Know Thyself

I'm still working on changing the world. Today, however, I'm taking a moment to check-in with myself rather than the world at large...or perhaps it's more honest to say I did a face-plant in a pile of 'woah, baby, what's going on? why is that so important?' just a few hours ago.

It's a good face plant, don't worry. Like shoving your face in cake on your second birthday and tasting the sweetness and fluffy wonder that you hadn't been able to take in a year ago because you were way too overstimulated.

So, a few hours ago, I'm standing in line at Dunkin to get pumped full of gasoline for humans doing what 21st century twenty-something city-dwellers do--pretend to be busy checking something on the smartphone that seems almost as comfortable on your palm as skin. Go ahead, judge me...but I know you do it too, especially if you live in New England where people are generally floating through life with a too-cool-for school attitude mixed in their coffee and dancing out of their earbuds.

An email pops up!
Great! Now, I'm not really pretending...even though we all know it is advisable to do real email correspondence on the computer.
Double great! It's a notification that a professor has graded and commented on a homework assignment. I really like comments. So naturally, I'm engrossed in this now.
I read the comments. I bubble with sparkles glazing my joyous smile. I have to share this.
And so the text is sent: "My writing is rocking Jessica's (the professor) socks. She just used the words beautiful and brilliant in the same descriptive sentence. Major win!"

And then some of the sparkle diffuses to wonder, amazement, and near self-deprication with the thought "what about that assignment was so beautiful and brilliant? why is Jessica drawn to my writing?" But I catch myself. I stop myself thank goodness! My brain has been known to snowball quickly--especially with these sorts of critical musings. And I recognize how fully affirmed I am feeling.

An incredibly well-spoken, well-read, well-educated neuroscience professor has just complemented me in a huge way.

HOLY DANG.

And then I think deeper again (see, you don't want to be me, it can be exhausting)..."why is this so big for me? what about this is important to me?" Yes, I took narrative therapy this summer, can you tell?! 

A trip around the block searching for a spot to park allowed me the time to answer...I already knew it was important that people like my writing. I figured that out sophomore year of college when I encountered the first professor who did not particularly care for my style--the comments on my papers were always style-related--and I noticed I was offended. I know I am a good writer, but I'm not comfortable describing myself with any stronger adjectives. The questioning, learning, self-conscious creator inside me needs affirmation. I don't want to just be a good writer. I'm not okay with just being good. Somewhere along the purple cobblestone road of my life, I decided that's not good enough for someone whose career desires have, for years, included writing a book (at least one) and earning a Ph.D. People who are just good writers might write a book but not get published or if they know the right people they get published but no one buys their book. 

To be affirmed in my writing style is to be told that my dreams are reachable, that I'm not a crazy person who wants fresh pumpkin pie in April (oops, that's already happened). 

This afternoon, I met a part of myself that needs to be pushed to excel while its efforts are being both rewarded and affirmed. Now that I know I need feedback that does this, I'm gonna go seek it out. Next time Jessica calls something brilliant, I'll sit down with her and hash it out some more. If she's as intelligent and wonderful as her reputation says, I'm in good hands for the next 12 weeks. 

Supply list for 18th grade: Scissors, Duct Tape, and a Nalgene Waterbottle

Tomorrow I meet my advisees at orientation.
Thursday I begin class.
Next Monday I begin my internship at Boston Medical Center.

Abundant with gratitude, I breathe calmly because my final year of graduate school gets rolling with a gradual start. I can only imagine the number of four letter words and emotionally charged texts I'd be giving out if it all happened on one day!

In honor of the first week of school, it seems fitting to tell you about the items required for a successful encounter with the 18th grade--or so I think, perhaps there will be a sequel to this post after graduation next May.

Scissors:
When I lived with my best friend during our senior year at SLU, we got to know each other's quirks in a whole new way. She realized I have my own style of watching television--it involves turning on the device then turning my back and cooking dinner or opening my compute to catch up on emails. I learned that she has tons of nifty tricks to help one live frugally. When it got to the point that a squeeze provided no progress, Annie would use scissors to cut open her toothpaste tube or face wash or lotion container--she knew there was more inside to be used.

My school scissors are for opening myself up so I can dig deeper and find the good stuff still inside me. This is going to be a tough year--physically, emotionally, and mentally. I'm in a 4-day a week internship as well as a full load of classes. This internship gives me the opportunity to do therapy with my first clients...but I have to be ready to see my first client at 8am, which means I have to leave the house around 6:50 to get not he subway, which means I have to wake up at 5 to run. I'm out of practice with the early-wake up call because I've been injured since December. And after I leave the clinic, I head straight to swim practice where I get to coach 13&unders for 2-3 hours, ending just in time for me to get home to go to bed. I'm going to need every last ounce of will power, desire, confidence, compassion, and dedication I can squeeze out...and then some.

Duct tape:
In middle school I learned of the reinforcing power of duct tape. You can get the sparkly or neon kind and make borders on your notebooks and folders from the dollar store when they begin to get tattered and torn--usually by Thursday of the first week. Even if you get the more expensive laminated notebooks, they're still going to fall apart, it's just a matter of time.

If you're just hearing about fun duct tape now, go get some here!

