Our Obsession

"If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do--is to save every day, till eternity passes away, just to spend it with you"

 

Parts of "The Time Keeper" that made me cry: four

Number of times the word "time" is used in this blog post: 28 (if you're bored, or think this post is too long, try to find them all!)

Picture: from Google, that awesome time-saving database which saves my lazy butt every time I write a blog

 

One of my all-time favorite songs is the 1973 hit "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce. No matter how many times I hear it, it still brings tears to my eyes. I guess what I love most about the song is the idea that time can be bottled up and saved, or given as a gift. It is especially appealing to me to think that time, which on the longest insomniac night or the darkest stressful day can feel like a punishment, can also be a blessing and a reward.

I think most people would like to have more time. We want to capture it. Chase it. Slow it down. Speed it up. Rewind it. Escape it. Use it wisely. Waste it. Even stop it. Every household has at least a dozen ways to measure it or display it, and our lives are dedicated to the process of checking time and scheduling ourselves around it. We are obsessed with time.

"The Time Keeper" is a novel by Mitch Albom which my mother gave me for my birthday, but I didn't have the chance to finally read until this week. It's beautiful. Just downright beautiful. It addresses time in all of its paradoxes, from those who spend their whole lives running away from it to those who spend their lives holding to it tightly. It addresses the very human fear of death, and how it began when men started measuring time and realizing that someday, each one of us would run out of it. The main character, who becomes Father Time, wanted to do the same thing that Croce sang of and my soul connected with--capture time so that a dying loved one could live longer. In doing so he is blessed/cursed to spend nearly an eternity listening to others lament about time, and has to help two people on earth break their obsession with time in order to return to his life.

We've all heard the cheesy phrases about seizing the moment and living for today, but Albom isn't on a soapbox telling the world to straighten up and toss all their clocks away. He's realistic enough to note that our modern society will probably never stop obsessing about time. But--and this is a big "but"--he urges us to be careful. To be mindful. To never stop believing that life is worthwhile no matter how long or short it ends up being, and how much time we think we deserve or felt shorted. To give 100% to this moment, every moment.

For myself, it was a reinforcement that I did the right thing by choosing life instead of the dark alternative. It put some things in perspective for me when it comes to relationships (have I ever given 100% to anyone? Ever? Is there time still to try?) It reminded me that the future is what I make it; I may never know how many people I've actually touched, or how many I have yet to meet and have the chance to make smile someday, but I owe it to myself to find out.

I urge you to reconsider your relationship with time. Be kinder to yourself. Slow down a little. And recognize that your worth is literally limitless as far as time is concerned.

The Weight of Worlds

The tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut at the Sandy Hook Elementary School has been in the hearts and minds of the nation this last week, and in watching all the news coverage and parts of the memorial service I felt many things, primarily horror and pain for the families involved. I thought about being a parent in that situation, and how on earth you could explain to your child what had happened to their friends. I thought about the teachers killed protecting their students, and how they remained calm enough in the face of danger to be heroes for the ones they loved. I thought of the children themselves, and how many years it will take for their nightmares to quiet and life to normalize, or if it ever will.

My thoughts also turned inwards, as thoughts tend to do when one is faced with an event like this. As a society I think we search for ways to make something so enormous and unfathomable personal--relatable enough to be felt, identifiable enough to be real. This week I thought a lot about my plans post-graduation, and how I'd really like to get some experience in counseling, to see if that is where my future career lies. I have a particular interest in school counseling, not just because I see a lot of need in that area but because in the last couple years I've worked with a lot of high school kids who could use extra support and guidance as they navigate growing up.

There was a point this week when it finally hit me: when a school experiences something like Sandy Hook, who ends up being one of the first responders in the aftermath? The school counselors.

How on earth do you prepare for something like that? How do you learn what to say, how to help? Where does the strength come from to be able to relive the event again and again through the eyes and stories of the kids and families that walk through your door?

So many people want to sensationalize this story for their own purposes--legislature for tighter gun laws, higher viewership for news stations, the ability to point fingers and stir up wounds--when really, this is a story of humanity that needs to stay human. Whatever happens next, whatever laws get debated, there is still a shattered community that needs to heal, and there are people at work to heal it. The heroes of Newtown, the police, the care-givers, the counselors, the responders...these are the people who deserve attention in the news. These are the ones who take on the weight of worlds.

