Epiphany

Sometimes, I am struck by the wonder of my existence.

Most recently, it happened to me yesterday in church.  I was sitting with the other musicians, looking at the back of the reverend’s head as he made the weekly announcements.  The same kind of thing that happens every week.  I was a bit tuned out—I blame lack of sleep—and so really I was just letting my mind wander.  And quite suddenly I thought, Where am I?  What am I doing here?  And I didn’t mean here in the cafeteria that my church uses as a facility, sitting on a plastic chair and waiting for the songs to start.  I meant here, inside this ball of bone and flesh, living in a nest of electric and chemical signals, looking out of a pair of human eyes. 

This feeling comes on me every so often.  I could be walking down the street, or reading a book, or talking to friends, and BAM.  I am filled with astonishment at the thought of myself.  In these moments, I try to picture myself, try to pull up an image of who and what I am.  Sometimes I think of the face I see in the mirror, that round-cheeked girl with big teeth, lots of unruly hair, and questioning eyes.  But other times I can’t think of anything.  In those times, I can’t pin myself down.  How did I get here?  I wonder.  Why am I here?

It isn’t just myself that amazes me, though.  It’s everything I see around me.  Yesterday I looked at the sea of cables and the faulty speakers that make up our sound system, and I think, someone made these.  Someone made them, and someone sold them, and someone bought them.  Someone knew exactly how to set them up, plugged in each cord exactly where it needs to go, can tweak and adjust them so that the very sounds we make are changed.  Someone does that every single week. 

Someone made that guitar, smoothing the wood, setting the glue.  Someone made those strings, and someone else uncurled them to stretch over the bridge.  Someone figured out exactly how to translate metal and wood and air into music.  Someone built these walls, and made this chair, and set the tiles in the floor. 

Someone made these fantastic red boots I’m wearing, and someone put the clearance sticker on them so that I could bring them home.  My clothes, my earrings, the hairspray in my hair—in those moments, everything seems to be a miracle, and I can feel the touch of thousands of people, how I am connected to all of them in even the smallest ways.  And each of them is connected to a thousand more, and a thousand more…

We can’t live alone.  We just can’t do it.  In this world, everything we see, touch, buy, eat, drink, was somehow brought to us by someone else.  We take it for granted, but it’s true. 

Someone made my clock, my vitamins, this keyboard I’m hammering on, the monitor where I watch the words rolling across the screen.  Someone put the tea in the bag, and someone arranged the pipes so I could put water into the kettle someone made, and someone wired my stove so I could heat the water, and someone made this mug in which I put the tea, and someone milked the cow and someone harvested the sugar… 

You see?  We live in a web of people who are making things and learning things and each working in their small way to help all of us survive.

This is why I go to church.  This is why I believe in a higher power, and submit to that higher power.  I can’t believe that all these someones just sprang out of chaos and, purely by chance, became these inquisitive creatures sitting inside our flesh.  I don’t want to believe that.  No—Someone made them, those round shields of bone, those firing synapses, the hands that make and hammer and grasp and reach.  That Someone wants them to keep making things, keep reaching out to each other, keep spinning the web.  That Someone wants us to be connected this way, and gives us what we need to do it.

I don't know about you, but I think that's amazing.

Throwback Thursday: April 24, 2012

There were twenty-six days left until graduation.  That was my primary concern on this date two years ago.  My calendar marks events that I meant to attend and didn’t, due dates for class assignments, rehearsals for final performances and ceremonies honoring my accomplishments, and every single day had a little pencil mark counting down the days left.

I don’t like to think of myself wishing those days away.  My last days at my beloved alma mater, the last days living with my wonderfully mouthy college roommate and my nerdy neighbor, those last few tranquil classes (I scheduled my senior year very carefully)—they were precious times.  But living in those moments, you really can’t help yourself.  The coming change, the leap from college to “adulthood”, whatever that is, was all-consuming.  I thought I was ready, and I wanted it.  As it turns out, I wasn’t quite, but it only took a summer sleeping on the couch and a gentle kick in the pants to make me so.  But that’s a topic for another throwback.

Those days—the days when my homework was dwindling and I was easy while my classmates panicked, the days I spent finishing my thesis and dreaming about my own apartment and total freedom—were dreamy, peaceful times.  I may not have left college with a bang, but that wasn’t my style anyway.  I sauntered through my days, counting off each one, and looking ahead.  I don’t think that’s a terrible way to live life.

