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Freedom.

[If you can’t tell, I’m having a lot of fun with my Story Sessions sisters in 40 Days of Poetry.]

This was a weird month.  It’s the first time I’ve been at a church that observes the liturgical year.  It’s the first time I’ve really “done” Advent (does one do Advent?  Is that something that’s done?  Or experienced?  Or watched?  I’m not sure which verb goes there.).

I’ve also been sick most of the month, so food choices have been limited.  It also limited my coffee consumption – I went completely without for a week and a half – which, as you might imagine, put me in a fantastic mood.

And let’s not forget North Texas’s little Icetember adventure. Because large quantities of ice are so rare in Texas, it’s not really cost effective to keep the resources to deal with it.  It’s cheaper to just shut everything down until it passes.  So we did.  Happy 4-day Icecation to me! I got home at about 4:00 on Thursday, and I did not even walk out the door to get the mail until the following Wednesday morning. Ah, introvert bliss.

One might think that, between being iced in and having to stay home sick and getting two weeks off from work for regular holiday vacation, I would have gotten a lot of writing/reading/TV watching done.

Heh. Not really.  Not any more than usual.  My house is pretty clean, though.

Here’s what I was into this month, besides deep, leisurely cleaning.

To write:

I wrote a lot of poetry this month.  I participated in Story Sessions’s 40 Days of Poetry. I guess it wouldn’t be a lot to people who usually write poetry, but for me, the nine or ten poems I wrote is more poetry than I wrote the rest of the year combined.  So for me, that’s a lot.

I also ranted about freedom of speech, which a couple of friends picked up and shared on Facebook without my sharing it first.  I didn’t have to point it out to them.  Translation: my friends read my blog and like what I write.  Sweet!  Thanks, friends.  That made my week.

To read:

As inspiration, I also read a lot of poetry this month.  I reacquainted myself with the likes of Neruda and Donne, and I reread Adrienne Rich’s Fox collection.

I mentioned last month that I jumped on the Divergent bandwagon, and during Christmas, I finished the last two of the trilogy.   In a day and a half.  I haven’t been sucked into something that completely in a while.  I have a confession, though.  Unpopular opinion #427 – I liked the ending.  I’ll try to tell you why without giving anything away to anyone who inexplicably has not read it yet.  Any other ending would have been, at best, a contrived mess.  I would even go so far as to say that the ending that a lot of people wanted would have been a betrayal of the craft, because when an author foreshadows something so blatantly, she ought to make good on it.  I mean, I read a lot of YA fiction, so I have a pretty high tolerance for teenage angst, but if I had sat through three books of it and ended up with no learning curve or subsequent resolution, that might have merited a nice, healthy tossing of the book across the room.  And that would have been problematic, as the book was large (hardback), and I was at my mother’s house, and she has many breakable knick-knacks.  So, for knick-knack’s sake, I am glad that it ended the way it did.

To watch:

This month that has meant reruns of Gilmore Girls, How I Met Your Mother, and The Office.  This month has also meant made-for-TV Christmas movies, because that’s what Mom likes, and Pawn Stars, because that’s what Dad likes.  I’m not opposed to either choice, but the hours upon hours spent…let’s just say that, while the trip to their house was lovely in many ways, I’m really happy to be home, where I’ve spent the last two days watching the second season of Castle.

To hear:

I have been obsessed with The Bangles this month.  You know how you wake up with a song in your head every day, and it stays with you for most of the day (no?  Just me?  Okay, then)?  At least half the month, that song for me has been a Bangles song.  You’d think I would be sick of it, but no.  I blame Lorelai Gilmore and growing up in the 80s.

To taste:

The Sickness put a bit of a damper on my meal choices this month.  I’ve apparently been really into vegetable broth, potatoes, applesauce, and peppermint tea.  I had to cancel Supper Club one night, because I wasn’t sure I could even take the smell of the meal I had planned.

But around the 20th, I started to feel better, so I got brave and had some toast, then some peaches, and by the 25th, I was able to enjoy my dad’s crock-pot turkey, roasted in a citrus gravy, which was either the most delicious thing I’ve eaten all year, or I was just really happy that it wasn’t broth.

So that’s how 2013 ends for me.  What are you into?

I’m linking up with Leigh Kramer – follow me over there!

Freedom of Speech

I’ve been avoiding social media this week because of the Duck Dynasty fiasco.  It’s not because I harbor any ill will against Phil Robertson.  I generally find him amusing (or at least I did, before reading his unsettling remarks about how he could tell the slaves were happy because they were singing…that gives me considerable pause), and I have watched and enjoyed the show.  I mean, I have absolutely zero need for duck calls or any hunting-related paraphernalia in my life, but the show is entertaining, for what it is.

