I used to always want things to be hard. Complex and unattainable. So that once I attained them (and them was usually a him) I would…win a trophy? Get a merit badge? Or have a sense of accomplishment that only accompanies great effort and struggle and gives one a sense of justification. And as previously discussed, the more untouched by grace I am, the more I need that.
I watch this Twilight craze unfold now, a craze I have bought into at least to the extent of reading the series and seeing both movies. But there’s an extension of it beyond consumerism that taps into the identity of each participant–especially those who slept outside Rockefeller Center last week to catch a glimpse or even share a brief interaction with the human who gets paid to play the role of a vampire. Meanwhile, the one who wrote this story and created this world gives one interview on Oprah and goes largely unnoticed on any set or red carpet visits. We sure do love our idols, don’t we?
I know I have. Like most girls, I’ve always longed to be a Juliet. The recipient of intense, complicated, rule-defying love. “Star-crossed” always sounded so romantic to me–the idea that a love story could be so powerful as to surpass earthly description and involve the heavens. Then I found out that it meant that both lovers are doomed. Due to their love. I watched as Romeo drank the poison then seconds later Juliet stabbed herself and no matter how many times I yelled at them to STOP and JUST WAIT FIVE SECONDS!, it always ended the same. And I began to wonder if such a love could be…overrated.
It became so for me. Wanting to be the one who changed the jerk into a sweetheart, the rebel into a saint, the Speaker’s erratic son into…well, if not reliable, then at least Republican. Eventually, gracefully, I learned that the change I was trying to inspire had to happen somewhere else.
So I jumped out of a boat, literally and figuratively, and lost my footing and my control and the water started to close in. And the strength that carried me to shore was not my own. Which was what opened my eyes and stirred my soul and made me uncomfortable enough with what I saw, my comfort so far, to leave it a thousand miles behind me.
Four years later, I sit in a theater next to my love who is neither vampire nor werewolf. The space once filled with drama now holds quiet confidence. Some risks pay off big time.
Faith is what gets us to and through them.
The paradox that is my faith holds all the complexity (and, paradoxically, simplicity) that I have ever been looking for. This faith, with its stories of strength from weakness and heroes from stutterers and life from death, has the twists and turns that every other relationship is incapable of sustaining. The twists and turns that save me and answer me and ARE me. My story held within the gloriously incomprehensible, graciously reachable greatest story. A story that contains the heavens without crossing stars.
I have a condition called congenital nystagmus. Congenital meaning I was born with it, and nystagmus meaning my eyes do this crazy, rapid, side to side movement all the time. They look like they’re vibrating. My vision (other than being crappy anyway) is not affected–I don’t see objects constantly shaking. The only real effect is the reaction of people to it, and “people” includes “me.” For as long as I can remember, an insecurity (add it to the others) has been a side effect of the nystagmus. I forget about it often, but if someone looks me directly in the eyes for awhile I get nervous, wondering if they’ve noticed and are silently assessing me. The most annoying thing that ever happened was when I got pulled over by a creepy Birmingham cop for having an expired license plate. Dude turned his siren on like we were in East LA and followed me into the Andrews Fitness Center parking lot. A couple of minutes into his reprimand, he paused and asked if I had been drinking or doing drugs. It took all the restraint I had not to reply, “Do you seriously expect me to workout without a shot of vodka and a line of coke?” He explained that my eye movement looked like that of someone who was drunk or high. I assured him I was neither and slid further down in my seat, avoiding the looks of other gym-goers who were surveying the Cops-esque scene (flashing lights included).
Having an iPod in New York City is as essential as rat traps and a good pair of walking shoes. There are days when the only way to make it sanely down the street is to drown out the city noise with your own soundtrack. Your favorite songs, all compiled on one tiny, thin, brightly colored (purple!) device. A pocket therapist– and much less expensive.
I am growing up and making healthy choices. At least when it comes to life, if not food. The day after Halloween in New York is accompanied by a city-wide hangover. You can almost feel the headaches and nausea lingering on the streets as if they were airborne. This year, I did not have a hangover of my own. This year, the BF and I celebrated our first Halloween together by leaving the party at a sensible hour, efficiently avoiding the transformation back into pumpkins.
After waking up to yet ANOTHER morning without hot water, the Roommate and I decided yesterday that it was time to fight back. Letters were drafted, complaints were lodged, and work time was squandered on attempts to get our living situation back in order after the nightmare of the last month. We took matters into our own hands and crafted the flyer above, which we slid underneath every door in our building. (Multiple copies were given to the vacant apartment across the hall–it’s only fair that potential tenants see what they would be getting into.)
The BF bought tickets for us last night to go to a truly New York event: a benefit for a non-profit organization called RestoreNYC, which provides care for survivors of sex trafficking in New York City. The event was a Broadway night, featuring multiple stars of shows like The Little Mermaid and Aida. Songs were sung, brilliantly, and money was raised for an organization that brings to light the horrible and all-too-common practice of sexual slavery. You would be shocked if you had seen some of the statistics shown to us last night. Between 14,000 and 17,000 men, women, and children are brought through JFK each year to be sold into slavery, and it’s going on right under our noses, in apartments and buildings we walk by every day. Sobering, sad stuff. If you want to learn more, go to www.restorenyc.org. This should not be happening in our world.
Well, Jesus had my number as he always does. After an hour in front of the computer spent documenting my complaints for the weekend, I went to the BF’s apartment to resuscitate him from his corporate-induced coma. We stopped at our favorite little local coffee shop, Dunkin’ Donuts, for him to get enough caffeine into his bloodstream to stay awake through church. On our way out of the cafe and into a cab, we watched a walker and his dog pass by slowly, the dog slightly hobbling. I looked closer and saw that the dog had three legs. “Wow,” the BF said. “I could never adapt to life like that.” This from the guy who just worked overnight for fifteen hours straight and still had a smile on his face, said to the girl who complained about the lost weekend to her computer, God, sister, mom, and dad and offered to kill the BF’s coworkers. On the scale of adaptability, I am hovering between one and zero. I should clarify that this is a hundred point scale. I am looking for pencils now.
