chicken scratch

daily scribbles :: courage

2012-01-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration:

"When you are born," the golem said softly, "your courage is new and clean. You are brave enough for anything: crawling off of staircases, saying your first words without fearing that someone will think you are foolish, putting strange things in your mouth. But as you get older, your courage attracts gunk and crusty things and dirt and fear and knowing how bad things can get and what pain feels like. By the time you're half-grown, your courage barely moves at all, it's so grunged up with living. So every once in a while, you have to scrub it up and get the works going or else you'll never be brave again. Unfortunately, there are not so many facilities in your world that provide the kind of services we do. So most people go around with grimy machinery, when all it would take is a bit of spit and polish to make them paladins once more, bold knights and true."

Excerpt from The Girl who Circumnavigated Fairyland In A Ship Of Her Own Making, Catherynne M. Valente. Words embolded by Bean. :)

I.

When we are born into this world, we arrive with a few things no one can take away from us. Every boy and every girl receives the same gifts: a jar and a bottle. Inside the jar is courage--sparkly and fuzzy and electrifying. And in case you were wondering, courage glows slightly blue. Inside the bottle is hope--fresh, effervescent, smells-like-sunshine hope. Every child instinctively knows what to do with courage and hope. We rub courage liberally all over ourselves and drink deeply from hope and go out into the world to explore and discover and learn and take risks. We are fearless. We know that our jar of courage and bottle of hope are bottomless as long as we keep using them.

As we grow, some of us forget how to use courage, forget how to drink hope. At least that's what happened to me. I stopped using these gifts and began to ration them. For when I really need them, I said.

Foolish Bean.

Courage and hope, unused, dwindle away to nothing.

When I decided to start scribbling every day, I didn't expect to receive any feedback. In fact, I expected to lose blog subscribers and followers because I was rambling aloud.

I was just adding more noise to an already noisy virtual universe.

Blog friends, I was surprised and delighted and humbled to receive responses to the daily scribbles. I have loved the conversations we've had, the parts of your lives you've shared in your responses. Thank you for your texts, phone calls, e-mails, comments and spoken words of encouragement.

My jar of courage and bottle of hope were empty, but you filled them up.

Thank you

For encouraging me to write;
For wanting to have conversations with me;
For sharing your own stories.

II.

If you are running low on courage or hope (or if you're completely out), let me know. I will be your cheer cheerleader.

To those who strive to tell stories through words or sculptures or pictures or movement or song or paintings or movies:

Thank you.

You are courageous for telling your own stories and sharing yourself with a nameless, faceless audience who may or may not like you.

(You might not think that's courageous, but I do.)

Keep on keepin' on.

III.

Do you have a super-secret passion for something--anything--that you're hesitant to pursue? Do you want to open your own bakery or start your own dog-walking business? Write a novel/poem/screen play? Become the next Food Network Star?

Please share!

I could tell try to persuade you to go for it (in way too many words), but I'll let Jon Acuff do the talking. He is the one who inspired me to scribble every day. He is one of my favorite people--my far-away friend and unofficial mentor. (It's unofficial because he doesn't know. Shhh. It's still a secret.)

Also, he is hilarious. Check him out. Be inspired.

Daily Scribbles :: Thin Seasons

2012-01-23T11:20:00.000-08:00

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration:

"It isn't the great big pleasures that count the most; it's making a great deal out of the little ones."--Jean Webster

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm thankful for seasons when life feels uncomfortably full, when I feel I'm stretched thin and am starting to lose my elasticity. It is during those longer, harder days that I see and appreciate all of the good things in my life.

We are entering into this season once more. Work demands more time than it already owns. Life demands more--more time, money, energy, self. I'd like to think that I'm not easily derailed, that I can segue from one season into the next without losing my cool or getting flustered.

But I lost my cool last week.

I allowed myself to sit in a pool of despair for a few hours. I grumbled at everyone and no one in particular. I splashed around and waited till my toes got pruney. Then I got out.

No use grumbling and crying about things I can't change.

We're trying our best to adjust to work days that bleed into long nights, to eating everything out of our pantry and freezer because our budget is so taut you could bounce quarters off of it.