Things fall apart. That's just how life it. It's messy and mostly unpredictable. When this year whips me around too fast or tries to squeeze me into a space where I don't really fit, I'll bounce back, of course, but I'm also going to need some duct tape to hold the pieces of me together. There's no shame in needing some help to keep it together.

Nalgene Waterbottle:
The nalgene water bottle came on the market when I was in middle school or that's when it became popular. I'm not going to look it up. These honkers were big and colorful and virtually indestructible. For a swimmer who has her water bottle kicked around the pool deck and thrown a bit too hard to her in the pool where it smashes on the gutter, these babies were magic! Enough water to last through practice and the ride home AND we didn't have to worry about them cracking or leaking. GODBLESSAMERICA.

Nalgene's made me feel prepared and safe. I need one this year to hold my confidence and compassion. It's gotta be a nalgene because it's gotta be refillable while also being unbreakable. Last year, as an intern with the Dept of Children and Families, the softness of my skin became a concern rather for the first time. I took things home with me and thought about them often. Though I wasn't traumatized by what I heard and saw, it affected me deeply. And that's okay. I'm supposed to feel, but feel with an tough skin and a fluid center. Every time I sit down with a client, I will be pouring myself into our conversation. I need to keep my lid off when I leave so I can remember to be refilled. It's that self-care stuff my professors tell us about at least once each class period.

There are still lots of Labor Day sales going on--go buy your stuff! Happy learning!

The Heart-Wrenching Headache of the Day, yes, of the day

Four years ago, four summers ago actually, I nearly killed myself at a Christian summer camp. During orientation we were told of a magnificent acronym to shout at a staff member who looked like they were losing steam or passion or focus: FTK, for the kids. Everything we were to do that summer was 'for the kids.' If we took a nap during our break, the shut-eye was so we could feel refreshed and more capable of spreading joy for the kids. If we took a kid aside to reprimand [compassionately], the point was not an ego boost but rather to create a more positive experience for the kids. I came really close to killing myself for the kids. There is such a thing as loving too much, I learned.

11 asthma attacks, 7 that ended up with ambulance rides to the hospital. Apparently, I'm allergic to smoke and everything green and my asthma roars with exercise and allergies--so dancing around a campfire three times a week wasn't exactly what the doctor had in mind as life-sustaining-activity. Oops.

Despite my health issues, camp kept letting me come back because I was good at my job. In fact, I was pretty darn great...and each time I needed coaching to not cry while being wheeled into the ambulance, it was because I would be missing time with my kids. I kept coming back for the kids, that's what I thought. There's the heart-wrenching stuff.

Who are you? And why are you here?
And there's the headache.

That's how we began the first night's campfire each week. For my middle schoolers, the answers were typically: I'm (insert name here) and I'm at camp because I like (insert favorite activity here). For the counselors, however, answers were dug from a deeper place of intention. Perhaps something like : I'm  confused but overjoyed and I'm here to share both struggles with you and let you share your struggles with me this week so we can grow with one another. The answer was always another way of saying FTK.

Looking back now, I was being asked the ultimate questions each week. Yes, it was a getting to know you exercise but it also served as a moment of reflection that we never really took.

Who are you? And why are you here? What is your purpose? What is your goal? What drives you? What defines you? The questions swim around in my head most days. I ask myself these questions when I'm making decisions and when I'm not feeling confident and hope some clarity drops on me. There are some things I do that need definite answers to these questions and if my answers don't line up, I need to check-in with what I'm seeing in this world, in myself big time.

I'm starting a new school year soon, and with that, a new internship and a new swim season...each requires me to answer these questions daily and get some perspective. To do things to the best of my ability, I need to clean off my perspectacles and focus.

Create a Life Worth Living

This summer, I took two classes: Narrative Therapy and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). It started off great. The summer semester is just classes, no internship--so I was able to focus on academic learning the way I love to. Not only did I read everything assigned on the syllabus, I took notes and really dove into the material. It was AAMAZINGGG!

Around week 6, I realized I wasn't especially gifted in the Narrative perspective. After about 7 minutes of being crushed, I stabilized...and gave up. I pretty much stopped reading and participating in class--both painfully obvious to everyone.

However, around week 6, I fell in love with DBT. Around week 6, I felt incredible rapture as I read and understood and accepted and became whatever you become when you marry DBT. For those of you outside the therapy world, DBT is an intense, skill-based treatment for clients with the most risky and challenging behaviors--suicidality, self-mutilation, eating disorders, addictions, impulsivity--usually a combination of many of these behaviors. DBT therapists teach skills to these clients in order to help them create a life worth living.

I love it.
It makes sense.
I'm good at it!

In a world where I often feel like I'm not good at anything, DBT fills those spaces of inadequacy. I didn't know it was going to be that big. Before the class began, I knew some about DBT skills but didn't know the theory behind it all. I didn't know the reasons behind the procedures.

We plan our lives. We think we know what things are the big things, what days are the important days--or supposed to be that way. That's what we think. That's how we move through the world; how we have to move through the world. We have to think we know what is big and important or else it's all uncertain and scary. But that's really how it is. It's the normal days that often become important days...because we aren't expecting anything from the normal days.

So what's that mean?

