Fool Proof

I Slipped On a Banana Peel I was on my way to pick up my favourite skirt, now altered to not fall off my bum when I walk in it, from my "Aunt M" (an old friend of my parents I mistook for a creepy stalker on facebook and ended up becoming pseudo-counsellor then just friend to, not to be confused with Dorothy's Auntie Em from the Wizard of Oz), when suddenly I slipped on a banana peel. This was strange because I was sitting in the driver's seat of my parked car at the time. The only possible explanation for this ridiculous event is that God has a very classical slap-stick sense of humour, which he has felt the capricious need to unleash on me repeatedly in June. How the banana peel came to be sitting on the floor of my car is this:

After a care-free and mostly guilt-free day of girlishness spent making myself banana-walnut-peanut-butter pancakes for breakfast; going to an eye appointment; bargain-shopping for orange-smelling shampoo and conditioner with the provocative name of "Curly Sexy Hair," lace-trimmed shirts (including another pink one I just couldn't resist. Stupid glowing pink shirts. It's like being Mel Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory), and a new pair of Merril runners (Woo-hoo!); checking my e-mails; and making supper with my mom, I headed out to pick up Dan, who had moved. Per usual, I missed a turn. Unusually, it didn't disorient me. Per usual, being correctly oriented didn't help, because my short-term memory forgot each street number as I passed it, so I had to pull over and get out of my car to read the street sign and figure out where the deuce I was. Unusually, when I checked the sign, I discovered I was on precisely the street I wanted. Per usual, I went back to my car to start driving again. Unusually, I thought to check the house numbers nearby to determine which direction on the road I ought to be going and discovered that I'd parked right outside Dan's house.

Following a detailed tour of his new dwelling, we went back to my house for dinner, picked up a video of Hogan's Heroes episodes, waved good-bye to my mother, and drove to his parents' house. For the first time ever, our date did not consist of walking around places talking. We were doing an exchange of images- we watched one DVD's worth of Dan's favourite tv show, Neon Genesis Evangelion (which turned out to be an anime science-fiction drama with well-developed Freudian psychological crises and Christian imagery), and one video cassette's worth of one of my favourite tv shows, the 1950-60s comedy sitcom of a WWII POW camp, Hogan's Heroes.

It was an educational experience. For my part, I learned that I've never heard of at least 55% of the movies Dan owns and loves, I've deliberately avoided seeing at least 25% of them, and I owe Tachae, Chasey, and Nolan (in that order) thanks for seeing to my cultural enrichment in the ~10% I have seen. Happily, Neon Genesis Evangelion is every bit as cool as its name implies and I am now an addict. I also learned that Dan's muscular arms and strong hands look equally hot when doing something manly like hooking up electrical cables or something perhaps not so manly like holding his cat and cooing, “Oh Tammy, you're so cute,” after said feline clawed her way up his pant leg. Other odd androgynous resemblances to Nolan keep popping up unexpectedly as well. For example, I could swear I used to own a pair of jeans almost identical to the ones Dan was wearing that day. I decided not to tell him. And unless by some miracle Dan was really, really enraptured by the movies, he learned that I'm a rather flatulent girl. Together, we learned that the whole guy's-arm-slipped-inconspicuously-behind-girl's-head thing when watching a movie is really uncomfortable. At the same moment my neck was forming a decided kink, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Dan's fingers were stretching and contracting repeatedly. “Have you lost all circulation in your arm yet?” I inquired. “Um, yeah,” Dan conceded, taking his arm back and rubbing it with his other hand, “I began losing feeling in my fingers pretty much as soon as I put my arm up.” Huh. I always wondered about that. So we held hands instead.

It was 12:30 by the time we finished the last Hogan's Heroes episode. “Wow. I could totally stay here forever,” Dan helpfully expressed my unspoken thoughts yet again. Fortunately, my more disciplined self rallied to the fore and reminded us that I needed to go home while I was still awake to drive, which in turn reminded Dan that he had to get up in 7 hours for work. So after snitching a banana from his family's fruit basket to pacify my growling stomach, I drove him home. Then we parked in front of his house. Which is when Jen's voice came to haunt me, patiently instructing me to just stare at Dan's lips when I want to initiate kissing. Sigh. I can't do it Jen. I'm sorry. Fictional romances have killed my ability to make serious moves with a straight face. And anyways, Dan is looking everywhere but at me...And he's fidgeting... He abruptly started and halted speaking three times. I sat in my seat and silently laughed at him because I'm really empathetic and I wanted to tell him that he throws me off, too. The only time I need a navigator to get to or from his house is when he's in the car with me. Then Dan apparently collected himself, because he turned to look at me and uttered a coherent sentence: “Faye, I'm going to kiss you.” I blinked. “Oh.” Does he mean now or just eventually? Brain, come back now. “Really?” “Yeah,” he said, still looking at me. “Okay," I stared blankly at the windshield, "Then just let me put the parking brake on first.” I don't know how to kiss. Think fast. Movies. Books. Head should be angled so you don't bump noses, keep lips soft (and partially open??). Then I was out of time because we were both leaning in. It was gross. We tried three times. None could be described as “toe-curling” or “breath-taking.” At least the latter two weren't as gooey as the first. Thank you Jen and Sindy for warning me in advance. As we pulled apart, I lifted an eye-brow and offered a half-smile, “Needs work?” “Maybe more practice?” he shrugged with a similar look of self-deprecating amusement on his face. So we said good-night and I drove away with the Cake lyrics “ Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, it makes my baby seem so far. ..” happily playing across my mind. And that is when my stomach started doing cliched flip-flops, because grossest first kiss in the world notwithstanding, Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Crap. Where the deuce am I going to get lessons for kissing if Dan has no experience either? Cheer up. You've always crusaded against the double standard of perfect chastity for females and sexual experience for males that dominates your culture. At least you won't have to worry about Dan comparing you to someone else. But I hate doing things I'm not already good at!!! Suck it up:). Seriously, God. I cannot even believe you just used that pun. You enjoyed it. And seriously, Faye. I protected you from premature relationships that would have jaded you. Why complain because I did the same thing for your match? Sorry. You're right. There is something very humbling and honouring about being the first and only chosen. But I really do want to know: how do you improve at something when you have no idea what the end result is supposed to look like? I was so distracted by that challenging question that I totally forgot to remove the banana peel from the floor beneath me where I dropped it after eating its contents because there's no garbage bag in the car. And that is how I ended up slipping on it in my car the next day.

On "Parking"

"Stick Shifts and Safety Belts" from Cake's (1996) Fashion Nugget

Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

But when we're driving in my Malibu, It's easy to get right next to you. I say, "Baby, scoot over, please." And then she's right there next to me. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Well a lot of good cars are Japanese. But when we're driving far, I need my baby, I need my baby next to me.

Well, stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Now, just to confuse you all, I'm going to go back in time before the banana peel incident, to the day a bird pooped on me. I didn't realize it had happened; if I had, I probably would have showered and then selected a different coat and bag for my sushi date with Dan that evening. As it was, I was flicking some mystery white substance that had dried on my bag and coat collar off with my fingers when we parked on a residential street across the Bow River from Prince's Island Park. Oh, crap. Literally, I realized. "Hey, I just figured out what this weird white stuff on my coat and bag is!" I told Dan conversationally as we exited his car. And as we pleasantly debated the best mathematical equation for determining the probability of being pooped on by a bird in one's life time, Dan sweetly took my hand for the walk across the river and through down-town to the Sushi place he'd decided on. It was especially sweet because it was the same hand he'd seen flicking bird poop off of my bag and coat a minute earlier. Well, now I know that he has no germ phobias...

Gradually our conversation topics conformed to societal norms, such as casual plans for the coming week. "Oh yeah, and before I forget," I added congenially, then body-checked Dan into a convenient patch of grass. After he caught his balance and returned to my side, looking slightly bewildered, I finished, "that's for making me read Aldous Huxley." He started laughing, "Um, was there something in particular that you didn't like?" So after a brief rant on Aldous Huxley's frequent use of obscure religious, literary, and historical art references and terminology, I admitted the real reason I body checked him was just to flirt, because mild physical violence is how I and my siblings express affection. "Man, I can't wait to tell my friends that you body checked me over Aldous Huxley!" Dan exclaimed enthusiastically.