We're in a thin season.

Thin seasons force me to assess my priorities and be creative and intentional with my time and resources. Thin seasons remind me to celebrate the little things, like having just enough time to hold hands before going to sleep. Great friends. Peanut butter. Happy dogs. A clean house.

These things are more than enough.

II.

Dear God:

Thanks for thin seasons. They remind me to celebrate all of the good things you give me every day. Maybe some day, I won't need thin seasons to remember.

Yours,

Bean

III.

My friend, Nannette, is determined to focus on the blessings in her life and is sharing her reasons to be grateful each week on her blog. Her determination to focus on the good things has challenged me to focus on the good things in my life, too.

What are three good things in your life? Here are my three:

Mike Fox. And Crosby and Gemma. And our families. And our dear friends. (I'm going to cheat and count all of those people as one really wonderful blessing.)
The Orange County Public Library
Drinking tea with Mike before bed

Daily Scribbles :: Regret

2012-01-18T08:00:00.000-08:00

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration: A shameful memory.

I.

When I first started college, I naively thought I wouldn't allow "the world" to change me. I was going to change the world. I was going to bleed Christ's love all over everyone I met.

I had never been kissed, never smoked a cigarette and never had a beer.

College was eye-opening.

It only took a few days for me to realize I was just a girl among men and women. Perhaps "girl" is too generous of a label. I was practically from another planet.

My suite-mates were kind to me, but I felt my "otherness" showing. I wanted to bleed Christ's love all over everyone, but I also wanted to be liked. I didn't want to stick out so much.

Can you imagine my surprise when a boy showed interest? I couldn't believe my good fortune!

His name was Mark. He was charming and funny and cute, and I could not believe he was paying any attention to me. I was in college! A boy was talking to me! He thought I was funny! I was giddy from the attention, but the must-change-the-world-through-love programming could not be overridden. Was he a Christian? I didn't know yet. I was pretty green about boy-girl interactions, but I had enough sense to know that there were a few things you didn't talk about on the first date (or the first few dates, for that matter):

Marriage
How many kids you want to have
Ex-boyfriends

I assumed that personal beliefs fell somewhere on that list, though I wasn't sure where. I knew we would talk about it eventually.

It came too soon for me.

We were on our way to a concert on-campus when he asked if we could stop by his room. While we were there, he asked if I wanted anything to drink. I politely declined. He said, "Don't be shy, Lina--honestly, I have plenty. You're welcome to whatever I have." I told him I didn't drink. He said, "Oh. Do you mind if I do?" I told him I didn't. But I was secretly disappointed. This beautiful man drank alcohol? I felt as though he told me he killed puppies for a living.

Let me explain.

I was raised to believe that certain things were unquestionably wrong. For example, killing another person. The bible says no, and the law says no. I also believed that there was another list of things you didn't do if you loved God. I like to call this list, "Lifestyle Choices for People Who Love God". If you love God, you wouldn't do these things:

Drink alcohol
Smoke cigarettes
Get tattooed
Get extraneous body piercings
Have sex before marriage

(Disclaimer: I am not claiming that this list is Truth. This is just what I believed.)

I actually thought that doing any of the things on this list was bad, like really bad. Not quite up there with murder, but people who loved God didn't do these things.

Back to Mark.

He could tell something was bothering me and was concerned and attentive. I was sweating profusely. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't have to. He guessed.

Mark: Does it bother you that I drink?

Me: *nodding dumbly*

Mark: Why does it bother you? Does it offend you? If it offends you, I won't drink around you, or when we're going to hang out.

Me: *looking at my feet and hating him for being so nice*

Mark: Could you please say something?

Me: You don't have to not-drink when I'm around.

Mark: Oh, but it bothers you.

Me: Well, yeah. It's bad.

Mark: Why does it bother you? Is it because of your beliefs?

Me: Yeah. Why do you drink? It's bad for you.

Mark: I like it. It's fun. I really enjoy it.

Me: I don't think we should hang out anymore.

Mark: What? Why? Because I drink and you don't?

