The Benefit(?) of the Doubt

"Doubt—a feeling of uncertainty or lack of conviction."  That's Google's definition.  I'd like to add fear, lack of confidence, and the feeling that the ground you are standing on is growing unsteady.  And it’s been on my mind for a while.  Well, it’s always around, but usually I try to ignore it.  Not today.

I like to think of myself as a confident person.  I get away with this because I know for a fact I used to be much less sure of myself than I am now.  Education, maturity, and an improved sense of self-esteem have all given me a lot of faith in myself over the years.  But it is so easy for doubt to creep back in.  I can check twice to make sure the shopping list is in my purse, but if my roommate texts me to ask if I have it, I have to check again.  It’s not just about little things, either, like whether I brushed my teeth or whether I locked the door.  I doubt other people’s intentions and their opinions of me, even when there is no evidence in their actions to give me reason.  For example, a coworker recently offered to cover one of my shifts this weekend, saying that I have been working a lot lately and deserve a day off.  I was very grateful to accept and touched that she had noticed my fatigue, but a little voice in the back of my head just wouldn’t be silent.  It told me that she just needs the money, that she is actually laughing at me with her friends, calling me lazy or foolish—“we don’t want to work with her anyway.”  Never mind that that kind of behavior is immature to the extreme, not to mention illogical.  The doubt is still there.

We live in a world today where danger is not a constant companion.  Yes, I might get hit by a bus or robbed out there, but the likelihood of physical harm is slim in the secure life that I lead.  Instead we find our dangers these days in the social and emotional realms of life.  To survive, to be happy, we need to have a solid position in society, to be seen as strong, to be valued, to be loved.  So we spend much of our time measuring ourselves against others, trying to guess what they think of us, trying to influence their opinions.  We can even do it all on our own, holding ourselves up to high standards that we could never really be expected to meet.  It gets exhausting after a while, and the doubts never really go away.  In fact, I’ve found that the more you feed them, the more they grow.

The solution I’ve found to these pests is a simple one: to kill doubt, you must have faith.  I’m not talking about capital F Faith, though I will say that my religion gives me a great deal of security in my life.  But in this case, it is enough to find something that you know is true and rest in that.  Get in touch with a friend whose actions and words you don’t have to analyze.  Do something that you know you are good at, or else something that doesn’t require you to be the best.  When you have a refuge where you feel safe just being yourself, you’ll find that the doubts do a little less shouting.  

In Memoriam: Frances O'Connor

This week should have been my grandmother’s birthday.  I suppose it still is—January 17^th will always stand out for me, because it was so definitively her day.  But while I will continue to celebrate her every time this day comes around, she is no longer around to be celebrated.

I have written to honor my grandmother before.  A few years ago I posted on this blog about her, and I have worked up a series of poems in her honor.  But when it comes to talking about her now that she is gone, I don’t quite know what to say.  I did not know as much about my grandmother as I would like—by the time I was mature enough to see adults as actual people and not just towers of authority, she was far away from me, both in physical distance and in her mind.  I never got the chance to ask her what it was like going to college in pre-WWII America, or how she felt watching friends and family enlist and disappear overseas.  I never had the chance to hear about the culture shock of moving from her South Carolina birthplace to the Connecticut town where she raised four sons, nor to learn from her an entirely new perspective of my father and my uncles.  I was never brave enough to ask her what she thought of how the world had changed around her, nor how she felt she had changed with it.

What I know of Frances O’Connor is accumulated from impressions collected over the years of visits.  To me, she was Grammy, a hunched, white-haired woman with a faint Southern-belle drawl and a distinctive laugh.  She was a little bit deaf, so I spent much of my childhood shouting at her.  Grammy was a master at the nagging compliment—“You have such a beautiful face, darlin’.  I just wish I could see it,” inevitably followed by a suggestion that I get some barrettes to restrain my curtain of hair.  Another beauty tip I got from her once was “leave your eyebrows alone.  So many girls pluck and wax and all that silly stuff—your eyebrows are beautiful.  Leave ‘em alone.”  I’ve followed this advice, which has saved me a lot of time, irritation, and pain.  Grammy’s wisdom holds true.

Inevitably thoughts of my grandmother bring back memories of her home.  Some people simply live in a house, but Grammy truly did inhabit that place, filling it from wall to wall with her color, her grace, and her style.  It was always impeccably clean—I remember her stooping over with much difficulty to pick up and scowl at an object from her carpet, so small that I hadn’t even noticed it.  Clutter was not permitted in that house; everything had its place.  There was beauty everywhere—carefully crafted china, small replicas of famous artwork, crystal charms and handmade quilts.  For a while the house intimidated me, but as I grew older and less likely to break something, I came to love that house, because it was so clearly a reflection of herself.