I’m not even shocked by his statements.  For a white man his age who grew up and has lived his whole life in the South, those are unfortunately not unusual opinions.  Horrible and wrong, sure.  But not unusual.  In order to despise him, I would have to despise most of the elderly people I know, and I’m not prepared to do that.

What, then, irks me beyond my tolerance threshold when situations like this arise?  Seeing statements such as this – “I guess A&E doesn’t believe in freedom of speech.”- in my Facebook feed.

*sigh*

Once again, the Internet has been faithful to reveal the piss-poor state of our educational system by throwing out hot button phrases such as “freedom of speech” and “violation of rights” in order to rile people up without going to the bothersome trouble of learning what those freedoms actually entail and what those rights actually are.

So let’s discuss what the First Amendment says about your freedom of speech.

The First Amendment, truncated for our purposes (but you can read the whole thing here if you want) states, “Congress shall make no law…abridging the freedom of speech.”

That is the entirety of what the First Amendment in the Bill of Rights guarantees you as a citizen regarding freedom of speech.  With very few exceptions, you can say what you want to say, and it is not against the law.

It protects you from being arrested for simply speaking your mind.  That would be a violation of your rights.

It protects you from being imprisoned for what you say.  That would be a violation of your rights.

It protects you from the law – that is, the government – not from private entities such as individual citizens or, say, a television network.

It protects you from legal ramifications.  I suppose, of course, that a person or company could sue you, but, provided that what you said cannot be proven to be libel or slander (examples of those exceptions I mentioned), they would not win unless you have a stunningly crapulous attorney and an idiot judge, because for them to win such a case would be a violation of your rights.

Now let’s discuss some things from which it does not protect you.

It does not protect you from people disagreeing with you and saying so.  That’s just other people exercising their freedom of speech.

It does not protect you from criticism.  Again, that’s just other people having the same rights as you do.

It does not protect you from a professor throwing you out of class when you say something disrespectful or otherwise inappropriate, and the professor gets to decide what is appropriate and what is not, because the professor is the one who is held responsible for what happens in his or her classroom.

And finally, it does not protect you from being reprimanded, suspended, or even fired when you say something that opposes the values of your employer, especially if you, knowing that your values differ, are dumb enough to say it at work, in a highly public forum (for example, an interview to which you were invited specifically because of your job), or while being recorded and/or reported.  That is not a violation of your rights.  That is your employer being true to the values to which they have committed, regardless of what it might cost them in terms of viewers or money.That is your employer exhibiting integrity, and their response to your behavior is called consequence, not persecution.

It could be argued that speaking one’s religious convictions is worth whatever consequences it might bring.  That is a generous way to look at this situation.  This cynic has questions, though.  If one’s convictions on an issue are really so strong, would one work for an organization that not only blatantly disagrees with those convictions but also actively asserts its opposition to them?  If one is truly concerned with taking a stand, can one still in good conscience take a paycheck from said organization?  If the answer to either of these questions is yes, in word or deed, I have a hard time believing the conviction is real.  I find it more likely that the so-called conviction is really more of a publicity stunt or an offhand, thoughtless comment.  It makes it look more like he was just trying to use his privilege (because being famous and being paid to say things on TV and to reporters are indeed privileges, not rights) to promote his platform, and it backfired.

Home

Today is my first day of vacation.  For two weeks, I am free from both jobs.

The downside is that I have lots of time to deal with my apartment.  I’ve always said that the state of my home and the state of my mind seem to parallel one another.  And this is true.  Right now, both of them look a little like this:

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That’s what the bench in my office area looks like after grading.  That’s kind of how my mind feels, too.  A chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and ideas and decisions that swirl around and land in one big heap.

All is not lost, though.  The next two weeks, I’m putting home back together, and hopefully, my mind will follow.

Of all the places in the world, I want home to be the place where I find tiny pockets of the kingdom of God.  I want it to be a place of creation.  I want it to be a place where people are welcomed and fed, where the wine (and the coffee) never run out.  I want it to shout good news.

The semester end falls at a good time.  As in Advent we are preparing for Jesus, in this time off from my regular work, I am preparing as well.  Preparing to be well and to spread joy and to welcome in the new year with expectation and hope.

I’m synching up with others on the topic of Coming Home here.  Click to read more!

