Blackouts

This week I experienced two blackouts. 

Monday morning: a manhole exploded a couple streets away from my school, so they shut off electricity in the immediate vicinity; consequently, school was canceled and all enjoyed a pre-Thanksgiving day-off. 

Last night, J and I, along with two friends from our house church, enjoyed a quiet evening at Qdoba's, followed by an "Advent Pre-funk" at our place.  While in the midst of reading Scripture and meditating on the world which is to come, the power went out. 

The first candle of Advent had been lit, and for the next hour or so, we sat around the candlelight in pitch darkness, admiring the flame's beauty and enjoying the warmth of conversation.  Without electricity, we felt naked and helpless, yet because we were in the company of a single light source that was unaffected by the power outage, we felt secure. 

Prior to the blackout, the candlelight danced fervently to capture our attention, but we did not notice it because we were focused on other tasks.  Yet when the entire room suddenly turned pitch black, the only thing that captivated our attention was the candlelight, which became the centerpiece of conversation. 

A sudden moment of clarity.

Modern life, with its bright lights, instant messages, and disposable materials, can make us lose sight of our light/life source.  While we're busy looking in every which direction, the candlelight dances and bides its time. 

Run.

Yesterday I worked out at the YMCA for the first time.  It was strange to be in my stretchy pants and work out clothes, all the while self-conscious that my students would somehow recognize me.  Most of them play ball in the gym, and with plenty of windows all around the elliptical machines, I would be hard pressed to escape their notice.  I thought I was free until I looked up to see a toothy grin staring at me through the window. 

[caught]

At this time, I should probably strap on my gym shoes and head out for a jog. The weather is too nice to pass.

Good thing it takes blogging to motivate me.

See ya!

Dreams, strange ones

I had an appointment at 4 p.m. with my former piano teacher, yet I had time to kill. Therefore, my mother dropped me off at the local thrift store to shop for shoes. She was supposed to be back in time to take me to my lesson, yet at 4:12, she was still no where in sight. When I found her eventually, she seemed oblivious to my predicament, at which point I unleashed a volley of invectives.

As soon as those harsh words escaped from my mouth, I awoke from my dream. My first thought: it's Sunday. My second thought: I didn't do any work yesterday so I have to work today. My third thought: I hate work. My fourth thought: "Whatever you do, do all to the glory of God." I felt immediately convicted and confused, as if this dream was supposed to have some spiritual significance. I usually don't read much into my dreams since they usually don't make sense, yet this one is making me pause.

The strangest part of this dream was that even as I was yelling at my mother, I felt a sense of guilt welling up inside. This incident could have been avoided if I had simply told my mother about this appointment ahead of time, and I also could have sought her out earlier rather than wait around for her to pick me up. As I was yelling at her in my dream, I realized this truth. Yet it felt good to unleash my anger on someone else and it was much easier to blame others than to take responsibility for my own actions.

This particular thought hit home as I realized the way I have been approaching work lately. My mind has been drifting between two worlds: the present, laborious, day-in, day-out tasks of lesson planning, grading papers, and going to meetings vs. the amorphous future that ever titillates my imagination. My approach to work these days has been to put off responsibility whenever possible, since I am too tired or otherwise preoccupied to do what I'm supposed to do.

"Whatever you do, do all to the glory of God." This reminder both convicts yet annoys me. It's easier said than done.

A page out of my journal: February 10, 2005

Surely, meeting this guy has not changed my life, but it has infused a
fresh perspective in me. Being a teacher is being able to see the
potential in another person, even when he or she cannot see it within
him/herself. This guy was able to get out of selling drugs and living
a "messed-up" life because one of his former teachers called him out.
But being able to see someone's potential is not enough. A teacher
must have the courage to speak truth, to provide opportunities for
growth, and to be patient even when people don't respond well.

Sometimes I get this inkling that I will be severely challenged, maybe
even persecuted some day down the road. Though right now I am
comfortable, I don't imagine things will be always be this way.
Comfort leads to apathy. I do not ever want to be apathetic, for
apathy kills the soul.


What happens when you realize that your older self is wiser than your current self and you have become the very person you vowed never to become? What happens when you grow cynical and tired, and the brightness of yesterday's ideals have been dimmed due to the dreary circumstances of today? What happens when you begin to hope for a change, yet you are afraid that you might not be strong enough to go through the fire?