The next few weeks are going to be hell for that town--God bless them and strengthen them all.

*Photo by Alex Brandon, of the American flags at the Washington Monument lowered to half-mast last Friday to commemorate Sandy Hook*

People Shine

It had been one of those days. One of the crazy, pre-holiday rush with a million-errands-to-do-and-I've-got-two-papers-to-write-still-before-I-can-pack-and-leave-town days. I'd picked this day to get my hair cut down at Fantastic Sam's, a hair salon between Nampa and Caldwell that I was drawn to not just because of the name (because really, who doesn't want to go someplace Fantastic?) but for the nostalgia. It was the place where I'd decided to be crazy and get bangs for the first time in a dozen years, and the place where I dyed my hair right before my wedding. It is a place of new beginnings.

The friendly woman who greeted me at the front desk introduced me to my hairdresser, a lovely lady with a short, red-dyed "do." In short order she pointed out two of my mistakes--I was wearing a hoodie (which made it difficult to cut hair) and I'd been abusing my hair too much with a brush, which she could tell immediately from the wealth of split-ends I'd acquired. I took off the hoodie and felt kind of sheepish about the brushing, wondering if she hated working with clients that had damaged hair.

Whenever I'm in a setting where something on my person is being "done" (think dentist, doctor's office, optometrist, etc.) I can't stand the silence. It seems strange to me to spend an hour or so in close proximity with someone else and not leave with a better sense of who the other person is. As the woman worked on my hair we chatted back and forth about random things. Finally I asked her my favorite question: "what made you want to be ___?" (In this case, a hair-stylist). Her entire face lit up as if she'd been waiting for that question since I walked in.

She spoke passionately about her love of hair, from the time she was a child and played with her cousin's hair or pretended to shave her dad's head to her days in college studying cosmetology. After a few odd-jobs she always came back to this--the one place that she never had to steel herself to go to each morning. "I get tired, but never worn-out," she said, and her eyes shone with the light of someone doing something they loved, and doing it well.

People shine. This is one of those moments that a journalist lives for in an interview; that a writer can't help but be inspired by. For the rest of the day I watched other people shine: the man at Jiffy Lube who wished everyone a Merry Christmas with oil on his hands and a grin on his face (while his coworkers scowled in the background). The woman making faces at her son in the shopping cart. The lady at the Salvation Army who volunteers her time every week. It's not a metaphorical light or a figure of speech.These individuals literally shine with an inner satisfaction and peace that the rest of us--the confused, the fuck-ups, the "I have no idea where I'm going in life but I'm getting there someday"--watch with awe.

Over the upcoming holiday break I invite you to pick out the people in your life who shine, and find a way to tell them you think they're pretty awesome =) Chances are, you might be shining for someone else right this moment

*image by myself*

Falling Behind

 Tonight some friends and I were lamenting together about the amount of work we've accumulated in the end of the term. The majority of it comes from classes that assigned us weekly journals or mini-projects. These assignments had vague due dates and an expectation (poor optimistic professors!) that students could be self-motivated enough to budget out our work time and actually DO four or so short essays a week instead of taking the procrastination approach of: "Oh, they're not due right this second, so I'll get to it when I have to." Trouble is, all this putting off has now doomed each of us to the snowball effect--literally dozens of essays, journals, and projects due in the next week and a half. It's insanity.


I know I'm not the greatest student when it comes to doing things last minute. Every year starts with the same thought--this time will be different! This time I'll be on top of all my deadlines and save myself the stress of all-nighters and caffeine hazes! ...yeah...that never happens. I've actually started to wonder if the only way I can pull off a decent research paper is if it's done during the wee hours of the morning, precious hours before class. (My professors would probably disagree).

Anyway, in addition to being poor with time-management I have a tendency to be in my own world during class, filling my notebooks with poetry, doodles, and random musings. I came across this "gem" from last Spring semester and was a little surprised at how it still rings true today. Apparently old habits die hard:

I was minding my own business, chowing down on my B.L.T. and chips with gusto—my cell phone face up on the table awaiting a reply text message and my backpack sealed shut in its Velcro lining. I opened my Naked juice and listened to the patter of voices around me, warping and blending softly together like the patter of rain that fell last night as I dozed. They were talking about the exam next Friday, the one I hadn’t begun studying for yet. I bit into my sandwich and vaguely pondered on the nearly ten chapters I was behind on, the notes and study guides I’d have to begin all too soon. Violently I shrugged these thoughts away and turned to more interesting cues: the buzz of my cell phone.