Me: *nodding and avoiding his gaze*

Mark: Well, let me try to understand where you're coming from, because to be honest, I don't see how me drinking alcohol should get in the way of us hanging out.

Me: Okay.

Mark: Let's say I like artichokes. And I really like artichokes, but you don't. Would that stop you from hanging out with me?

Me: Well no, but that's different.

Mark: How is it different?

Me: Artichokes don't hurt people.

Even after 10 years, I am still terribly embarrassed at how that conversation went. Mark was gracious and kind. He didn't understand me but respected my decision. I really believed that I shouldn't hang out with him--even if we were just friends--because he did things I didn't think were right. And instead of loving him and respecting his lifestyle choice, I decided we couldn't be each others lives.

I was wrong. I was naive.

I perverted my desire to spread Christ's love by judging people and alienating them. Jesus hung out with hookers and cheats. He didn't treat them differently even though they were doing things He didn't agree with. He just accepted them. I blew my first real chance to show love to someone who didn't know Jesus.

Instead, I just judged him.

II.

I saw Mark occasionally around campus while I was at UCSD, but I never mustered up the courage to apologize for being judgmental. And hypocritical. And the opposite of loving. I wanted to run up to him and say, "I'm so sorry, Mark. That was totally lame and judgmental of me." But I was ashamed. I also imagined myself running up to him and saying, "Mark! I drink alcohol now!", but I didn't think it would suffice as an apology.

I regret that I missed the opportunity to be friends with a really nice person, to show Christ's love to him simply because God made him. Period. It makes me sad that the only memory he really has of me is telling him we couldn't be friends because he did something I didn't agree with.

Because at the end of the day, who am I to judge him?

III.

I abandoned the list of don'ts a long time ago. It's formulaic. God isn't. I think ditching the list is one of the reasons I'm much better at loving people now. I stopped having ideals about who to love and what it should look like. Instead of seeing what makes us different, God helps me see everything that makes us the same--what makes us human.

IV.

Mark,

Thanks for loving me where I was at. It was supposed to be the other way around. Sorry I didn't figure it out till it was too late. I regret it.

Have you ever tried to show Christ's love only to fail miserably? Regrets are personal so if you don't want to share, please don't feel pressured. But if you want to share, I'd love to hear from you.

Daily Scribbles :: Bad Words

2012-01-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration:

I said my first bad words defending my Whoopie Cushion. It seemed like a just cause at the time.

Do you remember your first cuss word? I do. I was 4 years old.

A nice man at church saw me playing with a Whoopie Cushion after service and asked if he could see it. I can't remember why, but I didn't want to let him. I think he thought I was being cute and stubborn so he asked me again. He even added a "pretty please".

I quietly said, "F**k you."

I didn't know what those words meant. I just knew they were serious and grown-up. I thought he would quit asking for my Whoopie Cushion after I'd said them.

The man's eyes almost fell out of his skull. "What did you say?"

I repeated myself. Based on his reaction, I knew I had done a bad thing. I knew I was going to get in trouble.

This man took me by the hand, led me to my mom, and told her about our conversation. He said he thought I didn't know what I was saying, like it would help. It didn't.

Pastors' kids aren't supposed to drop f-bombs. At church.

II.

Do you remember your first bad word?

daily scribbles :: table for one

2012-01-13T08:00:00.000-08:00

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration:

East Borough. Costa Mesa. December 31, 2011.

I haven't talked to God in a long time.

("Long" is relative, but it feels long to me.)

I don't have any excuses--I just haven't. At least not the way we used to.

It feels like we broke up, like we've been "taking a break". (And I was the one who initiated it.) During this time of voluntary "aloneness", I've had some really good days and some really not-good ones. Overall, I've felt okay without our talks.

At least I did for a little while.

Yesterday, I decided I missed Him and was ready to talk--really talk. This was going to be much more than the Facebook posts or text messages I'd sent Him to get by.

You know, the types of prayers where you're zipping through the fastest thank you possible so you can tuck into your food.
Or praying for safety.
Or just saying, "Thanks for today! Talk to you soon. Promise."