After an interesting hour of eating seafoods I had never tried before (let alone tried raw) with my head tipped sideways because I don't really know how to use chopsticks all that proficiently, interspersed with an embarrassing number of visits to the washroom because I have a bladder the size of a pea (no pun unintended), Dan and I headed out for our customary walk. This time we picked the river pathway. As it turns out, the river path turns out from the Stampede grounds following the Elbow River, and that is the path we chose to follow.

Across from the Stampede grounds and on the other side of the Elbow is a very tall and steep hill, with some very large houses built on the top that are probably owned by some very rich people. There's also a fenced look-out point, and some wishful thinking enabled me to see a faint path through the grass and shrubs on the hill up towards it. As I was coming to expect, Dan was game to explore. We began to hike. At one point, our faint path branched to the right and left, and I lead the way to the left. Since that lead us to the occupied (and cleverly hidden) campsite of three homeless persons, we turned around and took the right path, which involved tromping through large patches of juniperous horizontalis. When we were about 3/4 of the way up, Dan suggested we sit down. I was dubious, since the ground was damp everywhere, but Dan found us a nice dry spot on a juniper shrub and even held my hand so I wouldn't slide down the near-vertical slope of the hill while we watched the sun set on the Stampede grounds and down-town Calgary.

"So I read your narrative," Dan stated after a comfortable silence. Poor Dan. We had exchanged life narratives the date previous at my request. For those of you who are not psychology geeks, a life narrative is a collection of stories a person gives about key events in their life, which can be analyzed for major themes that define the person's personality. In dating, I suppose it's something of a cheat sheet for discovering in short order who someone is, where they are coming from, and how they see the world. I don't know why, but it never really occurred to me until after I began reading Dan's narrative that exchanging life narratives meant that Dan would also be seeing my narrative. Mine is easily twice as long as his, in both analysis and actual narrative length. I wrote mine while I was depressed and in the midst of several courses that required pervasive self-reflection. Dan wrote his when he was rushed for time and trying desperately just to get his course work done so he could pass. He's also a guy and therefore doesn't routinely write novels or spout lengthy sonnets about his feelings the way I very routinely do. Thus, while Dan's narrative actually provoked more questions than it really answered, I suspected mine had probably provided more information and emotion than Dan was prepared to swim in. Frick.

"It was very..." and then there was a very long pause while Dan searched for a tactful but adequate description of his reaction. "Long?" I helpfully suggested. "Emotional," Dan decided. Um, no kidding. And then I felt this compelling need to start making complex excuses for both narrative characteristics. Have I mentioned my recent discovery that I babble when I'm nervous? Dan listened attentively anyway. So attentively, in fact, that he repeatedly ignored incoming calls on his cell phone, which was pretty funny because his phone was in his jeans pocket and he kept trying to turn it off inside his pocket with his opposite hand while it vibrated away beneath our romantically interlocked hands. What the heck is this? Of the two of us, Dan's the one who's never shown his narrative to another soul. I've shown mine to at least four other people since I wrote it but I'm the one running off on homeless persons' trails to avoid facing his opinion. Get a spine, Faye. I braced myself for whatever critical, analytical, philosophical, or pharmacological thoughts Dan had about my life story. "Okay, so what did you actually think about it?"

Dan looked intently at my face. I looked away towards the city lights. (I don't have that much spine.) "You're beautiful." Oh. Didn't see that coming. Think fast. Disagreeing with people's assessments of my appearance always just drags out my being in the spotlight. Be positive and graceful. "Um, thanks!" I said brightly, still not looking at him. But Dan wasn't going to let the conversation slide that easily: "I didn't just say that for tonight, either. I've thought that for a long time." What do you say to that? So we sat and looked out on the city lights in comfortable silence until I started shivering and had to suggest we continue our scramble up the hill and over the fence. After passing a likely very rich man who likely lives in one of the big expensive houses and was pretending we were not climbing over the fence he was looking out from, we headed back towards Dan's car.

It was too cold for exposed fingers so we had to give up holding hands for the shelter of our pockets. I felt kind of vexed with the separation and wished I wasn't so damn self-conscious because it seemed like the ideal opportunity to try out linking arms. Lucky for me, Dan is trained in Psychology so he can read other peoples' thoughts: "Here," he said, linking our arms so our hands could remain happily in our pockets. Wow. This is really personal. And safe-feeling. And comforting. Why is it comforting? Comfort is something you seek out when you're hurt or scared. I'm not either of those things...am I? In retrospect, linking arms is probably comforting for the same reason that it makes turning corners challenging: it pulls you snugly into another person's side (which, unless they are either dead or suffering from severe hypothermia, is probably warm and at least slightly softer than a 2X4 of wood). In Child Development class we learned that infants and young children who sleep with and are carried around by their parents tend to be more easily soothed when upset. Apparently, there's just something about being a human that craves warmth and contact. We were still in that synchronized position when we reached the Lions Gate Bridge, where a city bus dropped off a rider who began walking towards us: "Hey, do you guys know where there's a stair case down to Memorial?" Dan and I were pretty sure there was one in the direction we were heading, so we invited him to walk with us...down a dark, secluded, tree-lined pathway. As we entered the first shadow, our new acquaintance suddenly spun to face us and rapidly fired out: "Just so you know, my liver's not worth shit! I drink waaaay too much so in case you were thinking of throwing me down the hill or something- I know organ harvesting is profitable and stuff and you can never tell..." Yes, yes you do drink too much. And possibly you need to cut down on your television watching as well... But all we actually said was that there was a staircase to Memorial directly in line with the pedestrian bridge across the Bow to Prince's Island Park. He seemed equally relieved by both sight of the stairway and the fact that Dan and I left him for another path.

As we got closer to Dan's car, we began passing couples making out along the pathway or in their parked cars (including a few limos) with increasing frequency. Definitely grad season, commented the analytical-sociological side of my brain. Oh crap. We're totally parked in a major "parking" spot. Was Dan hoping to "park"? I'm never going to be able to keep a straight face!!! mimzied the more neurotic side of my brain. Just ask, suggested the practical part of my brain. "So, um, did you intend to park in a popular make-out point, or was it just kind of a fluke?" I inquired casually. Dan ran his unoccupied hand through his hair and looked around, "Ah, I was thinking it looked kind of busy around here. But, no, I just thought it'd have a nice view at night. I guess I should have known..." Then we arrived at Dan's car. As I buckled myself in, Dan turned the engine. The engine didn't turn. His face freezing, Dan slowly turned to look at me: "Oh. no. The. car. won't. start."

Violence is Cute

"Wait, wait, wait," interrupted Lisa, to whom I was relating the body-checking portion of my "On Parking" anecdote while we ate lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant near her work, "That actually works? Guys like being beaten on?" "Um, yes. It works as a flirtation tool around guys, and a fast bonding technique with little boys," I informed her, then reflected, "Amy taught me that."

I beat on Dan a lot. He seems to enjoy it. Which I suppose is kind of weird and kinky, since that's what sadomasochism couples get turned on by. Nevertheless, it has become an important aspect of our relationship. No, not sadomasochism, respect. I once asked Dan for three memories that represent who his mother is to him. One was a general memory: Dan said that his mother taught him to have respect for women. I considered asking him to describe what 'respect' meant to him. Considered, and then firmly rejected the question. It's pointless, really. Dan demonstrates his definition of respect, for himself and for others. For example, just moments before I asked the mom-question, I spontaneously decided it'd be a good time to body-check Dan towards the not-so-sparkling waters of the Chestermere canal. However, Dan was anticipating it this time and dodged, so I ended up spinning in a circle and falling over. Once down, I decided not to get up, preferring instead to gather my shreds of dignity around me by sitting up straight and staring out at the water. Dan sat down beside me and also looked towards the water, "There's a word for this, but I can't think of what it is." Humiliation? "Irony?" I suggested. "That's probably it," Dan agreed congenially. "You want to know the really ironic part?" "What's that?" "I injured my thumb doing that." Dan started laughing; "How is that even possible?" "I don't know," I shrugged, giving in to a grin, "It's not even the thumb on the side of my body I checked you with." "Which thumb was it?" "This one," I told him, holding it up as a still greater flood of irony hit me, because I knew what was coming before it came. "Poor thumb," empathized Dan, taking it in his hand to examine, then gently massage. Sigh. Poor ego.