            It was at this moment that the girl slipped into the room, purple folder clutched tightly to her chest and walking swiftly to the back of the room. She was one of dozens of prospective new students scoping out classrooms for next fall, and her first view of ours? Me furiously texting with one hand and cramming greasy food in my face with the other. A far cry from how I imagined college classrooms in my prospective days—neat stacks of notes, pens moving furiously across the vast expanse of lined paper as the professors poured delicious truths and discussions into the souls of their students.

            Guiltily, I put my sandwich down and took my notebook out, trying to focus on the professor’s words. Yet his marvelous lectures dissolved in disjointed, slurred sentences with all the meaning wrung out of them. “Neo-classical hegemony…discourse…appropriation…substantiation…”

            Too many syllables with too many trains of thought. I only had one train, and it was stalled at the station. When did I become such a terrible student? When did I stop caring about literary theory? Or any of my classes?

            But I know when. I know the exact moment. It began with the decision to skip one reading, and miss one class, and choose sleep over homework. It snowballed into more skipped readings and more missed classes and an increased shift in priorities until the knot of apathy so innocently thread grew its own heads and marched forward, trampling on assignments; steamrolling work ethic. Until I became this: She Who Sleeps Through Lectures. She Who Puts Off All Projects Until the Night Before. She Who Doodles On Every Page of Notes, Recycles All Her Readings Untouched, and Spends Hours Writing Nonsense That No One Reads. 

I guess I can add one more title to the list from months ago: She Who Doesn't Learn Her Lesson. 

*image of our cat, Tiamat, "helping" me with homework*

Prove It

"You don't know you're beautiful

that's what makes you beautiful"

--One Direction

"She doesn't know that she's an angel in disguise

she doesn't know that we see heaven in her eyes

she doesn't know that she's alright

she might've been blinded by the light

of all the good that she does, but she doesn't know"

--Michael McLean

Of all the characteristics of people that we tend to admire in life, one of the most frustratingly endearing is humility. You know the kind: the parents who run themselves ragged providing for their families, juggling a thousand things on a to-do list that always places themselves dead last. The nine-to-fivers working the most unpleasant jobs because, well, someone has to. The people who just seem to give and give until there's nothing left and still find a way to count their blessings. The people who don't know they're beautiful, and beautiful in the sense that emanates from the inside first. It's maddening sometimes, to see these people and admire them, to wish to be like them, to constantly fall short of their natural altruism and sometimes hate them for it, to love them with all your heart and still hear them say I'm not worthwhile.

Over and over I've seen this play out--someone that I love and look up to incapable of seeing in themselves what is so clear to the rest of us. And it seems the harder you try to recognize them and show them a mirror of their accomplishments, the more their ears seem to deafen, their eyes turn downwards. Show them anything but this: their own worth. The only thing more heartbreaking than their selfless attitudes is their self-hatred, a never-ceasing attack from the inside out, the demons that whisper it's not true. You're not a good person. "You think I'm worth something?" these individuals may respond to the world at large, "then prove it."

Someone very important to me told me this recently, and at the time it hit me like a physical blow to the heart. I was furious. I was devastated. I wish I could have taken them by the shoulders and shaken sense into them. In the last few years of knowing this individual all I could see was beauty. Someone who shone from the inside-out, with a level of kindness and integrity that few of us ever witness. But their demons were louder than I ever was, and I ended up feeling like a failure.

Throughout college I've been told that if you want to enter the field of counseling, you have to make your own healing a priority. If you can't give to yourself, how will you have something to give to others? For someone with plenty of demons of her own, this is my own hardest task. To figure out how to give myself a fraction of worth--to say I'm not a bad person or a good person, I'm just me. And "me" is worthwhile. I'm beginning to see that this is one of the most pressing issues of our time. Depression and lack of self-esteem is rampant, squashing the confidence out of future leaders, future defenders, and future healers. How do you fight back? How do you replace the demons with reality?

