I realized that that is my part, and that is what I need to try my best to do--even if I don't always get the same in return.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Happiness comes from giving. . . or holding back?
Caveboy and I have been talking a lot about happiness lately--perhaps partly the effect of discoveringThe Happiness Project blog. He even wrote a blog entry about it as a guest blogger, but then refused to let me post it. So I decided to write my own, albeit slightly different one.
The idealistic notion of happiness is that the more you give, the more you get. If you give love and kindness and caring, you get it all back, many-fold. In other words, as Luke 6:38 puts it: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."
This doesn't always hold true in the world we live in today--the more you give, the more you put yourself out there, the more you risk unhappiness--because you leave yourself vulnerable to being hurt, rejected, scoffed at, an open shot for those who are not willing to give as much. And you let your happiness be determined by others. But those who don't give, or choose carefully how much of themselves they do give, tend to be happier. They don't face as much hurt and rejection, because they protect themselves from it. Maybe they are less passionate, their loving a little less intense, but they are generally shielded from the hurt that comes from getting nothing or very little in return.
Take Dr. Izzy Stevens on the show Grey's Anatomy, for instance. She's actually my favourite character, because she gives abundantly but also expects much from those she gives to. But because she loves and cares so much, she also gets hurt the most. "But she was incredibly loved by Denny," Caveboy responded when I brought up the example. "Yes, and she lost him," I told him. "Well, um. . . he died," came the reply. But what was the guarantee? Maybe if Denny had gotten better and left the hospital and gone out into the world, he'd have fallen in love with someone else. And Izzy, for having loved him to the extent she did, would have been left to pick up the pieces.
Caveboy contends that those who are shallow, who hold back, are not really happy. Yes, they give less, so they get less. But they are also satisfied and content with less. Happiness is greater than contentment, Caveboy argued. Contentment beats heartbreak and misery, I shot back.
Ultimately, I don't think I am the pessimist I come across as. But I see, over and over, those who choose to go above and beyond in giving and loving get hurt and broken while those who hold back sail through, for the most part, intact. It happened 2000 years ago with Christ*, and not much has changed today. And in my own life, in every instance in which I've given completely, it's come back to bite me. Impulsive and hard-headed as I am, I have not learned from these experiences--much as I wish I had. I know that I will, in some instances, continue to care blindly, but the more it ends up backfiring, the more I wonder how much it is worth.
*I'm talking about the world's response to Him, not His coming into glory after His earthly death and the implications of that).
The idealistic notion of happiness is that the more you give, the more you get. If you give love and kindness and caring, you get it all back, many-fold. In other words, as Luke 6:38 puts it: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."
This doesn't always hold true in the world we live in today--the more you give, the more you put yourself out there, the more you risk unhappiness--because you leave yourself vulnerable to being hurt, rejected, scoffed at, an open shot for those who are not willing to give as much. And you let your happiness be determined by others. But those who don't give, or choose carefully how much of themselves they do give, tend to be happier. They don't face as much hurt and rejection, because they protect themselves from it. Maybe they are less passionate, their loving a little less intense, but they are generally shielded from the hurt that comes from getting nothing or very little in return.
Take Dr. Izzy Stevens on the show Grey's Anatomy, for instance. She's actually my favourite character, because she gives abundantly but also expects much from those she gives to. But because she loves and cares so much, she also gets hurt the most. "But she was incredibly loved by Denny," Caveboy responded when I brought up the example. "Yes, and she lost him," I told him. "Well, um. . . he died," came the reply. But what was the guarantee? Maybe if Denny had gotten better and left the hospital and gone out into the world, he'd have fallen in love with someone else. And Izzy, for having loved him to the extent she did, would have been left to pick up the pieces.
Caveboy contends that those who are shallow, who hold back, are not really happy. Yes, they give less, so they get less. But they are also satisfied and content with less. Happiness is greater than contentment, Caveboy argued. Contentment beats heartbreak and misery, I shot back.
Ultimately, I don't think I am the pessimist I come across as. But I see, over and over, those who choose to go above and beyond in giving and loving get hurt and broken while those who hold back sail through, for the most part, intact. It happened 2000 years ago with Christ*, and not much has changed today. And in my own life, in every instance in which I've given completely, it's come back to bite me. Impulsive and hard-headed as I am, I have not learned from these experiences--much as I wish I had. I know that I will, in some instances, continue to care blindly, but the more it ends up backfiring, the more I wonder how much it is worth.
*I'm talking about the world's response to Him, not His coming into glory after His earthly death and the implications of that).
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