Several weeks later, Dan and I were sitting alone in my friend Jen's kitchen at the end of a night of couples' dinner and games (Get your minds out of the gutter- we were playing Taboo. Oh wait, that sounds just as bad...dang nam it). At length, I decided to grow a backbone again and informed Dan that Jen was going to take an inordinate amount of time kissing her boyfriend good-night so we would also have time to "practice." "Practice what?" Dan asked, confused at first. But he's a pretty clever lad, so a minute or two later we were on our feet going at 'er. I felt a bit like an irritating five year old on a road trip with her parents: Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Well, good try, Dan. "Good try?!" Crap! Did I say that out loud?!! "Um, I meant, 'That was good.' Good job, Dan!" Dan didn't look entirely convinced. Dang Freudian slips. Poor Dan's ego.

And the moral of these stories is that Dan shows his respect for my feminine pride by courteously not paying attention to my violent clumsiness and I show my respect for Dan's masculinity by testing it repeatedly with the expectation that I won't break it, despite my clumsiness. God, this relationship is fool proof. Big, glowing, neon signs...

Revenge of the Flirtation Geru

I said I couldn't imagine real living and so I haven't. I just didn't realize how difficult it would be to find words to describe to someone else (or even to myself) what my life looks like now that I have one. So, at the risk of starting a whole new controversy, I'm going to call it Sensual Joy. Soooo...where to start? I went on a spiritual retreat the first weekend in May with my church Young Adult group. I went because I would like to get to know them all better, and because I love any opportunity to be outside, in or near the mountains. My highlight of the weekend was playing Mission Impossible, which surprised me because I've never liked that game. Maybe I've just always played it with too many people before, or maybe I was just given a new attitude towards it this time. Whatever the reason, IT WAS A BLAST. I pretended to be a log until I couldn't breathe; I crawled on my hands and knees through rocks, branches, moss, and grass. I ducked, darted, leaped, and sprinted. I plotted confusing schemes with team mates. I felt alive. For many of the young adults, the speaker was the highlight. She was a spiritual director/professor at Rocky Mountain College, and nearly everything she had to say was a repeat of what I have learned from courses taken with Charles Nienkirchen at Ambrose. I suspect they steal each other's lines, one of the most infamous being, "STOP DOING DEVOTIONS!" (They both emphasize a life of prayer, in many different forms, rather than a slotted time for some narrow tradition). I was really glad they brought her, but more because it meant I didn't have to teach what she had to say to them than because I felt I learned anything from her. Except. She had this one suggestion that entirely contradicted what my own spirituality professor had taught. The contradictory suggestion really irked me, although I acknowledged her reasons for making it seemed sound. She said, "Don't worry about getting into a daily routine for bible study and prayer. The same pattern doesn't work for everyone, and the same person will find he or she needs to switch things up according to new life situations. You'll only get bored if you keep things the same." Charles had always recommended the opposite: keep a daily prayer routine with enough flexibility in it that the Spirit can speak but with enough structure that you're not killing yourself trying to fill space with originality on more normal days. We did a group lectio divina at the end of her session. It was on John 21:1-13, when Jesus causes Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, and 2 other disciples to catch more fish than a single boat could carry after an entirely unsuccessful night. (This is after Jesus was crucified.) We were all asked what stood out most to us and why. I was somewhat embarrassed to give the cliched answer that verse 7, about "diving in" and "jumping out of the boat," stood out most for me. But I couldn't help it. Seven is the verse in which Peter jumps out of the boat fully clothed to swim to see Jesus on the shore because he's SO excited. I understood Peter's delight- I'd seen it demonstrated in all its silly exuberance by Nolan on numerous occasions (Side note: Congratulations Nolan and Sherry! I hope Sherry's bum is bringing you both every bit as much joy as Nolan anticipated in his Song-of-Solomonesque wedding vows). But I also understood that if I had been in his place, I would have done what the other disciples did- stayed in the boat and rowed in with the giant catch. I would have felt torn about the decision- responsibility to my fellow fishers and economic pragmaticity versus immediate gratification for an irreplaceable soul-connection. What are you saying, God? What water are you wanting me to jump into alone to seek Joy? I should have been able to put two and two together. I'd been asking God for several years if he could bring me a Nolanesque-style boyfriend. I had spent enough time with anxious and neurotic friends, family members, aquaintances, and strangers to know that I needed someone very different for a romance- someone adventurous, fun, out-doorsy, and at peace with himself and God so I wouldn't have to worry that he only liked me because he thought I could heal him or give him an identity. Someone who didn't need me, who I wouldn't worry about crushing. Someone not also going into a counselling-type occupation who would get sucked as dry as I do. (Those marriages end in divorce about 80-90% of the time.) His answer to me (and everyone else who decided it was their duty to ask God for a husband for me) was always, "Wait." Specifically, he told me I would get to finish my 4-year degree first. I was happy with that. Some of my friends got married while they were still in the midst of their studies and they were some of the most stressed out students I knew. Plus, my spiritual mentor/friend Sindy had told me back in High School that my amazing superpower to remain invisible to the opposite sex was actually a protection from God until I was ready for the person he had for me. Consequently, I'd mostly not bothered taking up the habit of man-hunting. I don't have the patience or acting skills to present myself as anything apart from what I am, and what I am is darn awkward around guys I like or whom I think like me. Throughout college, my life became simple and full. I attended classes and did school work for a major in which females out-numbered males about 3:1. I spent my spare time with close girl friends, immediate family members, and took up work and volunteering positions separate from the public and dominated by female coworkers. My church young adult group was filled exclusively with couples and other women. I wrote a psychology paper about why my parents were despairing of ever having grandchildren. If I was going to meet someone, it would be a miracle of God. That was fine with me: to throw in still more transportation cliches, it meant that if there was ever to be a turn off from my highway of content singleness, it would have several giant, glowing, coloured neon signs to give me direction. So, when one of my more propheticish friends told me this winter she'd been asking God about a husband for me again, I wasn't worried. I sat back in my arm-chair with a raised brow, waiting comfortably for the inevitable, "He said you're not old enough" or "You're not ready yet" or "There's still things he wants you to experience alone with him first" or "Not yet." "He said that you'll be married or at least know who you're marrying before you go on to grad studies." "What?!" I had a sudden Sarah moment of laughing disbelief. I planned to be entering grad studies in two years, possibly on another continent. Although the possibility of meeting someone in grad school had occurred to me, being married or engaged before then had definitely not. "Also, I was given the distinct impression it's someone you already know," she continued. "WHAT?!" Who the deuce could it be?! I don't have any close guy-friends, and most of the casual ones who have so bravely asked me out in the past I turned down indefinitely. After talking out my list of possibilities with my friend, I loosely narrowed down my options to about 5, all of whom were long shots. This sent me into an extremely unhelpful cycle of obsessive thought for two weeks afterwards, in the midst of the heaviest school work load I'd ever had. When one of the final five contestants stunned me with a premature apology for not asking me out, I decided it was time to ask for help. I couldn't concentrate on my school work and I desperately needed to. I e-mailed my brother (for a solid masculine perspective), and three wise friends (who have known me for a long time) to ask for prayer and some practical advice. Their answers were variations of the same thing: (1) This is not important for you right now. Go do your homework. And (2) Trust your own ability to talk to and hear from your Heavenly Father. Is this what your heart wants? And thanks to their prayers to our Heavenly Father, the swirling thoughts ceased and I got my work done. The Premature Final Five was later eliminated by his own choosing, much to my relief. Because though I felt really guilty for thinking it, in case God wanted me to learn patience or teaching skills or