Last weekend I took part in a "Rake Up Caldwell" project where teams of students set out to clean up houses with yards in major need of raking. Afterwards we were going to go to a pancake breakfast, put on by another organization on campus. After my team had finished our list we raced back to the college, the taste of imagined pancakes spurring us on. Our advisor stopped us in the parking lot with the news that one of the other teams was still on their first house, and we needed to go back out there and help them finish. Right as she spoke, it started to pour rain. We all looked at each other, heaved a sigh, and delayed the pancake feast to rake up two more houses. We found ourselves cursing at the sky out of frustration (not very charitable of us, but hey, it was the weekend before break and we were cranky) and then a member of my team said: "I wish there was a way to just put all the leaves back up in the trees." 

Many times I've reflected on this comment. The proposal itself is futile--we could no sooner put the leaves back in the trees than silence the demons in ourselves. But that's the point. We can't prove anyone's worth but our own. You fight back by giving the ones you love all the support you can, and then hoping that someday they have the foresight and the strength to prove to themselves what we knew all along. You are worth it. You are worth it all.

*images by me at the College of Idaho*

Impressions

 



If I've learned anything at college (and we can only pray I have) I've learned that our impressions of others should never, ever be immovable. We've all heard the cliche: "Don't judge a book by its cover," but this idea goes well beyond mere physical appearance, although too often we find ourselves judging others on this shallow level. Again and again people have surprised me and overturned all of my assumptions, either about a certain group or a certain mindset or just general personalities that I'd written off as "jerk" or "weird" or "intimidating."

Examples: there are two young men who have volunteered a lot with Food Bank for the first time this year that I'd never had much contact with before, and through several hours of conversation with them in one of our campus vans my eyes have been opened to their lives in ways I'd never thought to look before. I have been continually impressed with their compassionate points of view and surprised by the intensity with which they live their lives, when before I just assumed they were quiet because they were shy or had nothing to say. Maybe this is because service tends to bring out the best in others, or because those who travel together tend to connect to avoid awkward silences, but in any case I am grateful for weekly exercise in keeping my impressions open.

A couple weeks ago my literature class invited us to write on the subject of race and culture--all of the little things that make us who we are. The topic touched a nerve with each of us and when it came time to share our essays there was a shocking amount of emotion, ranging from anger to confusion to tears. I got to know each of my classmates that day in a deep and personal way, that in many ways increased my respect and appreciation for all of them. Writing has a way of doing this--of opening doors and windows to the soul that few other mediums can. How many times have I felt that metaphorical punch in the gut, that wrenching of my heart, for someone in my class as I read their poetry, or personal essay, or listened to them sing, or improvise a riff in jazz class, or glanced through their sketchbook. This is an incredibly talented campus, and I'm so grateful to be here and to be part of this exchange of hearts!

I'm grateful as well to all of those who have allowed their impression of me to be flexible as I've grown up. I've gone through so many phases, from the rebellious child and the flighty hippy to the severely depressed and back up to whatever it is I am now (I'd like to think, somewhere in the realm of healthy and whole again). I realize that I've been difficult to get close to these last three years, and at times this was on purpose. Freshmen year I transformed from the optimistic, cheerful and friendly girl into a kind of hermit, frequently staying silent when I wanted to speak and avoiding social situations. I'm not good with confrontation. I've played the martyr for years, overwhelmed with depression and anxiety and other things that should have made me reach out for human connection, but instead my defense mechanism kicked in and I chose to run. I didn't want others to see me crack, and in doing so I think I offended many of you by closing my communication with you. As a result I've lost a few friends, which was painful but important, as it taught me just how many people cared and how important it is to maintain close relationships.

Now I'm seeing the light. Thanks to many of you who saw my cracks and helped me put myself back together I am happier, I am significantly more "chilled out," and I'm more at peace with myself and the world around me. I don't run from social situations anymore. I'm better at public speaking and introducing myself to strangers. I'm better at talking about the things that suck to talk about, and doing it in a healthy way that doesn't bring me down into a "funk." In short, I've done some growing up. And I've got much, much more growing to do before I'm done.

Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your support. Thank you for not writing me off! And to those who still feel awkward around me, who don't know exactly how to talk to the girl who last year was a moody mess, (yes you, I see you!) I invite you to meet me again. There is not a soul on this earth who stays the same from one day to the next. We are all nothing less and nothing more than the moments and the trials that shape us, and these moments are constantly changing.

