Monday, April 27, 2009

Good Little Girl

"I too sat in the midst of many selves. The Pleaser, the Performer, the Perfectionist- my trinity of P's. I was learning how closely these old roles were connected to another powerful role that I played out: the Good Little Girl."

This Good Little Girl went to bachelorettes and seemed embarrassed, shocked, humiliated at the plethora of sex gifts given. She went to engagement parties and tried to act civilized, went to a club right after and tried to act uncivilized. She went to church the next day and tried not to rustle her bulletin, sitting next to her friend's dad. She hung out with kids the next day, trying to make them like her, taking risks, being spontaneous. She tried to believe that someone else could actually like her, even though she didn't know who "she" really was.

"She was that part of me that had little self-validation or autonomy, who tended to define life by others and their expectations, by collective values and projections. As a woman I sometimes felt that I had been scripted to be all things to all people. But when I tried, I usually ended up forfeiting my deepest identity, my own unique truth as God's creature."

God is estatic over me. He rejoices in who I am each day. He's maybe ordained this summer so that I can get over the fear of expressing myself artistically or put relationships in my life so that I can walk the path to the cross with Him, experiencing healing en route.

"My Good Little Girl endured everything sweetly, feared coloring outside of the traditional lines, and frequently cut herself out of her real thoughts and feelings. She was well adapted to thinking other people's thoughts and following the path of least resistance."

I want to be accomodating, for people to be happy with every decision that I'm making. I've gotten better at coloring outside of the traditional lines, but not at inserting my own feelings into situations. I don't know how to use myself as my foundation, letting my own thoughts and feelings guide the way, without getting so swayed by others.

"At times she seemed like an orchid in a hothouse: fragile, pleasing, someone who always ended up being pressed between the pages of someone else's scrapbook. Much of my life I'd found principal roles expressed mainly in the pages of someone else's life. I was someone's mother, someone's life, someone's Sunday school teacher, someone's teacher, someone's employee. Wonderful things. But down deep, at soul level, who was I?"

I'm good at being Miss Gardener, YUTES leader, roommate, daughter, friend, social planner, taking notes, an energetic presence. I don't know who I am beyond these expectations of the roles that I fill. Maybe that's why I get so excited when a six-year-old in the Ferry Building on a Sunday afternoon yells my name and I get so excited to see him when I'm with my friends. I don't know who I am apart from that.

"Now oddly, I could feel the intimations of an unknown woman locked away inside of me who wanted life and breath, who wanted to shed what wasn't real and vital and recover that which was. I felt the vibrations of a deeper, authentic self who wanted to live out her own unique vision of individuality and embrace her own mystery. Who was this self inside of me who cried out to be?"

I don't know my mystery yet, but I'm working on it...

"During the previous few weeks I had been reading the poetry of T.S. Eliot, who at times seemed like a soulmate to me. In his 'Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' I found my story, the quiet agony of someone who came upon an unsuspecting darkness buried in midlife and met the overwhelming question:
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?...
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room"

I read this poem my junior year in high school and remember it vividly. It struck me even then, even though poetry is usually mind-boggling. I recall the desert imagery and the poignancy with which T.S. Eliot describes his life.

"My life felt measured out in lumps too small. And there was a bewitching music from a distant room I couldn't find. Voices dying to be heard. Did I dare disurb the universe with in myself?"

These voices are usually overshadowed by others' expectations and my own fear of following the path laid out before me.

"Believe me, I wanted to shove all this away and pretend it didn't exist. But I couldn't. Life tasted of cardboard and smelled of stagnant air. At times I found myself shut in a closet of pain, unable to find the door. In my blackest moments I actualled about fantasized about running away from home to find the vital part of me that I had lost."

I want to run away when I see Alex on the street, when I've made myself to vulnerable, when I know I've messed up, when I get come back to my apartment and realize that the life that I've created isn't the same one that I've imagined for myself.