I was ready to have a full-blown dinner-movie-cocktails kind of date.

(That probably doesn't sound like a fancy date, but I really like dinner, and I really like movies.)

I was ready to give Him my undivided time and attention.

To prepare myself, I gathered almost every devotional in my house--the ones that already have "the good entries" highlighted and flagged. I figured that after such a long absence, it was probably best for me to dive in with the most compelling entries. I wiped the dust off of the covers and stacked them on my desk. I also grabbed my prayer notebook, the one I use to record praises and requests. It was a little premature but I thought, best to be prepared. I cleared my throat, took a sip of my reheated coffee, and read the day's entry in the first devotional.

Good, I guess. Thanks for the reminder.

I didn't feel the familiar stirring of convictions/adoration/praise/awe within me. I didn't feel anything, really. So I thought, maybe the next one will speak to me. Still nothing. I stayed positive.

That was really good. Thanks.

And so it went till I'd read through the entire stack of devotionals. In the past, I would feel a lot. The devotionals were just jumping-off points for long, soul-quenching conversations with God. It didn't take much for me to feel God's presence, to sit with Him in silence or talk about a million things. But that day, I struggled to find one nugget--something to think about--from these tried and true devotionals. I tried to find something to store in my heart, to pray about and dwell on throughout the day, but I felt nothing. I might have felt more if I had read a soup can label.

Not to be deterred, I picked up my Daily Bible--the one that helps you read through the entire bible in a year. Surely, God will speak to me through His Word!

I flipped to that day's passage and read the old testament excerpt. I knew the story--Abraham makes his servant place his hand on his thigh and swear to bring his son, Isaac, a wife. Isaac ends up marrying his dad's grand-niece, which would make her his...I don't know, some sort of relative.

I kept waiting for God to poke my heart, to fill me with the usual feelings of awe and wonder I feel when I read His word.

I didn't feel anything. I kept thinking about the large gold nose ring and bracelets the servant gave Isaac's future-wife. I couldn't stop wondering what they looked like.

I read the passages from the old testament, Psalms and Proverbs. Still nothing.

I began to pray but sort of gave up halfway through.

For the first time in our relationship, I felt like God wasn't there.

I mean, I know He's still there. And everywhere. I just didn't feel like He was there with me. (I feel sacrilegious for saying this. Please understand that this is just how I felt.)

Where was He? Why wasn't He talking to me?

In all the years I'd flaked on Him or rescheduled our "dates", I always knew He would be waiting for me when I was ready. This time, I felt like I showed up, and He stood me up.

It felt--feels--strange.

I confided in my friend, Nannette, about it. I wasn't looking for a formula to guarantee God would show up next time, that I would feel His presence again if I just did certain things. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't crazy. I wanted to know if I was the only person who'd experienced this. She assured me I wasn't. She told me to keep seeking Him--even if I don't feel anything--because our relationship with Him should be founded in faith, not feelings.

This made sense to me. I'm not married and un-married whenever I feel like it. God doesn't just want to be friends, with benefits. He wants a relationship. He wants me to pursue Him.

I respect that. I mean, I have to. I'm not sure how long the silence will last, but I will keep showing up to meet with God, even if I'm just sitting there alone.

I know He's not far.

II.

I've never understood when other people have said they don't feel anything when they talk to God. Now I do. Have you ever felt this way?

don't give up

2012-01-12T01:37:00.000-08:00

When my sister, Sarah, was a little girl, she didn't really care about anything other than drawing. She drew in the margins of her homework, on the underside of our dining room table, on the wall (until my mom stopped her), on junk mail, in countless sketchbooks (and some library books)--basically, on any blank (or mostly blank) surface. It wasn't all good, but that didn't stop her. It didn't matter.

Drawing made her happy.

In college, she discovered that she also loved animation, and thus applied all of her time and energy to all-things-animating. Even though she knew it was a long shot, she applied to be in the animation program. And she got in. She has worked hard, taken risks, and has not given up. As a result, my kid sister--my hero--will graduate in May with a BFA in animation.

