The move part 1: leaving the Lou

I moved westward in August 2009 at the beginning of my fresh woman year at SLU and, unlike many college students, I never once moved back home. That is to say, I have spent the last four years accumulating things in St. Louis as I bought them or brought them from Michigan. Look at it all!!!

 

The accumulation that occurred over the past four years has not just been of material goods but of knowledge and comfort and moments of joy and exultation and success and pain and exhaustion and failure and second and third and fourth chances. 

St. Louis and I have had a strange courtship. In the winter of 2009, as I was deciding which university's name would adorn my mother's car bumper, St. Louis was the forbidden city. My parents said it was too far away because they wanted to be able to get to me with relative ease if something major were to happen. There's a story in between that conversation and the moment I confidently walked up to my Mom in the student center hallway and said, "I think I found it" (referring to SLU as my college home) a few months later. St. Louis was a source of pride and anticipation that summer as I awaited the day I'd make a home for myself in the exotic, far-off land. Now, St. Louis is more home than Farmington Hills. I declare myself a member of and true devotee to Cardinal Nation. I know shortcuts and side streets here better than many who grew up here (thanks to many, many, many miles of running). Granted, we have had our rough times; I won't detail them here, but they have caused me to sink deep into my seat  hoping to disappear as tears stream down my cheeks each time the pilot alerts us "we are making our final descent into St. Louis." And there is a whole lot in between thinking St. Louis was an exotic, far-off land full of possibility and now...and that's why my head and heart are so congested with flutting emotions right now.

I've had this existential feeling all summer that it doesn't matter. I spent middle school and high school and much of college trying to get noticed and being noticed and then those people who noticed me just drifted away. I spent years worrying about being involved in the right activities for the right amount of time and the moment I graduated, it seemed like no one cared what you did anymore. I'm worried now that when I leave St. Louis, I'll realize that most of it didn't really matter. Maybe I'm right and I'm too vain too anxious too goal oriented to notice in the midst of it. Or maybe I'm wrong and there is lasting value in every word, every decision, every moment. If it doesn't matter, it is easier to forget. That's what I'm really concerned about. I don't want to forget the joy and exultation and success and pain and exhaustion and failure.  

Boston: sacred space

Today's bombing at the finish line of the Boston marathon has struck a VERY personal chord inside of me. My heart is weeping and shaking and I've accepted this is a good thing. It's a bit strange.

The World Trade Center and other attacks of 9-11, the various school shootings, the shopping mall bombings, etc--violence has been a part of my life as something I see on the news as something to happening to other people in a far off place. Today is different.

In just a few months, I'm supposed to be moving to Boston. And I'm just 6 minutes away from qualifying to run the Boston marathon. Even if I wasn't close to a BQ time, it would still hit home simply because I am a marathon runner and I see the finish line as one of the most sacred spaces I've ever experienced.

The marathon finish line is joy and success and a window and fullness and emptiness and sharing and greeting and so much more. The finish line is met by weary feet and willing, proud hearts. The space around the finish line is one reserved for smiles or success and tears of joy and focus.

Today someone tried to blow that away 

and I feel personally attacked

because the marathon finish is my sacred space too

I just ran a marathon last weekend and never ever would have thought there would even be the slightest possibility that my parents and grandparents standing on the side could be in danger. That shouldn't have to change. 

When I grow up...

While making dinner and socializing with some friends a few weeks ago, the question arose: if you could be/do anything (career-wise) what would you do?

In typical fashion the man who had this question asked of him replied, "hands down, I'd be an astronaut." And my thought, immediately, was, well then why aren't you trying to be an astronaut? Why aren't you somehow linking your career to the space-exploration industry? Why on earth, if that is your "hands down!" passion, are you studying theology and ministry?

To have a dream that just sits there seems absolutely pointless and ultimately sad. Dreams are meant to be chased after not just pondered on a lazy Saturday afternoon. The passion of a dream should ignite within you a flame so powerful, it touches every aspect of your being. 

I stood there, cutting broccoli and thinking of my answer. Honestly, I can say I want, more than anything, to be a therapist. That's my dream job. No, it's not sparkily and fun, In fact, it promises to be dark and mysterious at times...but those shadowy experiences lead to an awakening of the self with which no space mission can compete. I can imagine doing other things but I cannot imagine feeling the passion I feel toward providing therapy toward any other career. 

And I was happy.

In fact, I felt a sense of relief in my answer. I felt validation that I was doing what I needed to be doing to follow my dream. 

Not all dreams have to be so big and lofty they are unreachable. 

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.