I sincerely hope that Grammy knew me better than I knew her.  For the past few years I have been writing letters to her, keeping her updated on my news and my thoughts.  At the beginning of every month, I pulled out a sheet of paper, wrote a page full of silliness and some seriousness, folded it up into a nice card, and dropped it into the mail for her.  Though she wasn’t able to write back, it was a connection that I valued—that even at the distance, even when she was forgetting where she was or what was happening, I still had a place and participation in her life.  That, I think, is the most important thing.  Even when knowledge and understanding of another person are lacking, if one is willing to remain in that person’s life, to be there and to maintain that connection, there can still be love.  And I think that holds true even now, when she is not there to receive my letters.  I will still think of her often, still send her my thoughts, and so I’ll never lose her entirely.  That will be my comfort when I miss her, which will be often.

Happy birthday, Grammy.  See you again someday.

Beer and Bible

For several months now, I have been attending a very unique bible study.  The very phrase “Bible study” summons up some well-furnished living room, warm and comfortable, with some kind of baked goods on the table and a church mom (who are, of course, the best kind of people) leading discussion on the gospels and how to live a godly life. 

That is not Beer and Bible.  B&B is held in the back room of a building in downtown Salem (such as it is) around a massive wooden table pushed against a raw brick wall.  The average age of the attendees is lower than thirty, and the percentage of those attendees who have tattoos is much higher than most people would think a Christian group would have.  That word, Christian, is not necessarily a universal descriptor, either.  This group regularly hosts Mormons, Catholics, and atheists, and there is heavy Jewish influence.  It’s extra Jewey, as our fearless leader has been known to say.

The presentation of the lessons is very casual—no one is told how to think or how to interpret the scripture.  And it is scripture, always, both Old and New Testament, with some support from rabbinical sources, but always directly referencing back to the scripture.  The tone is, essentially, “here’s what the Bible says, and here’s what a lot of old people have thought about it, and here’s some funny story about this passage, isn’t that cool?”

It’s a lot of fun: there is a great deal of humor involved, and the group puts a lovingly irreverent twist on everything that makes it accessible and enjoyable.  We have speculated in the past on whether mermaids and centaurs would be kosher, and once we went through a story of a prophet who “rode that ass”.  There have been live demonstrations of how to gird one’s loins and how, exactly, the prophets Elijah and Elisha might have healed sick children (it’s weird).  Tertiary syphilis is apparently not better than primary syphilis, and ‘foot’ was often used as a euphemism for the sex organ—yes, there are penis jokes in the bible (check out 1 Kings 12.10).  Then there are the tangents, which we attempt to confine to a single night once a month, but they rarely stay there.  Some of my favorite quotes, for which I cannot for the life of me remember the context, include “ankle-deep in live snakes” and “I have a glass bottle and one arm: come at me!”

The best part of Beer and Bible, though (aside from the beer, which is never officially provided but always seems to appear on the table), is that any question is allowed.  We dig deep, spending nearly an hour on a single word sometimes, and we make connections that I never would have made alone.  Phrases that I skim right over in my solo reading bring new meaning to the text when read in the light of history and tradition that has been lost over time.  It’s not about who is right and who is wrong about what scripture has to say.  It’s about giving out tools to help us find more meaning in the text, leaving the final decision of what to believe to us.  In the end, I think Jesus would be totally cool with it—and of course, he’s always welcome to come join us.  We’ll save him a beer.              

2016 in Retrospect

Another year means another year to look back upon.  Let’s get started, shall we?

A life goal of mine is to go on a trip abroad once every five years.  That began in 2006 when I went to Spain and France with a group from my high school, and continued in 2011 when I went to study abroad.  Now, in January 2016, I went with my mother on a tour across Spain and Portugal, a two-week trip that I will always remember fondly.  We began in Barcelona, spending three days there touring the city and the surrounding areas (Montserrat and Sagrada Familia were my favorite places there).  Then we went on to Valencia, where we had perfect weather by the sea.  My dad contacted us around this time, and we told him it was twenty-four degrees (Celcius), just about perfect by our standards.  He replied, “Yeah, it’s twenty-four degrees here, too (Fahrenheit).”  Somehow, nice weather while you’re abroad is nicer when they’re having rotten weather back home.  Our last stop in Spain was Seville, where we got lost in the marketplaces, watched a flamenco show, and got way overcharged by gypsies outside of a cathedral.  Then we took the worst sleeper train ever over to Coimbra in central Portugal, where my mother’s dear friend Lou picked us up.  After some much-needed rest in their guest room, we began our exploration of Portugal, visiting two different, marvelous castles and touring through Lisbon.  As the crown on a wonderful trip, Mom and I spent half a day in London on our way back. 