My question for you…
I’ll get to that.
First things first –
Your church and I?
We don’t like each other.
We “love” each other.
I love them like I love the prim biddy with corseted heart who preempts every hello with an are-you-seeing-anyone and looks down her highway of a nose when I talk of Those People.
They love me like they love their drunken, cantankerous uncle who embarrasses them at Grandma’s funeral by saying, “shit,” in front of the preacher.
But that’s not liking.
And that’s not enough.

How is it my fault?
That question is neither
“Tell me how wretched I am so I can wallow in my filth…”
nor
“Strip me of unpopular conviction so I can baa in tune with the rest of your sheep.”
If you require those responses
I’m not your girl for the job.
I am a dissenter.
I am a peacemaker.
If everything is possible for you,
How will you reform my soul to make it so?

I dreamed of a wall.
I cried.
I softened the mud between the bricks with my tears.
I planted seeds there.
I woke too soon,
But not before I saw the strongest root begin to nudge one of the bricks out of place.

I think you have begun.
I want in.

My Story Sessions sisters and I are doing 40 Days of Poetry.  Hopefully there will be more that I want to share.

Let’s take a little trip back in time to when it was actually November.  November has two big things going for it:

– Thanksgiving month!  My favorite holiday with my favorite holiday traditions.

NaNoWriMo! I didn’t finish this year, but I’ve got a new character whom I love.

The weather could have been cooler.  We had way too many days that made it up to 80 for my taste, but so far, Icetember is making up for it.

Here’s what I was into in November:

To write:

My NaNo piece this year started to be YA fiction about a group of five friends (because nobody has done that before /sarcasm).  I am a proud pantser, but having nothing other than names and costuming in mind before starting is not much to work with.  So about ten days in, I decided to start over with stories about Uncle Wallace the Christmas Mouse.

Uncle Wallace is this fellow:

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He lives under my Christmas tree. He holds a bell in one hand, and a random basket of apples in the other.

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I want to believe that there is a deep, meaningful reason for the person who created this masterpiece of holiday decoration to put a basket of apples into his hand.  Clearly, Uncle Wallace has stories to tell. He’s just letting me write them down.

So I didn’t make it to 50,000 words, but Uncle Wallace does have a Facebook page.  So there’s that.

I also wrote a couple of blog posts of which I am proud.  I linked up with Sarah Bessey in celebration of the Jesus Feminist launch with this post, and I wrote Going Home as part of Tara Owens’s synchroblog on Coming Home. 

To read:

I finally made it through The Unbearable Lightness of Being.  There were many lines in the book that I liked.  Unfortunately, there were several pages to wade through between each of those lines.  I’m happy I read it.  I’m happier that I’m through reading it.

My book club read Bill O’Reilly’s Killing Kennedy.  The book was fine, but I don’t like his writing style.  I would read some of it out loud and imagine it in his voice, and that made it a little better.  I would watch it as a documentary.  I also read Dad is Fat and imagined it in Jim Gaffigan’s voice, but that just made it funnier.

I jumped on the Divergent bandwagon, and I am hooked.  I finished book one, and I’ll be buying the other two (or, let’s face it – all three – I can’t have an incomplete trilogy on the shelf) to read over holiday break, because the wait at the library is looooong, and I am impatient.

My favorite book of the month was Pastrix by Nadia Bolz-Weber.  I tried to find my favorite quote, but I’d just end up quoting half the book.  I have narrowed it down that much.  This book made me snort-laugh and ugly-cry, sometimes in the same sentence.  That’s pretty much what I look for in any book I read about God.

To watch:

I’ve been into Burn Notice this month.  His accents are sometimes good, but usually terrible.  Just awful.  But he’s so adorable (and sure, also badass) that I just don’t care.

I haven’t watched much else, unless you count the ridiculous number of hours I spent watching made-for-TV Christmas movies with Mom and the Psych marathon of Christmas episodes over Thanksgiving.

To hear:

November was a weird soundtrack of industrial music (…I don’t know), Memphis Blues (I blame Uncle Wallace), and classical music (because that’s what I listen to when I write).

To taste:

November means homemade candy.  It’s my favorite holiday tradition.  Every year, on Black Friday, we do not shop.  We put up Christmas decorations and make candy to share with friends and take to parties.  This year, we made five different candies – Martha Washingtons (coconut and pecan nougat, covered in chocolate – my favorite), Texas Millionaires (caramel and pecan nougat, covered in chocolate), peanut butter bon bons (peanut butter nougat – you guessed it – covered in chocolate), dark chocolate fudge with peanut butter, and buttermilk pecan pralines.  Can you tell my parents have pecan trees?