The End

It’s hard for me to move between worlds.  Don’t worry, I’m not claiming that I actually left good ol’ Terra today.  As a matter of fact, metaphorically, I was still on the same continent.  I was reading Naamah’s Blessing by Jacqueline Carey, the last book of its series, and a good portion of the book takes place in North America, among a fantasy equivalent of the Aztecs.  The story—which is the conclusion of three trilogies of books, beginning with Kushiel’s Dart, Kushiel’s Scion, and Naamah’s Kiss, respectively—is a revised history of the world spanning from the late middle ages to the end of the fifteenth century, centered on present-day France.  This land, called Terre d’Ange in the books, is the homeland of a people who are descended from angels, their primary god giving them only one precept: Love As Thou Wilt.

The books are beautifully done.  The first series follows Phédre no Delaunay, a courtesan and spy chosen by the one-time Punisher of God to endure pain as pleasure.  She moves through a world of intrigue, art, beauty, and yes, gratuitous sex.  In the course of three books, Phédre becomes a great heroine, traveling all across the known world and saving her homeland multiple times.  She even manages to rescue a young prince, the son of her deadliest enemy, and it is this boy, Imriel, who is the hero of the following series.  He, too, journeys all across the world, more often missing than not, but he, too, finds love by the end of the series.  I had thought that his story was the last that would be set in this intoxicating world, but I was wrong.  Carey wasn’t finished, and in Naamah’s Kiss, she introduced a new heroine, the wild and beautiful Moirin mac Fainche, daughter of a d’Angeline priest of desire and a witch of the Alban faith that worships the Great Bear.  I know, complicated.  If you read them, I advise that you begin with Phédre’s stories, otherwise all the implications will be lost to you.

Moirin’s stories are filled with more magic than in the previous books, and to be honest, the magic put a toll on my ability to disbelieve.  Poor Moirin is put through a lot, more even than one tends to expect from the heroines of novels, without much of a chance to rest.  Still, the books are beautifully written, with Moirin an impulsive, loving, and sexy character who is easy to like.  And the books do have something simply wonderful to say about the value of all faiths and the commonality of the human condition.  Finally, it is simply fascinating to look at our world in a new light. 

It was out of this world that I rose tonight, reluctantly, on closing the covers of the last book.  I sighed, smoothed my hands over the cover, and went to put it back on the shelf, and outwardly, that was that.  But in my head I’m still caught by the faces of Moirin and Bao and Desirée and Thierry and Brother Phanuel, as well as the City of Elua, Bryn Gorrydum, and the true Terre d’Ange-that-lies-beyond.  It’s hard to leave them behind, hard to remember that there is no magic in the world I’ve returned to, or at least if there is, it’s only the ordinary, every-day kind.  It’s hard for me to move on, and in a way I don’t want to.  I want to nurse this painful softness to myself, to appreciate just a little longer the art of a good story.  This is the gift I give to the author, the tribute I pay to her work, and I know that even though she may not know of it, she is glad of it.  It’s all I hope for in my own future, that someday someone might do the same for my own books, closing the last cover and simultaneously exalting in and mourning the end.

An Evening Walk

It has been a long time since I wanted to go to bed early due to physical weariness.  This evening, my roommate and I went on a long walk on a wooded trail, then spent nearly twenty minutes on the swings, because we’re adults.  I was quite worn out by the time we were done, mostly because I am horrendously out of shape.  It’s a good feeling, though, one that I’ve missed without realizing that I missed it.

So much of my life these days has been stationary.  My job is fairly physical, true, but the moment I get home I sit down in front of my computer, and for hours the only parts of me that will move are my hands.  Sometimes not even them, if I’m being particularly lazy and just scrolling through Facebook or Pinterest.  Books take up much of the rest of my time, and physical activity isn’t a priority for me.

As a kid, though, I was a mover and shaker.  I did gymnastics and soccer for years, and I was always climbing trees and running across the fields.  In high school I did marching band, and anyone who doesn’t believe that to be a sport has never held up a three-pound weight for eight minutes straight whilst playing fortissimo and running the equivalent of the hundred-yard dash in step. 

