facebook. I have facebook to connect with people's lives, not read articles about what is apparently supposed to be good news, about an 11 year old shooting two men who happen to be in this country illegally? That is supposed to be celebrated? That an 11 year old killed two men, we are supposed to glorify that? THAT IS NOT WHY I GET ON FACEBOOK. "Being a true American, I hope you'll pass this on." REALLY? IF THAT IS A TRUE AMERICAN I'M THANKFUL I'LL NEVER BE ONE. sorry for the yelling. But if I don't yell here I'll yell at the friend who shared it and that is not okay.

Is that love?
I THINK NOT.

*oh thank Jesus, snopes says it is false.

Sterility

The sterility of this country is stifling me.

I had labeled it earlier this week as restlessness. I realize now that is not what it is. Restlessness is continually moving, quiet. This is not restlessness, but longing.

I am not restless when I am serving tea or listening to the passions of friends. I am restless, rather, when listening to a professor talk about the way a woman shops for oranges in China, reading the blogs of international organizations, walking through crowds of hundreds of people and it is quiet, sitting in poetry workshop disagreeing with everything they find valuable, while I watch the sun set, noticing the way the light shifts.

The sterility of this country is stifling me.

My life is not my own. And this is where I am right now- studying at a university in a small town in the Midwest, USA.

I can spend all day longing for places I love, for cultures I want to taste, for the colors, sounds and smells of Asia, but this is where I am now.

How do I break these cultural norms? I break most of the cultural rules in other places anyway, just because I do not know any better, so I might as well do it here too, even though it forces me off the path of least resistance.

That’s something I really need to figure out soon. J

For now, a dear friend is coming over for food and we are going to talk about these things. Oh I am so thankful for dear friends! 

J and I are addicted to oreos. It's a problem.

But a big glass of milk and a John Piper sermon, mmm it's already a good day :)

home

I feel like I just went home.

had the privilege of skyping (without video but it was still wonderful to hear their voices together) with Sarah and Kristin.

Their 'presence' was so comforting and encouraging.

My laughter came, strong.

We prayed together at the end, like bedtime during the summer :)

"It really does feel like we're in that room sitting in our sticky beds and watching the faraway breeze that will never come anywhere near us."

I wish I could melt these two worlds of mine together.

On Being A Woman. July 28/2012

There is a lot of stuff out there on this topic. Maybe too much. But I don’t think so. I think for every woman in the world there could be a book of unique thoughts and experiences. Here is a small chapter of mine.

This summer I am teaching English at a refugee camp in Hungary. I’m also living here. At training before I came, I acquired a whole page of notes on how to behave around the refugee men. It is helpful, important information, but all of it is geared towards making sure nothing bad happened. We were warned that the men might yell, and most definitely stare. Though I am thankful for the knowledge of why, and I know that their response to me has no bearing on who I am, it still really got to me. I knew it would, because I deeply long to be respected and valued for who I am. And though I know I can’t expect anyone but God to value me properly, it is still a deep desire and crazy hard to let go of.

Some days I sort of wished to be a man. So I could hear their stories, sit alone in the yard, go into the city with them for ice cream. It would just be so much easier to be accepted and respected.

But I learned, somehow, how blessed I am to be a part of the worldly community of women.

We have it rough, you know. Here it is perfectly acceptable for the men to stare. I walk into a classroom to get the keys to lock my classroom, and the talking completely stops. Everything I do in public has to be carefully measured against what is least distracting to the men. Draw no attention. After all, a woman is as loose as her hair, and if it is uncovered, well… But you already know.

I do not respect the way these cultures (not to be specified) treat their women. Yes, there are beautiful parts, and yes, I think they have some things better than my culture. I also do not respect the way my own culture treats its women. I’m not criticizing one or the other, or suggesting ways in which they should change. I want to make clear that I don’t think any culture (that I have heard of) does a very good job of this. (And I also don’t think these cultures very much respect the men either, but that is a thought spew for another day.)

But back to the point. As a woman, I have to fight for my respect in this camp. How? I put my hair up tight whenever I am out, I never show shoulders- and the best days I cover my elbows, I always cover my knees, and don’t wear too tight fitting clothes. I do not look at the men purposefully. I don’t make lasting eye contact with them; I don’t talk to them, except for hellos to my students. I make sure I’m never alone with them. Basically, unless they say hello, I pretend they don’t exist. Maybe it sounds cruel, but one man asked my male teammate what was different about the American women. He said we were nice, but not friendly. And later, he was told that they respect us. However, they still stare.

(But! In my classroom, we are all people. I am the teacher, and I can catch their eyes to ask questions and smile and laugh and be.)

From my students, with the exception of two or three, I’ve always felt incredibly respected. They call me teacher and nod or wave politely when we’re outside. As their teacher, I feel so respected. But I still smile so much more when I am in my class than when I am outside.

But the women. They are shy. It is as if none of us quite know how to go about mixing our cultures. One night we got brave and approached while they were sitting outside. They moved over on their blanket and invited us to sit down. Ran in for the translator and sent the youngest girl in for juice and cake. I wouldn’t have gotten to hear the stories or the way she told them had I been a man, let alone invite myself into their circle.

And then there was the night of dancing. A thing solely for women- no men allowed. And oh how smug I felt in class the next day, wondering if anyone knew, the American girls can dance! And after that I had a sort of solidarity with the women. I was in! Part of their culture, a little bit.

It was after that night that I realized how privileged I am to get to not only witness but be a part of the culture of women here. To get to participate.

Then I realized how beautiful it is, the experience of being female. It’s too hard and isn’t how it should be, but it, and we, were intended to be beautiful and purposeful, and we are. And I am blessed and honored to get to be a part of this. Regardless of my earthly culture, I will always be a part of this beautiful hardship.

It seems to me an ironic place to truly, truly come to this conclusion, but then, God often words in the ironic, doesn’t he?

I am most definitely super blessed and beyond honored to be who I am.

All over the world.

We are the same.

And it’s a most delightful privilege. 

Sometimes the way the sunlight hits the floor reminds me of India.

I don't know why, but it does.

rough draft

I Have Music in my Blood

I swear.

Every paper cut reveals a soft string

of woodwind staccatos

and cello crescendos,

the diminuendos of the timpani.

An orchestra of delicacy.

The rhythms your blood carries

mapped out in veins.

Pulsing allegro life

welling up to puddles on your fingertips

pianissimo acoustics

echoes of the strong beat inside.

If we slit the soft walls,

the chambers of your blood

loosed to the world of wind and light,

your cells would let low brass speak,

the oboes and violas,

bassoons and piccolos

play their rhythms quiet-strong.

A concerto of blood.