All quotations come from "When the Heart Waits" by Sue Monk Kidd, per Wimbo's recommendation... my own thoughts are interspersed throughout.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

I wish I may, I wish I might

post on my blog everyday.
But, alas, I'm entrenched with a to-do list and a busy social calendar and my overwhelming exhaustion. I want to remember things from each day that made me feel at peace with where I'm at, that I am loved by something/someone in this crazy universe, and that I'm content with my circumstances.
Here are some of the highlights of my week (many have to do with first graders, as I spent a week away from them and realized how integral they are for me to experience life fully on a daily basis):
*Lots of missing teeth during our ten-day spring break, which made me think about how quickly and how slowly time passes
*A first-grader excited about the prospect of getting a K-E-G after school (meaning an E-K-G, the medical procedure, but just getting the letters all mixed up)
*One of my favorite disciplinary cases, with a behavioral contract, leaving the contract at a cafe. I asked him where I could find it, if the cafe was nearby. He couldn't remember but said that it was called Cafe Enchante (meaning enchanted cafe) and that it was at 21st and Geary. A few miles from school and I didn't make the journey, since I wasn't sure if I would actually find it there
*Playing rock-band with a six-year-old (babysitting one of the kids in my class) who knows all of the words to Eye of the Tiger. I can't even figure out the bass to play along. He tells me that this was the highlight of his week, that he is going to write in his journal next week about me coming over to his house. I feel loved, even though it's a Friday night, and none of my friends are wondering where I am.
*Connecting with other moms on a field trip about how they wish they were still in their twenties and I wish that I had more stability in my life, that I knew what I was going to do the day after tomorrow.
*Feeling anxious, lonely, lost, and windblown in Alamo Square. Fortuitously meeting the kindergarten teacher from one of the schools I've applied to for next year, after his dog comes sniffing out our snacks.
*Finding out that there's a yoga class specifically tailored to people with anxiety and depression and coming out of a yoga class feeling restored and renewed, like I could fall asleep that night.
*Not letting doctor's appointments throw me over the edge, feeling like a number in an HMO system. Knowing that people can care about me in these huge, blocky buildings even if they seem intimidating from the outside and I can't find my way around once I'm on the maze of an inside.
*Realizing that my summer plans may have opened up and that I can look forward to a trip, pursue painting, take a sabbatical from teaching before my classes start in the fall.
*Seeing seven different John Smiths, chronicaling a life from birth to death, on the TV version of "This American Life," after it was highlighted in the live broadcast on Thursday. Seeing that I struggle with different things as my parents and the kids in my class, but that doesn't mean that I can't seek to understand where they are coming from.
*Volunteering in a low-income elementary school and seeing another facet of the educational system in an urban community. Running into Paul Trudeau and Matt Nault to help them finish the mural, which was what I needed to unwind at the end of that day.
*Sitting by myself at a concert on Tuesday night when my friend and his roommate went off to get a drink. Realizing that someone else's reaction to me doesn't mean anything about me.
*Being spontaneous but knowing my boundaries and limits at the same time.
*Coming back on the airplane to San Francisco and realizing that this is my home. There will be days when the power is off at Trader Joe's and my roommate and I have to trek across the city in search of an open grocery store. Or when the weather will change 30 degrees overnight and no air conditioning is to be found. Public transportation will not run in a timely manner and acquiring a fully-functioning bike will not be an easy feat. Drivers will be crazy, directions will be impossible. Noise is everywhere, sirens and an air filter will lull you to sleep. Jobs won't be guaranteed and people will always be more qualified than you. But there will be quirky tea rooms, French-speaking populations, art galleries, progressive thriving Christian communities, oases of calm, unlimited opportunities, and walks along the coast after work. Knowing that on April 25, 2009, these are circumstances that are worth dealing with in order to be here, now.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Felicity, Days 2 and 3