I’ve become more introspective over the years, I suppose.  Able to find privacy and inspiration in my own head, I didn’t spend as much time looking for it outdoors.  But when I gave up these activities, I also gave up the thrill of a racing pulse, the pleasant almost-ache of warm muscles, the sweet rush of quickened breath.  Tonight’s excursion, however brief, reminded me that sometimes it’s just as nice to exist inside this body as away from it.  And this world, with its cloudy moons, soft breezes, cool raindrops, and yes, swingsets, is just as wonderful—if not more so—as any I could create.

Skywalkers

I don’t usually delve too deeply into internet trends.  Funny pictures of cats, e-cards and memes—these things are good for a chuckle or a distraction when I’m suffering from writer's block.  But these pictures caught and held my attention.  It’s pretty hard not to be caught by it, to be honest.  I found myself searching for the safety equipment, for any sign of photoshopping, but found nada.  These are real, flesh-and-blood people who are hanging off of skyscrapers.

What kind of a trend is this?  Because I’ve done my research, and apparently it is a trend.  ABC News did a segment on it, which proves I’m not imagining things.  The trend began in Russia, where “skywalkers” like Vitaly Raskalov and Marat Dupri have made names for themselves climbing impossibly tall structures without safety gear of any kind.  At the top, they take pictures of the views and of themselves—naturally, right?  No one would believe them, otherwise.  Now if it were just these few people doing it, I would be impressed.  I would question their sanity a little, but I would be impressed. 

But there are hundreds of people doing this.  There are pictures of skywalkers and “roofers” all across the internet, each more daring that the last.  People doing handstands on exposed beams, people dangling from suspension bridges, all in their twenties or younger.  I look at all of this in blank astonishment, and my question is: why?  Who would want to do this?  What in this trend would be worth risking their lives?  It is so, so dangerous.  Check out the video above, if you haven’t already—it says plainly that one young man has died from this hobby.  His friend Marat, also a skywalker, says this tragedy stopped him from doing “something very risky.”  He still climbs, though, and to me, that's pretty damn risky.

I’m trying to restrain the immediate, mom-like impulse, which is utter horror.  I don’t want to be a stick in the mud, by any means.  In theory, I can come up with a few reasons people may want to do this, and most don't balance the risk, in my opinion.  If they do it for fame, then I pity them the lack of wisdom that counts the regard of others over their own self-regard.  If they do it for the thrill, then I pity them that they can’t find happiness in smaller things.  But if they do it for art—to capture the beauty and the danger of such a moment, to put their lives on the line to find something that no other human being can—well.  That I can admire, and even be grateful for.

I still am afraid for these people, and I regret the years they might lose, the years they don’t value enough to protect.  But after all, what makes humans amazing is their vast differences from one another.  Some will never take their eyes off the ground, not once in their entire lives.  Some will wish for the stars, but never do more that hope.  And some—some will steal stairways to heaven, will offer up their safety and sanity for a chance to taste it.  That vast spectrum between the former and the latter is what makes humanity all that it is.

Hello My Name Is

Being a server, I frequently see articles and posts online about the problems and irritations that servers encounter.  We’re human, and so we find things to complain about—commiseration is an international sport.  Recently, however, I came across a post that expressed the opposite side.  Now, I try to think of myself as a fair person.  I read through the post, and most of the points it brought up, I could agree with.  I personally try not to point people towards a certain menu item just because it’s the most expensive, nor am I pushy about selling people more than they want.  I don’t think I am, anyway.  And there are some things on the list I’ve been guilty of—stealing someone’s plate before they’re finished is one of them.  My bad.

But the very first point struck me as strange.  The writer listed the giving of the server’s name as a point of irritation.  In his words:

            Does anything induce more eye rolls at the table than this sort of chipper opening gambit?We’re going to be in each other's company for at most a few hours, and preferably about 30 minutes if the meal goes according to plan. This sort of feigned intimacy is just annoying, and always feels a little like a ploy to actually say, “Remember that I am a human being with a name and a family…so don’t stiff me on the tip, you dick!”

Huh.  I always thought it was polite to introduce oneself when you met someone.  Pushing past the pique, however, I have to admit that he brings up an interesting topic.  What is the relationship between a customer and a server?  Are we friends, or temporary master and servant?  What is the proper etiquette?  It’s an interesting interpersonal relationship that hasn’t really been explored, or at least I’ve never seen anyone take a good look at it.  And yet almost every day you’ll come across someone else in this role: a cashier, a server, a salesperson.  How should you treat them?