something, my heart's response was Oh God, no. And so, two months later (the week before the retreat), as I attended a Behavioural Science graduation pot-luck dinner my friends had convinced me to go to despite my technical non-graduating status (I'm missing one class), I found myself chatting pleasantly with small groups of my equally burned-out but still optimistic comrades... including Dan. To my surprise, we had a lot in common. And by a lot, I mean more than just a year of shared misery completing (and avoiding) independent psychology research projects required for entry into graduate programs. Toward the end of the evening, I mildly thought it'd be cool if we kept in touch via e-mail or something, but forgot to ask what his e-mail was. Dan wasn't on my list of pre-meditated possibilites, after all. Fortunately, we just happened to be the last two people to leave my pot-luck hosting professor's house. Then Dan also just happened to walk me to my car. Weird. This is what guys in romantic comedies do to ask girls out. And gave me his number; "We should go walking some time." I could hear my sister Melanie's voice in my head, telling me that she and Joe figured they really started dating the day she asked him to go for a walk with her, because guys and girls who are "just friends" just don't do that. Whatever. I go on walks with anyone non-creepy who's willing. He probably just asked because he's going through college-people withdrawl and he knows we both like walking. I got in my car and proceeded to drive home, getting lost again only once. Then, Waaait a second...And then I nearly crashed. And that is how I accidentally began dating. It's dangerous business, Frodo, walking outside your door. You never know where your feet might take you... Several years ago, Nolan introduced me to a book called The Five Love Languages, by a counselling psychologist named Gary Chapman. I, in turn, introduced the book to Melanie and Valerie (as well as some other people, but I won't name them all). Chapman's premise is fairly simple: there are more or less 5 major languages of love. Each of us favours one or two of these particular languages to express and receive love. Recognizing your own love language, as well as the prefered love language(s) of people around you, can be highly beneficial in building positive familial, romantic, or friendship ties. The five are, if my memory serves me correctly, (1) words of encouragement, (2) physical touch, (3) acts of service, (4) quality time, and (5) gifts. Later in my scholastic studies, I encountered a similar idea expressed through something called a "Love Map" hypothesis of liking, which emphasizes that the unique features and interactions that turn each individual on is determined mostly by early childhood family experiences/environment. I had a really difficult time figuring out which of Chapman's languages was mine. I love giving people well-thought out gifts. I put a lot of time, effort, and thought into creating elaborate cards, wrappings, and item-combinations for people I love. I really hate receiving poorly thought-out gifts from other people. Still, if gift making/shopping was keeping someone from hanging out with me, I would be much happier without the presents and with the presence. On another hand, acts of service are really important to my family, and I am no different. Family members or close friends who don't pull their own weight and pitch in to do things like make meals, clean, drive siblings to various extra-curricular events, do the laundry, etc. are resented. However, I resent doing those things for other people if I'm doing them alone and my efforts go un-noticed, which might suggest I'm a words-of-encouragement kind of person, except that I really hate direct or public praise and I think flowery encouragements from cards, sermons, etc are tedious to bear. Hense, I deduced I must be a quality-time kind of girl, specializing in meaningful conversations. I never considered the physical love language a possibility for me. That was my sister Jeana's language. Nolan and I were also very preoccupied with a counselling psychologist called Kevin Leman for a while. Leman writes books about birth order effects on personality (which apparently is known as the Family Constellation theory among Psychology academia). I even bought one of his books: The Birth Order Connection, which basically gives you a list of things you should have in common with your romantic partner and a list of things you and your romantic partner should contrast in. It's pretty sage advice. Leman vehemently warns against people of the same birth order placement hooking up- personalities tend to be too similar to allow for complementarity and compensation for each other's strengths and weaknesses. According to his descriptions, I am counted as a first born, since I'm the oldest daughter in a non-gender role stereotyping family. I decided early on that I needed to find myself a youngest born stud so I can remember to have fun and not kill myself when therapy with clients doesn't go the way I want it to. And yet... Flying home from my grandmother's funeral this spring between my brothers, I found myself happily engaged in alternately tickling Chasey in the side until he screamed and finally retaliated and leaning into Nolan as he asked my opinion on how our various family members express and experience various basic emotions. We came to the consensus that among siblings, we express affection as physical contact, most often tickling. I was reminded suddenly of Morrie, filled with delight over any positive physical touch (Mitch Albom, Tuesdays With Morrie). On our first un-date, I discovered that Dan is a first born. Crap, God. How's this going to work? You know, you asked me for someone like your older brother. Nolan's the first born in your family. Yeah, but Nolan's odd, even for our family. Trust me. I asked Dan how he thought being the oldest sibling had affected him. "I was always finding ways to push the boundaries, got in trouble a lot." That's how Nolan describes his childhood... I heard God laugh. A half hour before I was supposed to be leaving for the Young Adults Retreat, Dan called me. I was a little surprised, given that he'd already invited me out the first time and it probably should have been my responsibility to follow that up with a reciprocal offer of time, but I'd chickened out. He asked me what I was doing that evening so I told him about the retreat. He then told me that he was also going camping that weekend, albeit later. He was going back-packing with a best friend in the Waipourous. God, really? Really, he likes hiking and back-packing? It was a good thing I'd been tenting in Waipourous once, because that gave me something to work with for conversation while my brain and heart recovered. Then the conversation came to it's logical end and Dan fell silent. Working hard to quell nervousness, I hurriedly invited him to come along to my little brother's rock show later that month. He gamely agreed, then fell into silence again and I was ready to bludgeon him for the awkward silence because he'd called me, so the onus was on him to say why he'd called and not leave me hanging. God, how could you do this to me?! This is why first borns shouldn't date each other. Two quiet people can't keep conversations going! God was silent, too. Come on Faye, use your DC conversation skills. Ask him a clarifying question. "So, just to verify, were you calling to invite me along camping or just to chat?" GAAAAAAA!!! Where did my brain go? How could it desert my mouth at a time like this?! He asked at the beginning what you were doing this evening! You killed his invitation with your prior plans, idiot. Dan gave a very surprised and nervous laugh. I might have begun banging my head against the wall at that point, but he would have heard it. Believe it or not, we arranged to go for a second walk anyway. The things I loved most about our family's roadtrip to BC for Nolan's wedding? Falling asleep at night piled on and under and between my sisters and cousin, Heather; absorbing the warm sunshine into my skin, feeling comforted by the feel and sound of a gentle breeze running through the garden of the house we stayed in, laying in dew-covered grass, being drenched by 4 degree celcius waves while Whitewater Rafting with Heather; finally seeing Nolan and getting a big, enthusiatic hug from him before he dissapeared with his betrothed again; punching Chasey to make him yelp when he said impertinent or cheeky things. I almost felt guilty for failing to either journal or read my bible more than once the entire 4 days we were gone. Almost. On our second un-date, I asked Dan where he wanted to travel to just for the heck of it and where he'd go for a purpose, what the purpose would be, and why. Dan is a psych major, too. This makes things tricky sometimes, because not only does he answer my questions with excellent self-reflection, but he directs them back at me, waits for a real answer, and asks probing questions of his own. This means I have to be careful not to ask questions I'm not ready to answer. I had an answer. When I described my intent to pilgrimage to Lac Ste. Anne next summer, Dan asked if he could be one of the people to come with me. I was a little bit stunned. Mainly because he was sincere. Many people have been supportive of my going, but not even my best friends have offered to come along. God burst his shirt, he was laughing so hard. As I dropped my sister Samantha off for her 1 hour piano lesson, the sky began to pour in earnest. Conveniently enough, the song "Desert Storm" by DaRue began to play on the radio (i.e. "I dream of rain, e-lay-e-a-lay..."). I was delighted. When the song finished, I got out of the car and walked through the rain for an hour. Actually, I did more than walk. I spontaneously ran up and down hills, jumped over road medians, climbed all over dripping, deserted children's playgrounds, and touched every last dripping wet tree, bush, and shrubbery within reach of the side-walk. I felt sorry for the people I could see sitting inside their dry houses playing video games or watching tv. I thought of The Big Fish scene where the Big Fish is sitting in a bath-tub fully clothed and tells his puzzled wife, "I felt all dried out." I felt like crying. Laughing. Refreshed. I know, you're always throwing kisses from the sky. Well tonight I caught one...