It means that every day is an important day, that we have to wake up every day ready to create a life worth living. It also means that the creativity behind "a life worth living" may not be as overwhelming as it would be if we only did this on the important days. Not fireworks and birthday cakes and the 7 wonders of the world. Rather, Vitamin B12 and dew on the grass and turning water into ice and clean laundry. It means making good choices, even when they are the hard choices.

Ready? Go!

Just show up

In her book, Carry on Warrior, Glennon tried telling me that showing up is enough.

Ha! So funny. She's talking to the girl who intended to write her senior thesis on Post-modern Catholic Social Ethics and ended up discovering a social-ill, a struggle with "enoughness." She's talking to the girl who has grown up in a world where "enough" is about as real as pixie-dust yet something that must still be strived for...because that makes soooo much sense. Let's just say, her words did not meet willing eyes.

Well, time went on, as it always does, and some people and some situations pounded my heart with a tenderizer--yeah, that shit hurts just like it sounds--and compassion has skillfully climbed its way to the top of my value list. It happened through a lot of scowling through therapy and softening sarcasm and conversations with myself about being a friend to myself. 

The process has just begun. A journey of self-reflection leading to self-actualization. Yum. It's so good. I'm dreaming of going off the high dive someday and also being content with splashing my feet with wild abandon for now.

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These days, it feels like almost every day is like starting over.

It feels like I need a whole new toolbox of knowledge and skills to get through my life.

Perhaps it is because I'm in "therapist-training-school" and go to class where we use our real-life problems as case examples and do homework assignments that dig up all sorts of raw gunk, but it feels like my life is a series of identity-crises that do not get resolved before another pops up. 
Sometimes, I leave class thinking "what the heck just happened?!" and I've learned not to think about the future because the uncertainty will only create an unrelenting pathological crisis.

During one of these class conversations about real-life problems this week, a classmate mentioned that she was wondering though the conversation about asking me what it is about competence that is important to me. That's how she stated it. She didn't ask but my mind immediately jolted to "oh, my God! that's too personal!" 

The answer? Competence is important because I've learned it has a connection to integrity and independence and purpose and usefulness--all things that are also important to me. I struggle to have patience in the learning stage when I feel as though I should already be fully competent (even when this is not the case). For example, the thought that I will be doing therapy in just two months is terrifying to me because I don't know what I am doing! 

The antidote here, is compassion. Compassion involves determining that your best is enough and accepting that it is unreasonable to ask for anything more than that. In this case, compassion is telling myself 'just show up.' Every day I have to lie in my bed for a moment and remind myself to just show up that day.  

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To balance my life, I coach a swim team. I work primarily with kids 9-13. These kids are learning long division and what the state capitols are and reading their first novels. These kids are in a stressful life stage. For many of them, swim practice is their "happy place" where the only expectation is that they do what we (their coaches) say.

Whenever I think about compassion, my mind pulls me to think of my swimmers, specifically how I talk to them--instilling motivation and confidence, requiring accountability and responsibility, etc. One of the coaches is known for his lack of compassion. According to him, you don't miss practice unless you are dying or unable to breathe. When a girl missed practice for her 8th grade graduation, he told her that walking across a stage wasn't going to make her a better swimmer and she needed to get her priorities straight. According to him, if you're late, it's always your fault--even if you're 11 and have no control over your parents leaving the house on time. According to him, if you don't swim well at a meet, you failed.

I want to be different.

I want these kids to grow up knowing there is something that is enough, that their best is enough.

One girl was freaking out in February right after she turned 13--that's the age when your events get dramatically longer distances. Hyperventilating, in tears over an hour before her first race, she told me she couldn't do it. She swims over 5000 yards in a practice so I know she is capable. I've witnessed this scene with other swimmers and other coaches before. It's a conversation about "man up! stop being a baby! stop crying and get your crap together!"

I wasn't interested in creating a hardened heart from such invalidation. I know what that's like.

We sat on a bench and I told her to just show up and get wet. She immediately stopped crying and looked at me blankly. Apparently, she had never been coached to just do her best and not strive for something higher than her grasp.

She didn't do awesome. This was no miracle. But she swam. She showed up behind the block for every race and she got wet.

Sometimes showing up is most of the battle.

Even now, as I write, I notice myself feeling some strain in communicating exactly what I want to say...and I tell myself it's okay, just show up. Just write. Words written a little awkwardly are better than words unwritten.

JUST SHOW UP.

Confession: I'm an addict

If you know me beyond name, favorite color, and undergraduate major, you know I have a very addictive personality. Reframe it however you want: determination, commitment, dedication, passion, etc. When it comes down to it, I'm an addict.

For the doubters out there:

• in late January 2012, I began training for my first half marathon at the rate of ...I couldn't run a mile and in November 2012 I ran my first full marathon.
• while training for the full marathon, I got a stress fracture in my foot...and kept running. There were many reasons, among which was "it's what I do, I run."
• my favorite color is yellow--have you seen my bedroom and wardrobe?
• from February 2012 until about October 2012, the only cereal I ate was Panda Puffs. Now I'm on a Rice Chex sprinkled with coconut kick.
• come look at my bookshelf and you'll know exactly what four topics I've focused the majority of my research on.
• I chew every bite in some multiple of seven.
• Disney, need I elaborate?