But she knows this is just the beginning of a very long road to achieving her dream of working for a studio. In the mean time, she continues to hone her skills by freelancing and working on her professors' films. She attends animation conventions, armed with business cards and her portfolio, and solicits feedback from industry professionals to identify her strengths and areas of improvement. Home-girl is focused and driven!

Sarah's work has improved exponentially since she first started. I'm not surprised. She sketches every day. When she's not working on her film or freelance projects, she's sketching strangers at coffee shops, Disneyland, zoos--any place teeming with possible subjects.

So, when I shared my doubts and insecurities about writing, she gave me good advice:

Recognize your strengths
Acknowledge your weaknesses
Pick one area that you need to improve upon and focus on it--work at it. It's advice she learned from Bobby Podesta's blog. As a former Pixar animator, he is mainly talking about animation, but really, he could be talking about the creative process in general. It's good stuff, people. Read it! Be encouraged.

Then she told me to watch this video of Ira Glass talking about the creative process:

I understand that Sarah's advice to me is not new or original. A lot of bloggers and and well-respected writers have given similar advice. I just didn't think it could work for me like it had worked for them. I thought that in addition to a lot of hard work, they were just inherently more--more interesting, more well-read, more intelligent.

I needed to hear it from someone who was also doing the hard work, someone who hadn't "made it" yet.

Someone I could relate to.

If you don't have anyone to cheer you on and encourage you to pursue crazy-good dreams, let it be me.

Don't give up.

Daily Scribbles :: Perspective

2012-01-11T08:06:00.000-08:00

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration:

MOMA. San Francisco. January 3, 2012.

I.

When I get frustrated with work,
when I feel like I'm not doing anything meaningful with my life,
when I ask why injustice (seemingly) abounds--unchecked--or
why relationships unexpectedly crumble, or
why some bodies betray the souls inside them and disintegrate too soon,
I sometimes want to

q u i t

And stop trying
Striving
Seeking
Doing
Becoming
Hoping.

But then, God reminds me that it's all a matter of perspective--His, not mine.

It doesn't change anything, but it reminds me that my life--and everything in it--is (more than) enough.

My life is a work in progress. I need to stop interrupting The Artist and let Him work.

II.

Have you experienced a change in perspective lately? If so, what prompted the change? What was your perspective before and after?

Daily Scribbles :: Letting Go

2012-01-09T00:52:00.000-08:00

Click here to read about why I scribble every day.

Inspiration:

MOMA. San Francisco. January 3, 2012.

If you could arrange all the moments in my life in an art gallery, old hurts would be prominently displayed in a place of honor.

It's backwards, I know.

I'm not proud of this. It's embarrassing to admit, but it's true. There are some hurts that I still cling to because they allow me to be wounded, sullen, withdrawn, selfish and fearful. I use these old hurts as excuses when I don't want to pursue friendships, when I don't want to engage in life with others.

I'm sure others who have watched me cling to (and sometimes exalt) these old hurts have been stumped. Why would I choose to keep old hurts close?

I'm sure my therapist friends and wise people everywhere know the "actual answer", but I don't. This is just what I think:

I think I keep old hurts close and build impenetrable walls around me to prevent myself from being hurt or disappointed or betrayed again.

But living in fear is exhausting. And it's not the way God wants me to live.

So, this year, I'm cleaning house.

This year, I'm going to stop living in fear.

I'm going to stop declining invitations to hang out/celebrate/do life just because they're scary or inconvenient.
I'm going to stop automatically thinking that women are crazy. Most are perfectly good and kind and nice.
I'm going to stop thinking I can't change, because I can.

I'm going to remove the old hurts from their place of honor. I'm going to let them go so I can start living.

II.

I didn't understand the all-black painting, even after I read the artist's explanation. (Something to do with light, though it wasn't about light...) I think I might have pondered it more and tried to force myself to get it if I hadn't been with Mike and our friend, Brian. We all quickly agreed that we weren't smart enough to understand and fully appreciate modern art--at least not the art we saw in that wing--so we left.

I like to think that the man in the picture understood and appreciated the all-black painting, but I only say that because he looked "artsy" himself.

III.