I felt quite like Felicity as I wandered around the campus areas close to NYU. Of course, I started out college as a pre-med but wound up majoring in studio art and French. I tried to keep my wary parents on-board with my decision. But, unlike Felicity, I didn't have two attractive boys pining away after me. I only had the old man at the cafe where I met Mary Hammon plead with me not to leave. I only had the man, on one of my many strolls, yelling at me on the street, "You're beautiful!" when I kept my eyes glued to the ground.
I did have a revelation at the Bonnard exhibit where as my personal growth feedback inventory forms would report, I felt alive. I was able to think of who I was, in college, how much I gained from staring at Bonnard's paintings and seeing the world from his vantage point, jumbled as it was. And who I am now, 3 years later, still able to contact that person that I was then, though she once again needs her creative energies awakened.
I felt similarly renewed when I was at the Strand Bookstore, paging through the miles and miles of books, thankful to leave my heavy bags at the holds desk. Somewhere in the basement I got lost in the education section, thinking that's where I should be if I want to be a teacher, but also getting mixed up in the popular fiction, psychology, parenting, religion and new arrivals. I wanted to be as literary hungry as I had been for a long time in high school, devouring every new text in front of me. I found that same person, able to read an almost 400 page book in 3 days, capturing my attention amidst the quiet of my house's guest room.
And I felt thankful to see friends, some of whom have quietly exited my life and now re-entered. I was encouraged, that thankfully, we were all going through the same process of finding ourselves and becoming real with the person that we were trying to nurture during college. We've moved to cities from our suburbias, convinced that we will have a better chance of succeeding there and knowing that social and cultural opportunities abound. I found out that my sister-like, vegetarian friend from Camp Hollymont had gotten engaged. I commiserated with others who are striving to figure out now that the world we had dreamed up when we were 6 and then 18 and now 25 isn't the same as we had originally envisioned.
I guess that I still don't possess the same innocence and naivete that Felicity's original character embodied. Keri Russell never became jaded by her relationships and in the end, she embraced the person she knew she had to become and go back to med school. I, on the other hand, struggle daily with my career and now school choices, my relationships, and myself. I want to end on a spirit of optimism, since I felt like my trip home meant exactly that. It's helpful knowing that I have my parents' and friends' unconditional, and at times, mildly reproachful, support on the journey ahead. Even though it may not be exactly what I had in mind for myself.

Love, LOVE, love

The following was written on the train from Lancaster to NYC, on what I like to call Felicity Day 1, Meg finds her inner-self on the streets of New York City, particularly the West Village.

I’m always amazed that my mom is still my mom every time that I come home. Sure, she may become frazzled and upset when I don’t act my now almost twenty-five year old self, but she’s still the same mom that loved and supported me throughout my infancy, elementary, middle, high school, and college years.
The more that I work with kids the more I realize the sacrifice involved on the part of the parents. I see my mom do it everyday, she puts my brother and I before herself, even though she is now at the point where she can easily put herself first. We aren’t dependent on her anymore, but she is willing to take us to the train station, help remove stains from our clothes, and find the last remaining Orla Kiely placemat at the York, Pennsylvania, Target.
Along with her unconditional support comes the assumption that I will eat dinner with my family when I’m home, that I will complete my homework of cover letters while she and my brother play golf, that I will make my bed everyday.
I think that my parents are in my life to show me just a portion of God’s love for me. Who else would drop everything to show their daughter just how special she is to turn 13 by throwing her a talent show birthday party? Which, by the way, was hilarious, I couldn’t help but relating to the middle schoolers that I work with at City Church after watching the actual footage of me dressed up as “Baby Spice” with my seventh-grade posse as the other Spice Girls.
She’s the same person that feels my friend losing her job, wants to look at pictures on facebook of me with my friends, and help me create my evite for my upcoming birthday party. It’s amazing to me how involved and how much she cares about the minor details of my life. I like to think of God as way far away, but it’s comforting for me to think that He’s just as omnipresent as my mom. I think that He also cares about me enough to call me out when I’ve done something wrong, hurt another person or myself, just like my mom did this morning.
Sometimes it takes going home to give you perspective on your life 2,500 miles away. Getting caught up in the moment, what my social life looks like, what boy does or does not show interest, how I feel appreciated at work- I allow all of these things in San Francisco to dictate what my life looks like. I chase my identity in running from one activity to another, appeasing everyone and not allowing myself to disappoint anyone. I’m learning that I need to do what’s best for me, that the world will keep spinning on its axis without me, that sometimes I need to just give up control of feeling like I have my relationships within my grasp.
I’m listening to Phoenix, one of my favorite French pop groups. The beat brings me back to the Eurockeennes festival that I traveled to and camped out at, by myself, without a tent to speak of. I made friends with locals from Nancy, France, whose parents I worked with in the public schools. They were barely eighteen, just finished their baccaleureat, and intent on staying up all night. I found my own equilibrium between these high schoolers and my own expectations. I saw the artists I wanted to see, I found my newfound friends when I needed company or I felt lonely. I dropped my camera in the portapotty there, I got smashed during the mosh pit of Justice, I befriended people so that I could share a corner of their tent, and I talked to the bandmembers of I’m From Barcelona just to earn the privilege of buying a t-shirt. It was one of those experiences that I felt cared for, even though I was by myself, the God of the universe cared enough to look after me those three days in June of 2007.
I try sometimes to recreate the same highs that I’ve felt previously, but most of the time I’m disappointed by the expectations that I’ve placed on myself and others. I don’t know how to function without them, without thinking that person X should act a certain way in situation Y. I sense this frustration working with kids everyday, they usually don’t act the way that you expect them to. You have to give them grace daily to express who they are as individuals and coping with situations according to their worldview.
I’m trying to give myself that same grace with my life. Yes, life is disappointing, it’s not working out the way that I want it to, and sometimes I find myself angry with God. The thing is, it’s more about being content with my circumstances just the way that they are. I seem to hit this point in March of every year where I doubt everything: my job, my relationships, my next move. It’s that point in the school year where kids are restless and eager for spring break and the repose of summer vacation.
I too am restless for what God has for me next. But right now, I’m thankful for spring break and for my family, for my friends on the West and East Coasts, in Canada, in Europe, for turning 25 soon.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Series of contradictions