In comparison, February was very quiet, and I found myself disbelieving that anything so exciting had happened at all.  We had one of our monstrous snows, and I visited an old friend for an unhealthy slumber party and some catch-up time, but otherwise my calendar was pretty clear.

In March I picked up an online class series that would last me through to August.  It was a religious studies course offered through Harvard, a beautifully managed course featuring each of the five major world religions: Christianity, Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism, and Judaism.  I didn’t take the courses for credits, but I learned a lot.  When I wasn’t busy with the class, I was doing things like working, taking my sister to the movies for her birthday, and driving off to Richmond to visit a friend and her new baby.

In April I performed my first non-Christmas concert with the Roanoke Symphony Chorus.  Carmina Burana by Carl Orff was the featured piece, and though I’d been slow to warm up to the strange music, I came to love it by the end.  I also did some housesitting, attended a wedding, and took my kitten to the vet for her Bob Barker treatment.

In May I began to attend a bible study with a very irreverent atmosphere: at Beer and Bible, any question is allowed and encouraged, no matter how strange or wild.  I’ve been attending ever since, and loving it, and maybe a future blog post will feature some of the gems I’ve collected from that crazy group.  In addition, my brother graduated from college, the last of the O’Connor clan to do so.  He’s now working in software development; don’t ask me any more, because I wouldn’t be able to explain it.  I do know that I’m proud of him.

One thing that happened in the spring that I forgot to mention, but that filled most of June, was the initial posting of my angel blog, Tales of Love from the Stolen Earth.  This was a project I had been working on for some time, and finally I decided to share it with the internet at large.  The story line follows the work of an angel, Asa’el, who has just begun his work as a Cupid.  Asa’el, fascinated by the shadowed world of mankind, documents his work and his adventures by way of a blog, just like the humans do.  It’s been a joy to work on, and with any luck the story will continue to grow.

My birthday in July passed quietly, but not unnoticed.  The day before I had the chance to participate in a photo shoot with a friend who made my hair into a rainbow, and the week afterward another friend had a little dinner party for me, which was an absolute delight.  I’d never had anyone do anything like that for me before, and I absolutely loved it.  Later in the month I flew out to Seattle with my family for my cousin’s wedding, which was more like a giant family reunion.  It was so good to see everyone. 

August began auspiciously with attendance at a performance of Twelfth Night at the Blackfriars Theatre in Staunton.  If you’ve never been, I highly recommend it: it is a beautiful space, and home to the American Shakespeare Center, which is such a talented group of performers.  Twelfth Night is one of my favorites, and I so enjoyed the performance.  I also had the chance to bring a dear friend along who was immediately smitten with the space and the performance.  Isn’t that a wonderful warming thing, to share something you love with someone you love, and have them love it, too?  The rest of the month, however, was filled with upheaval, as Ruby Tuesdays decided quite suddenly to close the store at which I was a server.  Come the second week of August, I find all of the shifts I had written into my calendar were whited out.  Thankfully, one of those lucky coincidences happened to me when I was talking to a friend of mine.  She mentioned that she had just begun working for a smoothie shop which was looking for a new manager.  She gave the owner my information, and by the end of the month I was hired and working again.  In the end it all came out for the best—I have a better position with a less stressful atmosphere, and I gained several new friends in the bargain.

September brought with it another trip to Richmond, where a baby’s high fives and his older sister’s perfect curls utterly stole my heart.  I also took on a new project, a little children’s choir at my church.  Though it started off a bit tentatively, the choir is still going on, and I have a handful of dedicated children who love to come every other week to sing with me.  What more could a music lover ask for? 

October was full of nothing special—visits with friends, bible studies, choir rehearsal, a new online class—philosophy this time—dogsitting, and a visit home for my mother’s birthday: all the lovely little things that enrich a life.

November brought a few visits home, including the requisite Thanksgiving celebration.  It also brought the return of Harry Potter movies into my life—no small thing, for a world which has been a part of my life since childhood.  If you haven’t seen Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them yet, please stop depriving yourself.  It was, well, fantastic.

December was exhausting.  Aside from Sunday, I believe I worked every day for the first three weeks, and then I also had multiple choir rehearsals and performances, not to mention a funeral out of town.  My grandmother passed away in the first week, my father’s mother, and the last of my surviving grandparents.  She had been failing for some time, so it wasn’t very unexpected, but very sad all the same.  She was a marvelous woman.  Still, the funeral provided me with an opportunity to visit with my dad’s side of the family, some of whom I haven’t seen in years.  Among them was my cousin’s adopted son, quite possibly the most beautiful six-month-old I have ever met. 

Babies and journeys, new lessons and new endeavors—2016 may have been a rough year for the world, and it may have been for me, too, but with the struggle came many joys and blessings.  I wouldn’t change a thing.  Here’s to an equally exhausting, exhilarating, maddening, delightful 2017.