My dad made my favorite meal this month.  He made enchiladas with flour tortillas (instead of the traditional corn), and he made them special for me by substituting goat cheese for the cheese he normally uses.  I am not ashamed to admit that I ate five in one setting.  I also do not recommend doing that.

What were you into in November? Need recommendations for your holiday break?  I’m linking up with Leigh Kramer – go over and see what everyone else has to say!

Esperar

“Sometimes, wrestling with wait looks a lot like believing in spite of and sometimes, it looks like pushing back with every ounce of strength you have within your bones.” Elora Ramirez, Story Sessions (do it)

Advent has always been difficult to me. There’s so much rush, and I’m supposed to be waiting? There’s no time! I have parties to attend and throw, gifts to choose or make, and if I manage to finish all of that early, I’d like to send cards (purposely sent – if at all – after the first day of Christmas so they can be holiday cards without anyone getting fussy, because I just don’t want to hear it). Oh, and there’s also those two jobs where it’s dead week and finals week, so the first two weeks of December are the busiest of the term.

This year, I get to add being sick for a week to the mix. Good times.

I also have temper issues with waiting. I’ve never waited on a child of my own to come into the world, but I’ve waited beside friends, and even from the outside, it’s frustrating as hell. It’s frustrating in the last few weeks of the perfect pregnancy, when she’s miserable and exhausted, and if one more asshole asks her, “Wow! You haven’t had the baby yet?!” or remarks on how huge she is, she might have no other choice but to calmly and rationally stab them in the neck. It’s agonizing to swim through the sea of paperwork required for adoption, especially when after doing all that paperwork, there are still delays and Facebook posts that taunt her with ten thousand pictures of everyone else preparing for Christmas with their little people for whom it is still new. It’s heartbreaking to have the long-awaited child within her grasp, only to lose him or her to miscarriage or an inconveniently changed heart.

But these are not my stories. I don’t know the wait for a child from any perspective other than outside.

My waiting is of a different sort.

My waiting is for a set of larger boots to keep mine company by the front door. It’s for lazy Saturday mornings where we pretend that we’re out of town but we really just sleep in and make waffles way too close to noon to call it brunch. It’s for a forever plus one. It’s for a hand held, a back had, and names that sound like poetry when spoken by the other who was meant to speak them the most.

It’s a waiting that might never be realized for a husband who might not actually exist.

It’s a waiting that’s more often a fight than an anticipation.

My waiting is about pushing back when might-not seeps into my thoughts with a louder, stronger Might. It’s about remembering that the importance of desire is not diminished by not yet having it. It’s believing that there are far more things that are or will be than I can see on my clearest day.

It’s no mistake that in Spanish, “to wait” and “to hope” are the same word.

So I wait. And I hope. And maybe this year, they’ll become the same thing in my soul. Maybe this year, espero.

This little mantra is my happy place this morning.

When the door opens and the paper turkey flies off the ledge of the desk, hitting me in the face, because that’s how wind works…

When the Lost and Found drawer is so full that we’ve had to transfer it to a box on the desk, hoping that someone will come claim their lost shoes and towels (what the…what?!?)…

When the toilet in the public restroom still runs constantly, despite multiple attempts to fix it…

When my hair still smells like the caramelized onions and celery from last night’s soup, despite being washed again this morning…

When I can finally walk to work without sweating but spend the day listening to people complain about how cold it is outside, because of November…

When all of these no-big-deal things join forces to become omg-it-is-not-even-noon-yet…

I remember that I am thankful.

I am thankful that I have a job.

I am thankful that this is a half-week.

I am thankful that I get to see my family on Wednesday.

I am thankful that I have delicious soup to look forward to at lunch.

I am thankful for my life and the abundance and even its little eccentricities.

Unpopular Opinion of the Day

So, a lot of people have used “literally” wrong.  They will say “literally” when they actually mean “figuratively.”  So many people have done this that dictionary.com includes this caveat in their definition of literally [my commentary in brackets, because I just can’t help myself]:

“Usage note: Since the early 20th century, literally has been widely used as an intensifier meaning “in effect; virtually,” a sense that contradicts the earlier meaning ‘actually, without exaggeration’: The senator was literally buried alive in the Iowa primaries.  The parties were literally trading horses in an effort to reach a compromise.  The use is often criticized [*ahem*]; nevertheless, it appears in all but the most carefully edited [read: literate] writing.”