(Blindside, "Shekina," About a Burning Fire). Remembering my good professor Nienkirchen's caution to understand and absorb rare super-natural moments rather than become addicted to always feeling super-natural, I praised God for the delirious hour and figured that would be the end of the wordless moments. Less than a week later, I found myself walking in the golden light of the evening, overpowered once again by the rich colours and textures of the natural world displayed in suburbian gardens and yards. And what is this? A cul-de-sac I've never explored before? How is this possible? I felt compelled to explore. A path lead to a mirroring cul-de-sac, also completely unfamiliar to me. And then I saw it. The most beautiful house in the world. Actually, I have no idea what the house looked like. It was the yard and garage door that had me spell-bound. It was like seeing a summer-filled piece of my soul incarnated. The garage door had a flower-covered mountainside hand-painted in bright red, orange, yellow, and sky blue on it. To the right, a pine hedge lined either side of neat cement steps leading to a rich brown wooden door. Intermingled in the hedge were black iron stakes with reflective silver spheres on their tips. To the left of the stair case were two large pine trees, whose lowest branches had been trimmed off. Dangling from innumerable branches was a mesmerizing collection of things that sparkled, shone, twirled, twisted, spun, and twinkled in the wind. There was even a lop-sided 3-D heart. Why wouldn't you have a lop-sided shiny heart danging from a pine tree?! I thought, dazed in euphoria. Later on the same walk, I discovered the epitome of what my friend Jen might call "useless but fun." It was a 2 meter tall metal stake with two children's bicycle wheels attached and rotating on a horizontal axle at the top. Attached to the wheels were a series of 2 litre pop bottles, cut into scoop shapes and spray painted in silver, black, yellow, red, green, and blue. The wheels, of course, ran in the wind whenever the scoops caught it. I don't know how to explain how very, very happy I was that it existed. I don't want to tell you how long it took me to find my way back to that obscure location the next day to take a photo. No, I do not have a job yet. Meanwhile, un-date number four came to it's conclusion in my parked car out-side Dan's house. I said we were parked, not "parking," thank you very much. Really, I could no longer call it an un-date, since when Dan had called to re-book it earlier that week he had specifically called it a date. He'd re-booked in order to deal with several deaths in his family. I really hadn't known what to do to be supportive (which is embarrassing, given that I'd already dealt with the same thing a few months earlier), so I just stayed out of the way. I didn't even have a card to give him when I showed up at his house a few days after the funeral. I hadn't known what to say. So I just asked how he and his family were doing. They were fine. They'd bonded closer together in their grief, were finding the closure they needed. Precisely how my family had reacted. He didn't need me to comfort him. God had already done it. I don't know why I was surprised by that. [God rolls his eyes]. And after watching Dan and my little brother hit it off famously at my brother's band performance, I had to admit, God, I like Dan. However, this was not especially helpful thinking while we sat in my car and I tried hard not to fidget. My Flirtation Geru had tried very hard over the phone earlier that day to give me tips on how to start the momentous courtship ritual of hand-holding. We had already determined that I was too much of a coward to ask directly or to simply take his hand. Her first suggestion was for me to pretend to have difficulty while walking over difficult terrain so I could ask for his help. "Jen," I patiently explained, "that's ridiculous. We've already walked over plenty of rough terrain together. He knows I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own." "All the better," she said smugly, "then he'll know why you're pretending." I refused. I'm not coy. Pretending to be so just seemed like a violation of our unspecified relationship. "All right," she amended, "why don't you just be your honest self and tell him about your flirtation lessons? Then he'll figure it out indirectly." Kill me now. Her third plan was for me to simply link my arm with his; "Faye, you present yourself very confidently and independantly. You're going to have to let him know it's okay to touch you, or he won't. No guy would dare. Linking arms is dignified but clear in it's meaning." I decided to aim for plan C. I failed. And given that we were walking through a graveyard at night and the ground was decidedly uneven and in some parts rocky and slippery, Plan C probably would have been especially appropriate. As I drove Dan home, listening to a cassette tape of ABBA he discovered in the car, I kept envisioning Jen's future reprisals for botching such a simple plan. So we sat in the car, exchanged "That was fun, let's hang out again soon"s, booked our next date for before Dan left for a psychology research conference (Dan loves the sense and perception physiological side of psychology). Then we hit silence. He's just staring at me. He has beautiful eyes. What am I supposed to be doing? Jen's going to kill me. I started babbling. I never realized before that moment that I babble when I'm nervous. I reached for the first thing that came to mind: Jen. Our next date was set for the day I was babysitting her children. "Jen is my flirtation geru." AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! ABORT, Faye, ABORT!!!! There's no way to go but down with a conversation starter like that and Dan is, after all, a psych major. He wasn't thrown off track at all by my additional herring bone babble. "But what was the pretending to fall supposed to accomplish?" What else could I say but the truth? "Um, hand-holding, believe it or not." I laughed to make it more casual, wishing with all my heart I had never read Nora Roberts' Irish Thoroughbred novel with Tachae in our teens..."We need to find some other way for you to expend all that energy..." Damned belated teenage hormones. Dan continued watching me steadily. Cornered, I shrugged, helpless. Dan raised one eyebrow, then said, "Faye, hand-holding is very simple." Darn he has a soothing, deep voice. Then he offered me his hand, palm up. I stared at it. Nope. There's no hope for the recovery of your pride, Faye. I took his hand and beamed. He wished me a good night, walked into his home, and I began driving towards mine. I almost twisted the steering wheel off, and as I willfully made my hands relax, I wished I had not watched the Kiera Knightly version of Pride and Prejudice with my sisters over... and over... and over again. Little natives danced in my head chanting, "Populated self. Populated self." Hey! That was Plan B! And I want you all to know that it works. Date five, after Jen introduced herself to Dan as my flirtation geru at dinner then innocently reminded me that Weaselhead Park was exceptionally close-by, and after some steep downward climbing, marsh-tromping, and companionable bushwacking, we accidentally ended up on a real path. Was that brush of fingers accidental or intentional? Oh. Definitely intentional. I beamed. We were holding hands. We were now officially dating. And as it turns out, psychology training was making Dan over-think his moves as well. Figures. So, an afternoon and evening walk through a giant field near the airport; a theatre performance, walk around down-town, and drinks and appetizers at Moxies; a walk around his neighbourhood and Nosehill park; my little brother's punk rock performance and a night walk through a graveyard; and dinner with Jen and her kids and a bush-wacking/marshy walk through Weaselhead Park later, I feel kind of pressured to admit I have a boyfriend or else take Melanie's place for Self-Denial Cutie. I might have to change the 'single' status on my rarely-used facebook account. Whoa, now. This is getting serious... So here's the thing, God: I'm still awkward. I empathize strongly with Lisa O'Malley's character in Dee Henderson's The Truth Seeker when she bemoans the fact that she has the childish habit of holding her heart hidden in a jar, then suddenly handing it all over at once with a "Here." Some discernment for how to proceed would be nice. You'll get it as you need it and ask for it. Besides, if you're going to hand your heart over to someone, at least Dan has nice hands...:) Oh...my... Starry-eyed surprise:)