True, I don't stress about when I'm going to score my next hit or if I'm going to have enough time to sober up before going to work in the morning or how I'll have enough money to buy food for the week after my cigarettes. But I latch on to things I like, things that are useful, things that make sense and hold on for dear life. That's addiction.

I'm a Brene Brown addict.

You haven't heard of her/her work??!!?!! Well, until late October, I hadn't either. Since then I've read each of her three books twice, watched her on Oprah's Super Soul Sunday, and become a follower of her blog: Ordinary Courage. No big deal.

Big deal!

She's a shame, vulnerability, fear, trust, courage, authenticity guru. She's a social work professor at the University of Houston and calls herself a 'researcher storyteller' because she believes "stories are just data with a soul" and her work brings that to life.

It all started when a professor shared Brene's first TEDtalk with us last October.

Within just a few minutes of engaging the video, I was hooked. If you didn't watch it, WATCH IT. That's all I'm saying here by exposing my addiction. Please watch it and let it change the way you live and love and walk through this messy beautiful world.

The theory of ENOUGHness

First of all, "enoughness" is a word.
Freshman year, my theology professor told me that all good theologians make up words. Therefore:

By the power vested in me

by the paper in my file designating me, 

Emily Marie Clark,

as a theological studies major,

I hereby declare "enoughness" a word

to be given equal respect and consideration

as all other formerly declared words.

Now that that's cleared up,

not that anyone was questioning the legitimacy of my vocabulary,

let's get down to business.

I wrote the synthesis paper for my independent study this past weekend. Dr. Julie Rubio and I had been reading about and discussing various ethical problem areas of modern American society and asking ourselves how we, as Catholics, are called (or if we are called) to respond? I was not going to be satisfied with vague or flimsy answers. I wanted practical suggestions that were flexible enough to tailor to my life experience but firm enough to stand the test of time and the scrutiny of Catholic morality. 

For the paper, I was to hash all that out in 12-15 pages. 

We read over a dozen books.

We touched on at least five different problem areas (I call them 'isms').

And so my process looked like this:

I didn't have enough time or space to write anything close to what I wanted to write, but I wrote 20 pages anyway. And around page 5, I explained what I've come to recognize as the driving force, the common denominator that connects all these 'isms' (individualism, racism, consumerism, materialism, classism, environmentalism). I call it the theory of enoughness...if you hadn't already guessed that.

Here's what I wrote:

Through the books I have read and other personal experiences I have had as a member of American society, I have observed a struggle within the culture characterized by an inability to sense when enough is enough. I am not the first to acknowledge a societal focus on “having” enough rather than “being” enough but perhaps I may be one of the first to point to a problematic element in the existence of a focus on either form of “enoughness” The shift from “being” to “having” has likely occurred because “being” falls to qualitative rather than quantitative measure which seems subjective and, therefore, inadequate or, at least, unreliable. As a result, Americans tend to lose their sense of Self while yearning for conformity and ‘the next big thing.’ With no sense of Self ‘having” allows people to overly-rely on external gauges to guide their determination of what is enough. The difficulty in measure, however, does not come from the need to be or to have but rather the context of enough. The ‘isms’ represent a dysregulation of the American sense of “enoughness”. Becoming desensitized to and struggling with “enoughness” causes power issues with relationship, food, sex, money, and goods. We see this power issue expressed in the stereotypes, discrimination, and oppression of others and ourselves that results from a disconnected relationship with the sense of enough.

GOT IT?

Here's the skinny:

Americans are on this treadmill of "the more the merrier" and "bigger is better."

The treadmill makes you work hard but never gets you anywhere.

Meaning: you're in a race that doesn't really matter, racing for things you'll never get.

But culture forgets to tell you that.

And so your endorphin high keeps you from knowing when to stop.

So your sense of what is enough dies.

And you end up hurting yourself and others in the process.

So, step 1 to making things different:

Remember it.

Believe it.

Live it.

And tell everyone about it.

Until next time,

may you find peace.

Merry Christmas.

Synthesis: shalom

"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all.  Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle.

The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours." -Ayn Rand  

I'm in a class on the Old Testament Psalms this semester, and in this class, we talk about Hebrew words more than we talk about English it seems. On the first day of class some 6 weeks ago, Dr. Asen spoke about "shalom." It's a word we've all likely heard before and most of us translate it to mean "peace"...but, as Dr. Asen described, it means far more than peace.


Hebrew words go beyond their spoken pronunciation. Each Hebrew word conveys feeling, intent and emotion. Shalom is more then just simply peace; it is a complete peace. It is a feeling of contentment, completeness, wholeness, well being, and harmony.


"The best way I've heard 'shalom' explained to me," Dr. Asen shared, "came from a Jewish Rabbi who explained it as meaning 'I hope all the pieces of your life fit together'."

I hope all the pieces of your life fit together.

I've been working to fit the pieces of my life together recently--the past memories with the present situation with the hope of the future. It's complicated but important. 

I feel like it may be one of those unattainable ideals that we continue striving for despite knowing we will never actually get there. That sucks. The 'unattainable ideal' has been a common theme in my life recently--things I want but know can never be reality. In another one of my classes [spiritual exercises], we are contemplating this issue and learning how to live with these sorts of things. We are becoming intentional about observing the difference between the things we can control and those we can't. 