This is annoying to me.

But it’s not nearly as annoying as the disturbing trend, seen mostly on Twitter, of saying, “What the actual fuck…”

Do they mean that?  Do they REALLY?  Because what I imagine when they say/tweet this is an unfortunate scenario where they were just walking along, minding their own business, when BAM – people suddenly copulating right there on the ground in front of them.

Because that’s what “actual” means, kids.  That whatever follows is literally (the traditional usage) what happened.

I mean, if it is what actually happened, then by all means, report that shit (figurative).  If something like spontaneous public sex happens right in front of you, all of Twitter needs to hear about it, because that is indeed remarkable and the exact sort of thing for which Twitter was created.

But let’s stop saying “actual” and “literally” when we mean the opposite. Let’s talk/tweet like we actually know the language.

Going Home

Linking up today with Tara Owens’s synchroblog on Coming Home.

Christmas means going home to me.  I always go home (to my parents’ house) for Christmas Day, and that starts a week of celebration for me.  It’s the end of the rush – the end of the preparation.  It’s time for celebration.

Going home is not always easy.  I don’t have a lot in common with my family, other than bloodlines and Jesus, and we approach Jesus differently.   Their Christmas ends December 26, when mine has just begun.  I’m also somewhat of an anomaly because I’m 38 and have never been married.  My parents have been married since they were 19 and 23.  My younger sister and brother-in-law are celebrating their fifth anniversary this year.  My aunt is widowed, but in order to be widowed, you have to have been married (twice, in her case).  I think they don’t know what to do with me.  I think they don’t understand (I don’t really understand either, but that’s another post for another time).

So going home is often lonely.  It’s the loneliness where you’re surrounded by people who love you but you still feel like the other – the one on the outside, peering into the foggy window to the beautiful scene that you can’t quite reach and don’t quite know how to fit into (or even if you’re supposed to fit at all).

But being away from home on Christmas is worse. To be lonely and also alone is bad.  One year, north Texas had a freak snowstorm around Christmas.  But it was December 24, and I was not going to let it deter me.  Then, when I called my mom to let her know that I was on my way, car fully packed and fueled, coffee in hand, she told me that conditions were so bad that their road had been closed and that I shouldn’t come.  It wasn’t safe.  She tried to soften it by saying that Tammy and Matt were stuck in Oklahoma to let me know that I wasn’t the only one missing, but it didn’t soften it.  They were stuck, but they were together.  I had no together.

So I spent Christmas Eve how any responsible, mature Christian would – with baked goods, a bottle of wine, DVDs of Lost, and my sad feelings.  My friend Maranatha invited me over for the evening, but that was after the second glass, so I wasn’t getting back in the car.

The next morning, however, she and her family wouldn’t take no for an answer.  Her two sisters and her mother both called to inquire if I was on my way.  I was coming for Christmas brunch if they had to come get me themselves.  They fed me, plied me with coffee, and somehow managed to have a gift for me, which was totally unexpected, so that I would really feel a part of the whole celebration.  They let me be sad when it got overwhelming.

I love those people.  It was the next best thing to going home.  They still gave me Christmas Day with my family – just a different family.

A couple of days later, the roads were clear, and I was able to go to my parents’ house.  I ended up driving right behind Tammy and Matt the last five miles of the trip, so we timed it perfectly. Everything was back to the way we meant it to be – just a few days later.

I am lucky.  I am blessed.  I am happy (most of the time).  I am pleased with my life (again, most of the time).  I am whatever-adjective-you-prefer-for-the-relatively-charmed-life-I-lead.

However…

I yearn to move from “going home” to “coming home.”  I have spent the last week musing about what the difference is, and I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.  What I’ve come up with so far is that I don’t want to have to leave the little pocket of existence that I think of as my life to go home.  I want home to be a part of life – a place I come to – a place I find not only my family and the people who mean home to me but I also find myself.

This will be the first year that I’m with a church that observes the liturgical year.  This will be the first year that I am not doing Advent and Epiphany and Lent alone (or as the weird girl who sporadically appears at Vespers, shifty-eyed and guilty-faced, like she’s cheating on her church).  They’re very difficult to do alone.  Doing it alone is not doing it right (and we all know how I like to be The One Who Does It Right).  I hope that this helps me see home as a place I come to rather than a place to which I go.

Speaking of Coming Home, Tara Owens is offering an online Advent course.  It runs December 1-January 11.  If you are looking for your season to be different, too, sign up!

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