Conversations

Social psychologist Kenneth Gergen described the citizens of present western civilization as having "populated selves." That is, no individual is really an individual, but more of an intersection, built of the hundreds and thousands of communicative interactions each person has with the people they encounter directly and indirectly. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. There are so many voices running around my head. My very last Spaces of the Heart class with Nienkirchen last Tuesday was on journaling. Although he acknowledged that the golden rule of journaling is that however you are doing it is the right way, Nienkirchen offered one suggestion I found intriguing. He asked us to consider making a list of people and experiences to have dialogues with, including famous or influential people (dead or alive), people close to you, strangers, your body, the environment, God. He didn't mean it in a pantheistic or spiritual medium kind of way, but more in the historical fiction or poetic writer's prerogative sort of way, where you listen to what those people or experiences have said or are saying, and you imagine, based on the evidence, what they would say to you if you took them out for a Thursday afternoon chat in a relatively empty coffee-shop for a few hours. Since that class, I have had more than 19 group and one-on-one conversations with God, strangers, fictional book characters, co-workers, friends, and family members. And those 19 were just the really significant ones I remembered to write down. Consequently, I'm a bit peopled-out, so I'm sipping a popular legal stimulant while hiding out at my mostly-vacant school until one of the building security guards comes to throw me out when they're locking up. Read life is hard. I know I need to start rebuilding my relationships with my church young adult group. I know they have bible study on Tuesday nights. I just don't want to go tonight. I don't know what to say, and I still haven't really processed any of the other conversations I've already had last week and this week. I didn't know what to say in most of those conversations either, so mostly I just listened to stories. Listening is good. I wish I did it even more often. For example, listening would have been smart on Friday afternoon, after my DC shift, when I sat down on the train to go home. Although the train was almost entirely empty, a young man came and sat down beside me, thus defying one of those unspoken social taboos about personal space on city transit I've come to notice with keen interest through my studies in sociology. Then he immediately broke still another unspoken social taboo, by turning to me and asking "Do you think I need to lose weight?" Looking up from the book I had begun reading, I searched his face, wondering if this was a joke. He was not kidding. Nobody talks to complete strangers about personal health issues unless the stranger is a health professional or the person talking is requesting immediate assistance for some kind of medical emergency like a heart attack, allergic reaction, or a stabbing. Grasping my DC Rogerian training like a shield, I politely told him, "I don't know. That's probably something you'd want to discuss with a doctor." Then we briefly discussed some of the pros and cons of relying on the BMI for indication of health problems. When that came full circle to his confirming that he should talk to his doctor about it, I decided the conversation was done and I resolutely began reading again. But I was bothered. What was behind that conversation? What was he really looking for? Was he so desperate for validation and affirmation as a human being that he was seeking attention from complete strangers for trivial personal issues? In addition, that verse about being conscientious to entertain strangers because you may be hosting angels unawares kept intruding into my determined reading. Ask him about himself. The command was no more than a whisper. I heard it, I ignored it, I regret it. I also regretted not listening on Sunday night. I was sleeping over at a friend's house after helping to child-wrangle at a baking-themed birthday party that afternoon. Everything was going smoothly until the un-birthday child realized his sibling would be allowed to stay up late to watch a movie with a friend since the birthday child had no school Monday, while the Unfortunate had to go to bed at the usual time and attend school as usual the next day. After we had listened to precisely 4 door slams, countless "IT'S NOT FAIR!" roars, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor for the sixth time, I offered to go talk to him. Unperturbed by the dissapointed child's angry screams for me to go away, I inquired with mild interest what he'd been using to make all the noise. Unable to entirely hide his assauged pride, he moodily informed me that the heavy falling object had been a u-bar bike lock. They bounce? Who would have known? I thought absently. It did not take long to realize that discussing the problem logically was not going to help, so I utilized the eternal boy-wisdom of Amy instead: I stole the child's comforter and threw it at him. With vengeance, he threw it back. I caught it and hucked it at him again. By the third round, he was finding it difficult to hide his grin. He loves being wrestled with. Time for the kill. I began climbing the ladder to his bunk. He attempted to knock me off by smothering me in his comforter, as I had expected. I pushed my way up and flipped the comforter over him, then tickled him until he couldn't breathe. I asked if he'd like to read a book with me before bed. He eagerly agreed and raced off to find his favourite book, Star Wars III. Victory is mine, I thought smugly. Just call me 'Cool Aunt Faye'. A snack and two chapters later, he was ready to go to sleep. That is, he was ready until he remembered that his ear infection needed cleaning and helpfully went to remind his sibling of the same thing. Unfortunately, seeing his sibling still up watching a movie reminded him of his anger with full force, and within five minutes he was screaming, yelling, and throwing things with a passion that made the earlier storm seem tame. His mother's patient explanations and stern admonition to stop only intensified his rage, and he began the all-too-familiar refrain, "I HATE YOU, MOMMY! I HATE YOU!" Closing his door, she went to her room to cry. Deja vu, in a repeating nightmare, oppressive way. [Let me clear any misconceptions this picture might arouse. My friend is not a wimp. Neither is she an overly indulgent, neglectful, or abusive parent. She's just a single parent who happens to have a very troubled and difficult child with whom normal child-disciplinary methods do not work, and the burden leaves her very tired, discouraged, and defeated sometimes.] I felt torn. My friend needed comfort and encouragement. Her son needed to be calmed. Her other child, I knew, was feeling worried and scared again. Waiting it out wasn't going to work. My friend's son has demonstrated the unnatural ability to maintain that level of rage for hours. I knew what I should do. My friend had already told me the most effective way to deal with these situations. We needed to pray together for help, then go face the demons with scripture, prayer, and what some child therapists might call "therapeutic holding." Bible. I needed my bible. I went to look for it, only to remember it was in my friend's room already. I went back, pulled it out of my bag, set it on the bed. Then I got up to close the door so we could hear ourselves, but instead just walked straight to his room and shouted, "THAT IS ENOUGH! THAT IS NOT APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOUR! YOU WILL NOT SAY THAT TO YOUR MOTHER!" There was a pregnant silence in the dark room. Then he erupted, "GO AWAY!!!!! GO AWAY, GO AWAY, GO AWAY! I HATE YOU, GO AWAY!" His voice was going raw with the mantra, but the volume was not decreasing. Filled with anger of my own at the whole situation, I marched in to his room and climbed the ladder again, capturing his writhing body in my arms in a hard hug. And that was when I realized I was a moron. Sure, I could hold him still- I must be at least three times his weight. But I had no idea what to pray. My mind was empty. I hadn't prepared. Then his mother was there, commanding the demons in his room to leave him, telling her son that she loved him and Jesus loved him, acknowledging that she understood he was dissapointed but he needed to fight the demons who were consuming him with rage. She reminded him that he needed to sleep so he could have a good day at school tomorrow. "I DON'T CARE!" screamed the still thrashing, yelling, and sobbing child. "Yes, you do," she countered firmly, and then proceeded to remind him of the things her son had learned to like at school, the goals he wanted to achieve. She asked him if he would let her hold him. Though still crying and occasionally screaming, he agreed, and so his mother and I switched spots. By this point, the child needed his inhaler, so I went in search of it. Predictably, it was not where the boy thought it would be, so I asked God to help me find it. He did. I took it to the now quietly crying and gasping child, whose mother was reassuring him that the room was filled with angels now, he was safe and could go to sleep. We turned on his favourite worship c-d, exchanged I-love-yous and good-nights, and he went to sleep. Out in the hall, my friend turned to me and demanded, "What were you thinking?! When you went to find your bible, I thought, 'Oh good, she knows what she's doing.' Then you suddenly went charging into a room filled with 50 demons and I was like, 'Oh dang, she doesn't.'" "I'm sorry," I said, ashamed. "I don't know what I was thinking. I guess it was just pride." "Well, it worked out alright," she said kindly, "I knew I'd have to go rescue you, so you motivated me to get back on my feet again. We live and learn." And we know that all things work to the good of those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. Coincidentally (or providentially?), my last meeting with Lisa was on the Saturday morning before that interesting Sunday night episode. One of the things we discussed was learning to recognize the limitations of our personal skills and knowledge, and the importance of seeking the Holy Spirit for healing spiritual wounds that aren't effectively touched by mere psychological and social treatments. The topic came up partly because it was something I'd begun sorting through in my last three school papers and two presentations, which Lisa wanted to hear the out-come of. In addition, while out with friends on Saturday night celebrating our respective graduations and un-graduations, I had been convicted of my self-focus when my astute friend Jen burst out laughing at me for temporarily zoning out in the middle of another friend's conversation. God, I'm thick. Please help. I'm trying. Just shut up and listen, for crying out loud:) And security has come to kick me out.

A Hole is to Dig

Well, school is nearly finished. Now that the reality is setting in, I'm starting to realize freedom from school will have its own unique blessings and curses that I am perhaps not quite ready to face. For all my whining, I've become very attached to the simultaneously blessed and cursed lifestyle of an urban post-secondary student hermit. Now I am transitioning from a life of thinking to a life of doing. What will it be like to live life experientially? I can't imagine. One last paper due Monday morning. One last presentation on Wednesday. Both require me to summarize in slightly different ways where I have come from, where I am presently, and where I am going. I can answer the first question, but the other two will be a little more difficult. I feel very...pulled apart...at present. Not fragmented. Fragmentation suggests a state of brittleness, irrepairability, and probably lost pieces. I'm still all here, I'm just not so sure where here is, or who I am, let alone where I'm going next. I trust God will put me back together eventually (albeit a little differently than before), but in the meantime I'll be sifting through prophecies, memories, theories, passions, promises, and feelings the way young children sift through wet sand at a beach, looking for treasures from the sea. So while I sift, I'm leaving you with this nursery poem by Ruth Krauss I fell in love with this year.