I may not necessarily be able to fit the pieces of my life together all myself but I can be open to the changes necessary for this to happen--letting people know which pieces don't fit, letting people love me, loving myself, acknowledging that it's okay that all the pieces do not fit together right now, and so on. It's a mindful contemplation focused on believing that the ideal I cherish is something I can work towards.

Friends, shalom, I hope the pieces of your life fit together. I hope, someday, you will look upon the entirety of your life and smile--not out of happiness for the pain, not denying the suffering, but seeing the completeness of the puzzle with all the pieces fit together.

New Semester. Old Issues.

I HATE CHANGE.

really.

really really.

I really hate change.

But the ruler of the universe doesn't seem to care.

what's up with that?!!

The change of classes and professors isn't the issue here. It's friends leaving. shocker, I know. it's not like we haven't gone through this before. 

Try this dialectic on for size: Sure, I have abandonment issues, but I know this isn't about me.Yeah, I'm gonna miss 'em, but I know this is what's good for them.

Still, I liked things how they were. I liked it when we were all here.

I have this group of best friends. There are five of us and though we are rarely all together, we are always with one another. We've memorized each other's work and class schedules and schedule in "best friend time" on our google calendars. And when we aren't physically together, we are still textually connected (and emotionally, of course). In fact, Annie figured that for each hour she and I spend apart, we have a minute of phone conversation--this hypothesis was proven over the two weeks we were with our families during this past Christmas. We weren't always best friends--none of this 'we grew up on the same block and have been friends since kindergarten' business. It was gradual and, for the most part, natural. I could tell you stories about the precise prompting event that led me into friendship with each girl. Annie--crossroads class. Claire--texting pranks. Amanda--well, actually, I don't remember, Erin--living next to (and then with) each other.

Erin is in Ecuador. Awesome, right? She and I have bonded over our love of the Spanish language and, more specifically, the Latin American people and culture. We had hoped to travel to Nicaragua for a two-month immersion trip this summer (the scholarship got cancelled so that's not happening, don't worry, you haven't missed anything that big).  Some "plans" didn't work the way we expected and that resulted in Erin's decision to study abroad this semester.

Studying abroad is awesome. And I'm fully for it. But I don't like that it's taking one of my best friends to the southern hemisphere for and extended period of time. Fact is, I miss Erin. And she's only been there since Saturday. 




Person leaving #2: Fr. James Vioss, SJ
Much of my reason for being so absent from the blogoshpere this past semester has to do with this very fine man and his very fine class entitled 'Sources and Methods of Theology.' That's a fancy way of saying 'read this 400 page book written for Ph.D. students on the doctrine of the Trinity, understand it, and come up with a way to make it integral to your final project, which we will start during the second week of class.' And if you don't understand that description, it has also been called 'hell.' The class is a research seminar required of all junior theology majors and it is well-known for being the most difficult class in the major coursework.

Fr.Voiss keeps the class small (we had 6 students in the class) so he can offer each of us personal attention. He requires us to meet with him two or three times outside of class...I probably went to see him ten times. You sat and talked about life for 5 minutes then about class for 3 then about your paper for 5 then more about life and spent quite a bit of time staring at each other, trying to read the other's facial expressions. I cannot even tell you how many times he'd be smirking and I'd ask 'what's that face for?'

This was the first class I've had during my collegiate career that has actually challenged me.I've had classes that required a lot of work and some that took a bit of reflection but nothing like this. Fr. Voiss quickly tuned into the range of my abilities and was not about to let any of it go unused. There was one Friday in October when I cried in all of my classes because I was so stressed about an assignment due for Fr. Voiss that evening. There was a time I shed tears in our own class when he gave us a revised syllabus outlining all the work for the rest of the semester. It seemed like one class period I would be so angry and frustrated with Fr. Voiss that I was about to explode and cause a scene and the next I would tell him he was a great man and I loved him. Confused? I was.

We turned in our final projects on December 12 and on the 22nd, he emailed us telling us his provincial had requested his transfer to a province in the Northwest. Once again, I cried.

It was a rough class but I learned so much and I am a better student and theologian for having taken it. NO ONE can teach that course the way Fr. Voiss did. I am so incredibly grateful for having taken the course this semester and for being pushed and pulled the entire way.

I wish I had realized sooner how great I had it. I want to make an effort to be more present to the good, more grateful for the challenge, and less stressed about the inevitable.


People are indispensable. 
Experiences only occur once. 

Listening and Redefining

I'm in a social work class this semester entitles Practice 1: Communication. Going into the classroom three weeks ago, I didn't have much of any expectation since I didn't know the professor or what the course would cover, though I had reviewed the syllabus.  


In the past three weeks, Shannon, our professor, has said a few things in passing that nailed themselves to my heart and have yet to be pried off.

In talking about a client's right to self determination she said there will be times when we want to ask: "why don't you want what's good for you?"

Being that I've done an excellent job making decisions against my ultimate best interest, I heard Shannon asking me this question. Later that day, when I came home, I wrote the question on a post-it and stuck it on my mirror to glance at occasionally--have I answered it yet? nope, but I'm mulling it over.

Today we were talking about God only knows what--it was a manic sort of day in the classroom--but Nancy mentioned that, as people in a helping profession, we're going to measure our success by our clients' success. This sparked a discussion of the meaning of success. 