I wonder if this morning's dream was supposed to nudge me back into life somehow. Music and writing -- two forces that once occupied the forefront of all my creative energy -- are so much on the peripheral now that I must focus my energies on teaching. Perhaps I am late for my appointment with these creative forces? Perhaps I need to stop waiting for them to find me and take proactive measures to seek them out? Perhaps I need to start taking responsibility for my own actions, rather than blame my work for making me tired and stressed all the time...

I've been reading a book lately (loaned to me by a friend): China Road by Rob Gifford. Whenever I read books of this sort, my heart leaps and I wish that I could have a writer's life.


[Baby steps]

Revisiting old flames

At a wedding reception last night, J was talking to a friend and said, "Maybe we should just go. We've been talking about it so much that if we don't do it, we may always wonder 'What could have been?' Let's just go to China next year. There's no better time than now!"

I was shocked to hear J's statement, since he is usually one to be meticulous and thoughtful about his decisions and words. This kind of impulse would be more likely to come out of my mouth than his. Strangely though, after I heard these statements, I was immediately excited, then saddened. The thought of actually picking up and going to the country that has captured my imagination since high school made my heart leap for a moment. Yet as I thought about the friends we have made in Boston and the lifestyle we have come to enjoy, I knew that we would be giving up many things that have come to mean so much to us.

A life overseas promises excitement and challenges. In the past, I would have thirsted for this kind of lifestyle, yet lately, I have grown too comfortable in my current state to desire such a radical change. Perhaps that is precisely why change is in order. I'm not sure what is in store, nor am I sure that this is even the path God is outlining for us. Yet I do know that if we do make a decision to go overseas, it will be entirely an act of God!

I feel like Indiana Jones who is standing at the brink of the abyss: the bridge is invisible and my fears are palpable, yet I need to take that first step and trust that the map and legends indeed show a bridge exists.

* Sucking in my breath *

Here we go!

Mystic

This weekend, J and I took a trip to Mystic, Connecticut, to celebrate our six months anniversary. Amazingly, we are already half-way through our first year of marriage! Since both of us have been under a lot of pressure at work lately, the weekend get-away was timely, refreshing, and educational.

We visited the Pequot Museum, in which we were able to learn about the culture, life, and history of the Pequot tribe. Visiting this museum was an added bonus, since I had just been teaching my students about the Pequot war of 1636-37, yet I did not know that I would actually visit where battles took place when we decided to go to Mystic. In addition, my students had been writing argumentative essays on the issue of tribal gaming, and many of them have parents who often go to Foxwoods, a grand casino near the museum that is owned by the Pequot tribe. Learning about these connections have made history come alive for me. As I have learned more about history of various Native American tribes, I have become more saddened and angered at the mistreatment of these people. The silver lining, however, is that the Native Americans are still very much alive and active. The fact that the Pequot tribe has been able to create this remarkable museum is a testament to their resiliency.

J and I hiked a trail this morning that began at the Denison Pequotsepos Nature Center. Within the woods, we noticed traces of stone walls that must have marked private homesteads at one point in time. Yet the homesteads have been long abandoned and the woods have once again reclaimed its land. As we hiked, I imagined myself to be a Pequot woman, manuevering a familiar trail that would have posed a danger for me in the 1630's. I listened to the leaves rustle and the trees sway in the wind, telling me stories that have been buried under layers of earth. A powerful gust of wind sent a flurry of fallen leaves across our path.

This image reminded me of a certain e.e. cumming's poem:

1(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

A friend from college introduced me to this poem and said, "This poem is me." I remember being sad to learn that she often felt like a single falling leaf and always in a state of loneliness. A leaf, just like a human life, must separate itself from its community and "die" alone. Yet in the image that I saw this morning, not just one leaf, but a multitude of leaves fell to their final resting place. It was as if the trees wanted to show me just how many human lives have fallen on this soil hundreds of years ago, dying all at once due to human stupidity, injustice, and greed.

I cannot help but grieve for the human condition.

Sometimes, it takes all my energy to hold onto hope, a hope in the kind of redemption that would make all wrongs right. All is not well, yet I cannot succumb to fatalism that would swallow me in anger, pity, or vengeance. Sometimes, though, I am tempted to be angry at the Creator -- why so much suffering? Why do you allow such rampant human stupidity?

Another day, another month. Time whizzes past me like a meteor falling from the sky.

In the midst of an extremely busy week, I am grateful for small things like:

- warm cups of water
- African violets from my husband
- marinated beef
- invitations to dinners
- journal entries
- satisfaction of having had a full day
- understanding friends who are forgiving with me falling asleep on them
- music from my guitar
- Chuck
- silence