All week long, I've had a dialogue of possible blog entries going on in my head. Now that I'm sitting at my computer, ready to write, I can't think of a single one. I could tell you about some of the quirky adventures that I had while spending four days in the redwood trees of Santa Cruz with six-year-olds. I could tell you about how I realized that I don't take good enough care of myself sometimes; "I burn both ends of the candle," as my dad would put it. I could tell you how I felt most myself at a psychedelic Ratatat concert this week. I could tell you about how I build things up in my head so much so that once I finally get to the end result, I can't even enjoy them. I don't know how to live in the moment without thinking about the next 5,10, 15 minutes.
I'm in San Francisco, I've been here a year and a half. I watch a French movie and think about how I want to live there again someday. I know that it was hard there and at times I felt so alone. I know that I keep parts of my life there with me now. I have a community that loves me and I am blessed, I just don't know how to believe that sometimes.
It takes riding the 49 bus home with my friend Robin, sitting next to a man who rants about the truth in the world, for me to finally figure out that sometimes I strive for things that are unimportant. I want money, power, just like everyone else. I don't need other people to fill me up and affirm my self-worth. God is my creator, He knows me better than anyone else. Better than I know my almost 25-year-old self.
I have been having a lot of childhood flashbacks recently. It may be my upcoming trip home or the fact that I'm surrounded by kids most days. Like I've never been able to enjoy my birthday, being that much the center of the attention, since I turned six and spent the morning in the bathroom crying before my miniature golf party. Like I taught myself to French braid my hair so that I could do it to my own hair since my mom couldn't. Like I thought that the world was my oyster, I've since become disillusioned. Some days, I want to give up. I try and earn something but most days feel like I've accomplished nothing. My successes go through my head like a sieve and usually only the negatives remain.
The personal growth feedback has shaken my sense of self. I know when I feel most alive, it's not when other people think that I'm most alive. I have let them take over when I feel vulnerable. I want to look forward to things, but not act as though they will be the most important day, moment, event of my life. I want to live spontaneously, without expectations. I want to care for others but know my own limitations and needs and wants. I want to feel cared for, to be loved, to allow myself that risk. I want to ask my friend to take me to the doctor and not feel guilty about it afterwards. I want to contribute to my community but not so in ways that I allow myself to feel stressed, burnt out. I want to exude confidence and light, not shine it in people's eyes such that they are blinded by my honesty, candidness and energy. I want to get energy from myself and from others. I want to let myself rest and not feel like I'm missing out on anything, even if it's sunny outside. I want to live a day without a "To Do" list running through my head, to thrive on being present each moment but not procrastinating. I want to trust God with my life plan, trust Him with the day-to-day, with the future, with the past. I want to believe, "I will always show you where to go. I'll give you a full life in the emptiest of places- firm muscles, strong bones. You'll be like a well-watered garden, a gurgling spring that never runs dry." (Isaiah 58:11).