Shannon mentioned we, as a culture, tend to see success in monumental terms, but in the social work profession it is vital to accept any tiny step forward as a success. Giving a personal example, Shannon is currently working with a woman in therapy who is chronically late among other things. So right now they are working on getting her to her appointments on time. They are not focusing on the rest of her life falling apart. One step at a time. One small step at a time. 

Though Shannon mentioned this need to redefine our vision of success for our field of practice, I think I need to bring this idea of success being a a small thing not necessarily a huge one into my everyday life and especially into my view of my personal successes and failures.

p.s. that picture is what came up when i googled success. presh, i know. 

the journey is the destination

When I was on a home visit two weeks ago, I mentioned to my mother that I was thinking about graduating a semester early. If I don't take at least 18 credits a semester, I get bored and I could have all my requirements taken care of with just another semester and a half. Sitting at the kitchen table, as I walked to the faucet to refill my waterbottle, my mom said,"Emily, slow down. You've always been trying to rush life. You need to just let it happen." 

There an alarming truth 

and a bit of parental wisdom.

She's right.

I have a control problem. 

I also have a short attention span and a free spirit. 

From a very young age, I've seemed to focus on the end goal rather than the process by which I achieve said goal. During the years I swam competitively, I constantly had pieces of bright colored paper with numbers taped to various focal points in my bedroom. These numbers were my goal times for the season. I did not make step by step, short-term goals. I set a big ones that were far in the distance, far from my reach. The goals were always attainable but often not fully attained because I would become intimidated. I focused on what was ahead rather than what was right now. 

My friends Annie and Chris recently bought TOMS whose pattern reads "the journey is the destination." When Annie told me about the shoes, I liked the saying but I hadn't reflected on it until now. 

What am I missing by living in the future?

Why can't I just enjoy this moment?

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what I'll do after I graduate in two years--will I go straight to grad school or will I volunteer for a year like I wanted to after high school? Where will I go to grad school? Am I going to want a Ph. D. or can I settle for a masters? Will I ever move back to Michigan or is that history? When would be the ideal time to get married? I've been thinking of what classes I want to take to get the best education suited for the field I want to enter.

I always rush through life.

Fact is, I'm gonna miss this.

Someone told me that undergrad is the time when you're supposed to read. You're supposed to read everything you can get your hands on. You're supposed to take any class that sounds even remotely interesting. The classes you take the most of are what you'll graduate with a degree in but that's not something to put your focus on. You aren't expected to have it all figured out as an undergrad. You aren't supposed to be a grown up yet (reference my previous post to gain an understanding of the defining characteristics of grown-up-ness). I understood the words this person was saying but not the concept. As I have witnessed my peers in action for the past two years, it seems as though most of them have it figured out. Most know what they want to do with their life, or they at least have a solid idea, and most certainly know what they do not want to do. But tonight as I thumbed through the Curriculum Vitae of a few professors, I realized that this air of confidence many of my peers seem to exude about their future plans is a total farce. 

These professors are some of the most brilliant and fascinating human beings I have ever known. Both are theology professors. One studied political science at Yale in her undergrad...now she teaches theology. The other played football and studied religion and business administration. After graduation, he went on to successfully work in the business world until religious life caught his heart. Then, he became a Jesuit and furthered his education in theology at Yale, Notre Dame, Oxford, and in Rome. These people I have grown to admire and trust had absolutely no idea what their lives were going to look like when they were my age. They did what they wanted and let life happen. 

This is one of those things that is a choice--a daily choice--but its a decision that is completely up to me. One of the most common things my campers last summer heard me say was "I want you to learn to live in the moment." Good going Em, perhaps you need to listen to yourself. 

Let life happen.

Perhaps the most simple yet difficult task I've ever been charged with. 

"The beauty of the Christian tradition is that it holds grace and human finitude together." JHR

When I get to where I think I'm going.

Remember those days when if someone asked you what you wanted to be when you grow us, you would've answered: batman, a princess, a firefighter, a ballerina, etc, etc.? I was sure I was going to be a ballerina, I bet my parents were pretty sure as well. From the day I could walk, I was dancing around the kitchen in my pretty pink tights, I was running to the house next door in my tutu to see if Alyssa could come out and play. I barely remember those days, but what I can remember makes me happy.

I have no idea when reality set in. I suppose it was somewhere around second or third grade when I realized that there are only a few dozen prima ballerinas in the world and I didn't have good odds. That was a hard reality, I'm sure, but I soon latched on to a new dream. I was going to be a teacher...and I held on to this dream until the middle of high school. From second or third grade all the way until the beginning of junior year of high school, I was planning on being a teacher. I would get so excited to walk in to school on the first day each year to the newly decorated bulletin boards and binders full of lesson plans. I've always loved school and learning (I just hate grades.) so it seemed perfectly natural.

Well, that changed and I wanted to be a counselor (a hardcore Catholic therapist, to use my exact wording from the time). Now I know I'm meant for ministry. I have a lot of helping myself to do before I can help other people, but I have far too much experience with far too many aspects of life to keep them to myself.