It seems everyone has a different idea, and I try to follow my customer’s lead.  Sometimes the table is chatty and interested in me—“Eileen, that’s a pretty name!  Did you know there’s an old song with your name in it?”  (The answer is yes.  Yes, I did know.)  Other tables simply smile, place their orders, and then go back to their conversations, and that’s fine.  I’m like that when I go to restaurants—I just don’t really enjoy talking to strangers.  It’s not personal. 

But when I’m working, I do take it personally when a customer cuts me off before I can give them my name.  Money has nothing to do with it in that moment.  The customers who don’t wait for my name are the ones who shout “excuse me!” or even “hey!”, usually when I’m busy with another table.  Or worse, snap their fingers at me.  They have relegated me to automaton status, and it’s rude, even hurtful.  The fact is I am a human being, and I like to be treated as one.

Even if I weren’t working for tips, I would give my name to you.  It doesn’t mean I want to be your best friend.  I understand that I will probably never know your name, and I might never see you again.  I will spend maybe ten minutes of your hour-long meal in your company.  But for that entire hour, I will be fetching things for you, checking to make sure your food is the way you wanted it, arguing with the bartender for you, and keeping an eye out so your drink doesn’t run dry.  In that hour, I am working for you, and I take pride in my work.  If that doesn’t deserve twenty percent, it certainly deserves some consideration.

Photo from http://paleoperiodical.com/2011/09/22/how-not-to-conduct-yourself-at-a-restaurant/

Her Morning Terror

Do something for me.  Go to Google (or your preferred search engine) and type in "looking in the mirror".  Hit images and take a good look.  How many of the images that come up are women?  Of those images, how many of those women are smiling?  Not that many, right?  Look into the eyes of those women who are not smiling.  What do you see there?  Uncertainty, disappointment, nervousness, resignation?  I would argue that it is fear.

There is fear in every woman.

You have to really look to see it.  It looks like vanity in some, or even pleasure, when they pause to glance at themselves in a mirror or a window.  Sometimes it's simple busyness when a woman is preparing for her day.  But I see it, when my friends pluck at their clothes and sigh, or when they cringe at photos of themselves posted online and hurry to disconnect their names from their faces.  I see it sometimes in my own mirror, in the moment when I realize the reflection isn’t going to get any better.

The world makes us afraid of ourselves.  It makes us afraid of the way people will look at us, the judgments that they will make.  It makes us afraid to eat that scrumptious-looking hamburger, afraid of the little pudges that form at our sides or in our belly.  It makes us hide behind thick makeup, uncomfortable shoes, sticky hairspray and heavy earrings.  I remember several occasions where I was drawn to some brightly colored shirt or dress in a store.  I would pick it up, hold it up to myself, dream of myself wearing it, indulge myself in that brief happiness—and then I would put it back.  “I’ll never be brave enough to wear that in public.”

I have it better than some women.  I know that.  Having heard friends talk about their strict diets and moan about their figures, I know I have a better self-image than they.  But even I struggle with myself in the mornings when I’m preparing to step out.  Now if I venture out of the house with loose hair, no makeup, wearing jeans or a T-shirt, or any combination thereof, I do so in a faint haze of fear.  “Who’s looking at me?” I wonder.  “Someone is.  I know someone’s thinking that I look like a slob.  Look at that poor girl, they’re thinking, she doesn’t know anything about fashion.  She’s so ugly.”  And I put those thoughts into other’s mouths because I’ve thought the same thing about other women.  I’m just as much prosecutor as defendant.

I’m sure this happens to men too.  I remember when, growing up, I would walk out of my bedroom into a cloud of cologne issuing from my brother’s room; back then he paid more attention to his wardrobe than I did.  Everyone, male and female, suffers the scrutiny of others.  But when there is an entire industry—really, multiple industries—telling you what you should be and are not, it increases the pressure exponentially.  I won’t even get into the fact that “plus-size” models always look exquisite to me, whereas supermodels look like some strange cross between teenage boys and aliens. 

It hurts me to think that the weight of those stares in some way diminishes what we are.  It hurts me to think that we sometimes look at ourselves in the mirror and feel that tiny despair of not being good enough.  I wish there were a way my sisters, my mother, my friends, and someday, my daughters, could walk out into the world and not care what others think, not even the smallest bit.  I wish we could wear our hearts on our sleeves, certain of coming home in the evening with them undamaged.