A Hole is To Dig: A First Book of First Definitions

Mashed potatoes are to give everybody enough A face is so you can make faces A face is something to have on the front of your head Dogs are to kiss people Hands are to hold A hand is to hold up when you want your turn A hole is to dig The ground is to make a garden Grass is to cut Grass is to have on the ground with dirt under it and clover in it Maybe you could hide things in a hole A party is to say how-do-you-do and shake hands A party is to make little children happy Arms are to hug with Toes are to wiggle Ears are to wiggle Mud is to jump in and slide in and yell doodleedoodleedoo Anh-h-h! Doodleedoodleedoo-oo! A castle is to build in the sand A hole is to sit in A dream is to look at the night and see things Snow is to roll in Buttons are to keep people warm The world is so you have something to stand on The sun is to tell you when it's every day When you make your bed you get a star Little stones are for little children to gather up and put in little piles Oo! A rock is when you trip on it you should have watched where you were going Children are to love A brother is to help you A principal is to take out splinters A mountain is to go to the top A mountain is to go to the bottom A lap is so you don't get crumbs on the floor A mustache is to wear on Halloween A hat is to wear on a train Toes are to dance on Eyebrows are to go over your eyes A sea shell is to hear the sea A wave is to wave bye-bye Big shells are to put little shells in A hole is to plant a flower A watch is to hear it tick Dishes are to do Cats are so you can have kittens Mice are to eat your cheese Noses are to rub A nose is to blow A match is to blow A whistle is to make people jump Rugs are so you don't get splinters in you Hunh! Rugs are so dogs have napkins A floor is so you don't fall in the hole your house is in A hole is for a mouse to live in A door is to open A door is to shut A hole is to look through Steps are to sit on A hole is when you step in it you go down Hands are to make things Hands are to eat with A tablespoon is to eat a table with A package is to look inside The sun is so it can be a great day A book is to look at

(IM)POSSIBLE

Hung out with Lisa for a few hours yesterday. That's always dangerous. We seem very similar in a lot of ways, personality probably topping the list. However, as is the case with many of the people I most admire, she's a good deal further along in areas of spiritual development I am still struggling with. Thus, some of her stories from Malta once again reminded me of goals I set a few years ago and still haven't faced. For example, about 3 or 4 years ago while doing house-keeping duties for my boss, I was listening to a Graham Cooke instructional c-d my brother Nolan lent me. Cooke cited Romans 8:19-21: "The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God." Cooke's point was that nature physically responds to humans who are filled with the Spirit of God. His case in point was St. Patrick, who was followed in loving adoration by wild animals across Ireland. Lisa had a more recent example: wind and waves suddenly picking up and crashing whenever two of her intercessor mentors came near. You know, my favourite stories as a child and teen were always fantastic tales of seemingly weak or unimportant figures, such as orphans or beggars or orphaned beggars, finding they have extraordinary powers to control and commune with natural elements, such as animals, fire, water, plants, earth, the weather. We always think those stories have such great appeal precisely because they're impossible in reality. But what if we "invent" those mythic stories in the first place because not only are they possible, but we were intended to live them? So I asked God that day, in the midst of vacuuming an already clean carpet, if I could be like St. Patrick, and have wild birds come sit in my hand and let me stroke them. It hasn't happened yet. Also about 3 or 4 years ago, I borrowed two books from Nolan. One was called Eli, which was a fictitious work that tried to show what Christ's life and sacrifical death would mean and look like if they had occurred in North America today. The other was called Blessed Child, which was about (you guessed it) an orphaned child raised in a middle east monastery who was born with an unusually strong presence of the Spirit of God in him. He stunned North America with his ability to heal the blind, crippled, and disfigured; to survive drinking ridiculous amounts of cyanide and being shot by snipers. Both these books raised in my mind the possibility that I could be healed of my diabetis. I'd never asked God about it before: I always figured I should just be grateful I was born in an age and place where my condition could be treated so I could live a fairly normal life. I've never been bitter or depressed over having diabetis- it actually creates some good common ground between myself and anyone suffering with an incurable condition. I don't really regret suffering depression either, for the same reason. There are some gifts from heaven that cannot be received in a state of happiness. Still, diabetis is an expensive burden for my parents to bear, not to mention a blight on the environment from all the disposable syringes, lancettes, test-strips, testers, and insulin vials required, so I decided to at least ask God if he'd heal me. He did not. However, he didn't say whether or not I would ever be healed from it at some later time in my life. Perhaps he'd like to save it for a more public occasion where his glory can be revealed to many people besides just me and my family. I'm okay with that mystery: God will decide how long I live, just as he ultimately decides how long everyone will live. Diabetis does not change that. I put the question aside. But then I started reading this book called The New Friars for a class on spirituality I'm taking with one of my favourite professors, Charles Nienkircken. The New Friars describes the old roots of new movements within modern radical Christianity towards vows of poverty, purity, and being the gospel incarnate. He notes this life has two forms: (1) contemplative, which provides places of spiritual sanctuary where people are invited to come live in healing community together (e.x. urban monastery houses of prayer) and (2) missional, where individuals go out alone or in groups to live among the poor/marginalized, serving them from a level of equality rather than a position of power. It has such a powerful call to it. Matthew 25:1-46 (The Sheep and the Goats) was really emphasized in the book, which is partly why I quoted it in my last post ("Faces").

Verses 34-36 Then the King will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

In that same class where I read The New Friars, we watched a video highlighting 5 pilgrimage sites: how they came to be pilgrimage sites, and how pilgrims to those places feel they were impacted by/changed through their pilgrimage experiences. Of all the deep, ancient spiritual places to go on earth, one of the 5 featured in this video was Canadian. I was kind of surprised. I've never heard of any pilgrimage sites in Canada. When I think of spiritual sanctuary here, I picture the wild, the mountains in particular. I've always found it easiest to see God when surrounded by his creation. Conversely, when I think of pilgrimage, I imagine pretty much any place except North America. We don't keep anything old if it's not making good money. Not even our globally rare expanses of wilderness, which is perhaps why I'm an environmentalist geek: deforestation, mining, and pollution feel like a desecration of the sacred to me, equivalent to someone spray-painting profanity all over the ceiling of the Cistine Chapel. It's just wrong. Well, lo and behold, the Canadian pilgrimage site is a natural area. It's called Lac de St. Anne (Lake of Saint Anne).

Lac de St. Anne is like the Native/Canadian version of the Israelites' pool of Bethesda. Native groups have put aside their squabbles and fights to visit this lake because of its physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational healing properties since before the Europeans began coming. Don't get me wrong- I understand that it's not the water that heals people, and I know that God doesn't heal everyone, that we can't earn or manipulate God into giving us what we want by enduring certain hardships or going to certain places. But I think it's fair to say that some places on earth have been blessed (or cursed) with an especially intense presence of Spirit (Holy or otherwise), and in those places we are especially prone to transformation.

Transformation appeals to me. Not just in body, but in spirit. I want to cultivate a spirit of truth, fearlessness, love. I know in my mind that all things are possible through Christ who gives me strength. But I don't know it yet. There are a lot of experiences I avoid because I fear how they'll interact with my diabetis. I was sooo excited about finally going on my first back-packing camping trip with Nolan, Chasey, and Sam last summer. I want to do things like that- I want to immerse myself in simplicity, in beauty, in wild, in challenge, in quality time spent building meaningful relationships with people. But I'm so afraid of being isolated somewhere when I'm having a low blood sugar. Neither my siblings nor my friends wake up when I get up in the middle of the night because I'm having a low blood sugar- only my parents have developed the light sleeping habits required to get up with me when I need them. On that camping trip, my blood sugars were ranging from 2.0 mmol/L (50% of the min. required before brain damage and imminent death occur) to 24 mmol/L (4X the max. needed, which can cause long-term problems like blindness and loss of appendages) four times a day because I couldn't figure out how to balance my insulin, exercise, and food intake. It was scary. I felt physically sick. I've stopped playing soccer, partly because of time constraints, but also because it freaks me out that I can't tell the difference between a low blood sugar and simply being tired- the symptoms are the same. The only reason I didn't die just before Christmas when I accidentally overdosed on insulin in the middle of the day is because God brought my dad home early from work, so he found me unconscious and convulsing on the floor in time to get paramedics to me before I hit the no-return point. I don't even remember the seizures or hitting the floor, but the idea of it really shook me up (sorry for the unintended pun) for weeks afterwards. The ground-beef texture of my tongue and the mysterious white foam circles with metal things in the middle stuck all over my body were eery tangible reminders of how close I came to death. I've always rejected the possibility of my being a missionary among remote peoples because I know that it would be really difficult/ impossible to get reliable/consistent access to the medications and food I need there. Maybe that's God's way of protecting me from feeling guilty for not answering the call to GO make disciples of the nations. On the other hand, fear is not of God. And I feel like I'm wasting the best years of my life avoiding things I'd like to try while I'm still young enough and free from responsibilities.