When the question became less "what do you want to be when you grow up?" and more "what do you want to do with your life? and who do you want to be when you grow up?" it started to get serious. I'm talking about picking precisely what you need in college to get where you want to go. Your major. Your concentration in your major. Your extracurricular activities. Your summer plans.  One day a few years ago it became this serious business where I better pick correctly or forever hold my peace.

Still, on monday Dr. Miller's advice as we sat in his classroom for the last time was to "Keep dreaming. People will squash your dreams sometimes but if you stop dreaming, you've let them squash you. It might hurt to get rejected but it will hurt more to have regrets."

As I grew up, college was illustrated as a time to search. A time to take a bunch of classes in areas that interest you. A time to talk to professors and figure out what you want to do with your life. And after you figure that out, you get to have experiences that will build you in that direction.

False.

College has turned me into a professional paper writer. I mean, yes, I've gotten to know some of my favorite professors--one even asked me to house-sit for her this summer--but I've realized that it is my job to sit on my bedroom floor and pour my heart and soul into Microsoft Word for hours at a time.

this is the current state of my bedroom floor--

just picture me with my back against the pillow, 

legs covered by the yellow blanket,

and computer on my lap.

I've just passed the half-way point with my 5th paper in two weeks. 

When I finish this one, I will have written over 65 pages. 

How to end sexual violence.

The effects of abuse on self-worth.

The gospels.

C.S. Lewis' view of Satan.

The historicity of the bible.

...and a two weeks before all this started I wrote 10 pages on Natural Family Planning.

This is collegiate paper writing at its finest I'm telling you.

Let me just tell you, I'm looking forward to the day when I get to take all this knowledge I'm writing about and actually do something with it.

"I try to never let school get in the way of my education" --Mark Twain

The tales of a notebook's inside cover

As a theology major, I obviously spend most of my time in theology classes. Bible and literature, synoptic gospels, early church, eucharist: liturgy and practice, sex, gender, and Christian ethics, philosophy of religion, Christian beliefs...just to name a few. Just because this is my area of study doesn't mean I'm on my knees whenever I can be pouring out supplication after supplication at the foot of the altar. It just means that God, spirituality, religion, faith, etc, in one way or another, has become a fixed topic of thought...whether I like it or not. And not only do these topics fill my thoughts, but also my conversations. Just imagine what it is like for my professors!!!

One of my favorite Jesuits here at SLU, Fr. Meconi, has a way of making his class (or his mass) stand as the sole fuel for thought and conversation when you are a part of it. He brilliantly opened the beautiful chaos of the Early Church to me last semester. I'm telling you. This man is brilliant. He wanders across the front of the room or sits with his feet propped up on a table and uncovers little known facts about the beginning of our Catholic faith as if they are the riddles on a Laffy Taffy wrapper. And at random intervals, Fr. Meconi will scrawl some foreign language (hebrew, greek, latin, whatever fits) on the chalkboard and explain as we write these undecipherable words and symbols in our notebooks to look smart. Ubi peccato, ibi multitudo. where there is sin, there is many. Caro cardo salutis. flesh, hinge of salvation. Ex opere operato. out of the work already worked. Memento mori. remember, you will die. Tolle, lege. Pick it up and read.

He teaches. He preaches. And he believes. 

And he says silly/stupid/inappropriate things.

On a regular basis.

And we record them on the inside cover of our notebooks.

For example:

"I just circumcised my chalk." after dropping his chalk during a discussion about Origen's self-castration.
"Paul's letter to the Fallopians" Fr. Meconi's personal translation of Humanae Vitae into English.

Sometimes my theology professors say things that are absolutely brilliant...in a human way not a 'let me stand at a podium and tell you about the fantastic things I know since I have 3 Ph.D.'s and am way smarter than you' sort of way. 

My Philosophy of Religion professor, Fr. Vitali, was one of these men. He broke down in class and cried twice. That doesn't happen in other courses. Take to a business student or an art student or a chemistry student--I doubt they've ever seen their professor cry. Fr. Vitali had a tendency to go on tangents about the movie 'The Godfather' and his love for hunting but he also spoke about his friendships. Fr. Vitali is no young bird. He's not old and senile but he is old. He is at that age where he is beginning to see friends pass away, and, as a result his is getting in touch with his mortality. We were discussing mortality one day and Fr. Vitali dropped this heartfelt wisdom in our laps:

"The desire for immortality is so real, not because you want to save your soul but because you don't want to lose the good which is so real. I hope to God that someday you feel the pain [of mortality] because that means you've lived...and loved."

And today, my "sex" professor, Dr. Rubio got real with us. I've gotten to have some really fruitful conversations with her during the times I've gone in to her office and so I know her heart is real and trustworthy...but it is guarded. Anyway, she mentioned she has been keeping a journal, on and off, since she was 9 years old. I'd guess she is somewhere in her mid to late forties (an educated guess made possible by knowledge of her undergraduate graduation date) and that means she's been doing this journaling thing for over 30 years. I haven't even been alive that long! She mentioned that she occasionally looks back and sees how terribly mistaken she has been about pretty much everything through the years. We're talking about the woman who did her undergrad at Yale and her masters at Harvard and got her Ph.D. while begin pregnant and then a new mom. Yeah, sure, mistaken...sure. Dr. Rubio presented us with her humanity and her reason for God:

"Knowing how wrong I've been and how many mistakes I've made forces me to see and acknowledge that I want something other than me leading my life."