*image by Google*

The Mind-Body Connection

When the mind is sick, the body follows suit.

Never in my life has this been more clear. This last week has been one of those rare "theme" weeks at school--where the majority of my classes accidentally and serendipitously collided in subject matter, leading me to wonder if all my professors didn't get together over the weekend and plot their material out over drinks. Besides the upcoming presidential election, my professors have shared one important idea: the health of the mind infinitely and strangely connects to the health of the body.

It started with my Abnormal Psychology class and researching anxiety disorders for a group project due next week. Things slowly began clicking into place and I found myself viewing my life with new eyes. My trip to the emergency room last spring, for example. I am now convinced that the chest pain and difficulty breathing I experienced then, which the doctors couldn't explain or provide evidence for, was nothing more or less than an intense panic attack. (I had experienced panic attacks before, but haven't had any attacks as serious as the E.R. one before or after this incident). As I read about panic disorders, agoraphobia, and general anxiety disorder (G.A.D.) I was reminded strongly of the times when my stress level skyrocketed due to school, work, or relationship pressures and I suffered physical repercussions (getting Shingles--a phenomenon more common to 60-year-olds, my immune system crashing, infections, insomnia, depression, gray hairs, and general fatigue, to name a few) that might have been avoided or reduced significantly had I learned to control for the stressors in my life.

Tonight a group in my psych class did a presentation on somatoform disorders, including hypochondria disorder and conversion disorder, all of which are physical manifestations of psychological distress. We watched videos of individuals who experience seizures or constant pain, real or imagined, to reflect in an outward way the damage being done on the inside. Many of these disorders are paired with anxiety, depression, behavioral problems, and abuse. This makes it not only difficult to diagnose but difficult to treat, as incredible damage control is needed when a patient is told that their chronic pain or condition is "all in their head."

My Zen class focused on an article by Paula Arai which spoke of therapeutic techniques to help individuals heal, particularly after trauma. The article includes a list of "Ten Principles in the Way of Healing," and number two on that list reads: "living body-mind." Arai writes

The women in this study view the mind and body as one, a fundamental assumption of their worldview. It is so "normal" to them it did not seem to warrant mention. Yet, this view of the body-mind as one is a significant component of their healing paradigm because it explains how they can turn to chanting and prayer in the face of terminal illness and believe those activities will help them heal. By not bifurcating the resources available to a person, they find avenues of healing that no allopathic doctor would prescribe: holding a rock that has the word "OK" painted on it as they are transported into surgery...(etc.)

Even my archery class joined in the spontaneous stream of cross-subject contemplation. Over and over my instructor reminded us to make the bow a part of our arm and the arrow's aim a part of our vision, connecting mind and body to be "one" with the sport we were engaging in.

I think, subconsciously at least, I always knew that this connection was significant. I just never realized how significant until I ended up in the E.R. All of the most difficult parts of my life have been the ones punctuated with an urgent need to meet unrealistic expectations: I hope that they like me...I want to get this part perfect...I don't want to look foolish (that one is big for me, and the reason that I don't ever dance in public or do well with confrontation)...What if I mess up this presentation/job interview/(insert your own stressful social situation)?

These anxieties are always paired with an incredibly harmful sense of dread or despair if I fall short of my own expectations. Over the last two years I have been engaging in the pursuit of peace of mind, of finding a healthier mindset--of generally "chilling out." Without knowing that my body was reacting to my problems with anxiety, I have been training myself to be flexible with my responses to difficult situations. And, to an extent, I think I've been successful. (I didn't, for example, have a panic attack when I saw a midterm grade of C- like I might have two years ago. I also didn't shake or feel light-headed during a recent presentation, which is improvement).

The moral of the story, folks, is to be kind to your mind. The longer you stew in regrets or unreasonable guilt, or set unrealistic expectations for yourself, or allow yourself to sink into depression, anxiety, or anger--the more your body and overall health will decline. You'll grin and bear it and pretend to be strong, but over time that stress will wear you down and affect your daily life.

Keep the mind engaged, think positively, engage in things you enjoy, surround yourself with support, and above all, stay healthy. Your body will thank you for it later.

Link to Paula Arai's article: http://muse.jhu.edu/books/9780824860134
*image taken by me, altered by BeFunky Photo Effects online*