I love my parents very much, and I appreciate the sacrifices they have made so that I and my siblings could have all the opportunities we do for sports, music lessons, and post-secondary education. Both my social psych and personality psych profs confirm that we all become very like our parents by middle age no matter how hard we try to become something else. But I dread the thought of becoming them. There has to be more to life than watching movies or reading novels so you can avoid noticing as your body atrophies from disuse and wishing every morning that you were not returning to a job you hate with all your being. There has to be more than this present avoidance of people and places whose strength makes me feel embarrassed by my comparative inadequacies and weaknesses. God, please, I don't want to do this forever. I don't want to do it now.

So I've begun thinking that maybe a pilgrimage would be good for me. Possibly this summer, or maybe the next. I wouldn't go alone- I'd definitely want at least one friend with me. So it'd be a good relationship deepening experience with both God and people as we push ourselves, struggle. Meeting people along the way (friends and strangers) that God intentionally brings into our path would be cool. I really like the idea of going to a place where Native peoples dialogue with each other and with Christ-followers (not that there aren't a significant number of people who are both already) about faith, healing, God, and the land. I'm willing to bet walking or biking from Calgary to Lac de St. Anne would also take a while (I'm guessing a month, at least) and put me in much better physical shape than what full-time studies has reduced me to. I could finally have the solitude, the quiet, the simplicity, the discipline and daily order so very lacking from my city life. Facebook is killing my soul:) I like the idea of temporarily protesting/ rejecting our culture's obsessions with working to acquire more wealth than we need, moving from one place to another at break-neck speeds without actually being present anywhere, and seeking happiness and comfort before everything else. I want to revolt. I want to be inefficient, uncomfortable, present, and inaccessible. Plus, I've always wanted to see the north. But not yet. I have studies to complete over the next 2 months. God told me they're important. Oh, the tensions of now and then, real and unreal, the possible and impossible. Stupid tensions.

Faces

"I see dead people. They're everywhere."- Cole Sear's confession to his Psychologist in The Sixth Sense. "There are dead things- dead faces in the water!" -Samwise Gamgee, traveling through the dead marshes in The Twin Towers. All the Lonely People by the Beatles I look at all the lonely people. I look at all the lonely people. Ella Marigby Picks up the rice in the church where her wedding has been; Lives in a dream. Waits at the window, Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Father MacKenzie Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; No one comes near. Look at him working, Nodding his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? I look at all the lonely people. I look at all the lonely people. Ella Marigby Died in the church and was buried alone with her name. Nobody came. Father MacKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from her grave. No one was saved. All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Matthew 25:1-46 (The Sheep and the Goats). Verses 34-36 Then the King will say to those on his right, "Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me." Verses 41-43 Then the King will say to those on his left, "Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me." I am sure I have heard a sermon on this passage at least once a year every year of my life since I was born. No doubt they were all very well spoken- the passage and its meaning are not difficult to retrieve from the misty recesses of my memory. Then again, the Word of God is powerful no matter who speaks it. But it's haunting me now. Or rather, they're haunting me. The faces. The young man walking as quickly as he could towards the walk way over the river, hood up and looking down, trying to hide his face from passers-by. He was crying. Hard. He stunned me with the rawness of his hurt- a hurt so great he couldn't even hide it from the strangers he was trying so desperately to avoid. At first I continued my way in the opposite direction, but I got to the corner and felt compelled to go back. Are you okay? Can I pray for you? Where are you going? Is there anyone else in your life who can be with you through this? I followed him. He sped up. I started trotting. He started jogging. I followed him to the river pathway, then just watched to make sure he wasn't throwing himself off the bridge into the icey river below. He didn't. Deja vu. It was like passing and then following a male version of myself a couple months ago. Poor man. Not only was his heart and soul publicly broken, but in addition, when he's just trying to find solitude to heal in, some nosey woman starts stalking him. I let him be. I prayed someone he wouldn't be so creeped out by would find him and let him know God loves him and wants to heal him. A teen walking on the cross-over from a train station to the sidewalk. Repulsed of society: he was overweight, foreign, alone, dressed in a geeky track-suit, observably mentally retarded, and loudly moaning to himself. He walked with a limp, and his ankles were red with frost-bite. Why isn't he wearing socks? It's -30 degrees with wind-chill today. Where is his family? Where are his friends? Does he have any? Why is he moaning? Does he need help getting down the steps? I hurried past him, envisioning how I could ask if he needed assistance even as I rushed to the bottom of the stairs and continued on my way home, pretending he didn't exist like everyone else. It's hard to pray for someone when you're feeling guilty about failing to be the gospel incarnate you're asking God to bring them. A woman sitting on a bench in the mall. There's a walker in front of her- she seems a decade or two too young for it, but I guess poor health can hit anyone. She's frumpy-looking, and I wish I could take her shopping in this commercial mecca, then out for a manicure and hair-styling, and finally a fine dinner theatre experience where she can show it all off, to remind her that she's beautiful and loved. But it's her facial expression that literally stops me in my tracks. There is only one word to describe it: ANGUISH. She is in agony- physical, I think, probably connected to a spinal injury. Are you okay? You're sitting alone, with no shopping bags nearby, and it's almost time for the mall to close. Is anyone coming to get you? Why are you here? I stand in indecision. I don't want to embarrass her, but I don't want her to feel abandoned in her suffering by God and all of humanity. My friend has turned around and is looking back at me, wondering why I've stopped. We're here to buy my friend a ring to commemorate her newfound freedom from spiritual oppression in her life- a powerful event that occurred earlier this week while I was writing papers. The woman stretches with a trembling hand to a trendy young woman reading on the other side of the bench. She taps twice, until the girl cannot ignore the woman any more. The woman indicates a spot on her neck and the girl obliges her by feeling it. I decide that she has been taken care of and continue on with my friend. Later, we pass the woman again. The girl has gone back to her reading, and the woman is sitting alone, looking lost. I look at her and offer a friendly smile. I see you. You're not invisible. You matter. She does not, cannot, return the smile, drops her eyes to the ground, and begins the laborious process of rising to her feet. I kept walking with my friend, knowing I should have stopped. I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do (Romans 7:15). These are the faces of the weak, mine and theirs. The faces are everywhere. I feel them looking at me; searching, wanting, always needing more than I think I can give. On the c-train, when I go for walks, in my class, over the phone. I dread the calls from those same people when I'm at the DC. My silent questions are always the same: Are you okay? Where are your friends? Where is your family? They're nowhere. Unavailable or untrustworthy. And so, I'm forced to make inadequate referrals to therapists and help-lines they wouldn't need if there were just a handful of people in the world who cared how their day was, who would stand with them long enough to discover the names of the demons in their lives and then command them with the authority of Christ to leave. Acts 3:1-10 Verses 6 & 7. Then Peter said, "Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk." Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up, and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong. The apostles (1) saw the crippled man, (2) stopped to talk to him, and (3) offered him physical healing through the power of Christ, so that the crippled man could be restored to his friends and family, able to be a part of society instead of sitting at its gate. So far, all I've got down is step one. Occassionally I get to step two. I want to get to step three. Why is it so hard? And why am I training so hard to become a psychologist when some good intercessory prayer is so much more effective? We've already been over this, Faye. You need an 'in'. People need bridges between science and spirituality, someone who can translate the language of faith in one to the other. I have called you to bridge, to walk in the no man's land between worlds where few tread. Remain in me... The Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-10) by Jesus Christ Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.