All these things and more are scrawled in the inside cover of my notebooks as treasured mementos of the hours I've spent listening to that professor's voice. You learn a lot in college, there's no doubt about that, but the vast majority of what I learn has not come from a textbook. I remember having a conversation about that very concept with someone after my freshman year, saying that I learned far more outside of the classroom but now I'm seeing that develop even further. I'm learning much in the classroom that is not in a textbook or listed on the syllabus. Saint Louis University prides itself on being a Catholic, Jesuit institution striving to educate the whole person. 

Forms of 'to be'

As a freshman in high school, I had to write an English paper without using any form of the verb 'to be.' Am. Is. Are. Was. Were. Be. Been. Being. <--Take a look at some really solid words there. Thankfully, the assignment was only a paragraph, about a page in length, but still, I've tried writing this entry to this point without using those words and have failed. Even a few sentences excluding all forms of 'to be' take a concentrated effort to compose. 

That's not my point.

I'm just thinking that 'being' somehow describes every stage of life. 

Where have you been?

Places you don't want to know about.

Where are you now?

I don't really know. 

Treading water is some great expanse of water, perhaps.

Where are you going?

Please, Lord, guide me.

These are some of the questions that plug up the 'free space' in my mind these days. Today especially. 

We were having one of those conversations--the kind that go in circles with long silences and little eye contact. 

The conclusion was made that there may be some things I need to walk away from. These are things that are holding me back when I literally have unlimited potential. These are things that paralyze me in fear when I have the world resting at my fingertips. I need to walk away. It sounds all nice and dandy, I thought, but its not really realistic. I want it to be, but simply desiring it won't make that a reality. If I walk away from these things, I'll be walking toward something else...ideally. If I don't walk toward something else, I essentially walk off a cliff. And we've all watched enough cartoons to know what that means.  I need to know what direction to walk when I walk away. I need to know where I'm going. I don't need all the answers but I need a little hint. 

Pray with me. Pray that I find a way to let go and walk away. Pray that it be revealed where I need to end up. And pray that until that is revealed, I can just be. 

Naked Without Shame

Don't run. I know I just wrote the word 'naked.' Oooh, there I go again!!! It's no typo, friends.

This semester, one of my classes is called "Sex Gender, and Christian Ethics"  and so I'm reading up on JPII's (Pope John Paul II) Theology of the Body specifically looking at premarital sex and the reason it has been deemed immoral by the Catholic Church--and Christianity in general as far as I know. The first time I was exposed to the Theology of the Body was during some summer youth group meetings 3 1/2 years ago and I remember being in awe of the depth to which this made sense.

The thing that stuck with me the most through the years was the concept of humans being called to be "naked without shame" just as Adam and Eve wandered the garden of Eden. Genesis 2: 25 tells us that "the man and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame" before sin entered the world. This is how we were supposed to be--naked without shame.

Now, this is what i've been learning with JPII's brilliance:

Personally, I think you should be able to read my notes since I so graciously photographed them for you, but because I sympathize with those who have imperfect eyesight, I'll tell you what it says and do a little explaining...

Here's the deal, like I said before, Adam and Eve were chillin in the garden in their respective birthday suits and totally fine with it. They were relaxed living in the freedom on the gift (aka their human sexuality). Just six verses later, sin enters the world--with sin comes injustice, death, shame, and fear. In the next verse they realize they are naked and a few verses later when God calls to Adam, Adam hides and says something to the effect of "I was afraid so I hid." Here, we see that Adam no longer felt so carefree in his nakedness. Instead, he felt shame and so he was afraid. Without shame, there was freedom...with shame comes fear. 

A very wise lady has grilled it into my head that FEAR IS NOT OF THE LORD. (This is the same person who who thinks I have an alone complex as I mentioned in my post "Everything Glorious" a few days ago) Anyway, If shame is akin to fear and fear is not of the Lord, then by the transitive property, shame is not of the Lord. 

When shame came into the picture along with sin, we lost our intended freedom to the power of fear. Here's the deal, humans were gifted free will at the time of creation--that's what makes us totally different than any other species, but something about this freedom was lost at the fall. Yes, we still have free will but it looks very different now than God had originally intended. 

When Adam and Eve chose to sin, the human relationship with God was shattered. They essentially said "no" to God--"No, I can do this better"--something each of us probably says multiple times a day. Therefore, "the real origin of man's fear is his 'closing his heart' to God's gift" JPII says. Sin is a rejection of God's love.

So, my friends, we were intended to be naked without shame. This expression of total vulnerability is no longer shame-free. To strip someone naked, is the ultimate way to disgrace them. 

Nakedness is a very physical thing, but it can be applied to other aspects of life as well. For example, through gossip, we strip another person of their privacy and a piece of their self-worth. And sarcasm, does the same. In an effort to build ourselves up so we do not feel shame, we tear other people down in such a way they are engulfed by shame. Unfortunately, shame has the uncanny ability to permeate every aspect of life. 

I watched a movie a week or so ago that had this great line "I will not do anything to shame myself, my family, or the team." I think that's a great mindset to have--especially if you count your family as the body of Christ.

Just sayin'

xoxoxox Emily

P.S. this is much longer than I had anticipated.