Are there things/attitudes/habits that you cling to that aren't good for you? This is an extremely personal question so I don't expect you to respond, but if you do, here's my next question:

Are you going to do anything to help you let go of said not-good-thing?

I hope so.

Let go.

Live.

Daily Scribbles :: The end

2012-01-06T14:08:00.000-08:00

Click here to read about why I scribble every day. Even if you have different reasons, I hope you start scribbling too. :)

Inspiration:

BART station. San Francisco. January 3, 2012.

I.

Kate looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror for the last time. She was wearing her favorite cardigan--olive green, with mother-of-pearl buttons--and tan slacks. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, just as it had been most of her life. Out of habit, she reached for the thin silver chain around her neck, rubbing the tiny silver disc between her fingers. She pinched her cheeks for to add some color, sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists, and carefully applied lipstick.

Satisfied, she collected her purse and the dark blue envelope from her bed. She touched things as she walked through the house: the edge of the dining room table, where she had cooked and shared countless meals; her favorite reading chair; her husband's keys, still hanging from the key hook, even after all these years. Kate looked at her home, smiled, and walked out the door. She didn't bother to lock it, and she didn't look back.

She walked slowly down the sidewalk, greeting familiar faces and strangers alike with a warm smile and a friendly "hello". On her way to the train station, she stopped at her favorite coffee shop for a few last indulgences. Kate quietly sipped her coffee and ate a generous slice of cake at a table near one of the large windows. Outside, people rushed to their play dates and appointments, back to work and school and their lives. She carefully cleared her table, brushed off the crumbs, and thanked the young staff for serving her, even though she knew they couldn't hear her with the ear buds in their ears.

Kate walked into the train station and sat on a bench as she searched her purse for the envelope. She extracted her ticket and re-read the date and time of her departure. It was today's date, and she had seven minutes before she had to leave.

She watched commuters walk briskly past her, carrying their bags and books and crying children. Then, she walked across the platform and got on her train. There were only a few others on it: a young girl, maybe seven, with dark hair and round eyes; an older gentleman with a full mustache; and a red-haired woman in a navy dress. They all smiled and nodded at her as she sat down. And then the train sped off quickly and quietly beneath the city. She thought about her children and grandchildren. As she thought about the stories they were living, her heart swelled with love and pride.

Too soon, the train slowed to a stop, and the other passengers exited the train. She watched them cross the platform and insert their tickets into a slot on the turnstile before pushing through. Then they turned the corner and were out of sight. Kate crossed the platform, ticket in hand, and fed her ticket into the slot before pushing through the turnstile. She pushed through, rounded the corner and saw a flight of stairs. She hesitated until she heard Him.

"You're almost here, Kate. Everyone is excited to see you, including Henry. Especially Henry."

At the mention of her Henry's name, Kate smiled. She even giggled. Her Henry was there, waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

"It might take me awhile. My knees aren't too good anymore."

"That's okay," Jesus said. Suddenly, He was by her side at the foot of the stairs. He hugged her, and then offered His arm. She leaned on Him, and together, step by step, they began their ascent into the light.

II.

If you could plan your last day, what would it look like?

Daily Scribbles :: A letter to the world

2012-01-04T22:30:00.001-08:00

I.

Inspiration:

January 3, 2012. San Francisco.

II.

Dear person-who-wrote-this-letter:

I was there once.

I'm sorry you're there now.

Did you abandon your sign because you found love?

Did you abandon your sign because you didn't?

I wonder.

III.

I think I'll come back to this picture again and again, and will be inspired to scribble something different each time. What did you feel when you saw it?

Adventure is out there!

2012-01-03T00:40:00.001-08:00

Mike and I are spending a late Christmas with his family in Northern California this week. I hope to find a lot of inspiration (that will result in mad scribbling) while we're here.

Stay tuned!

Daily Scribbles :: Ghosts

2012-01-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

Click here to read about why I scribble every day. Even if you have different reasons, I hope you start scribbling, too. :)

Inspiration: I'm not sure. One moment I was waiting to get my hair cut, the next, I was scribbling on my phone. *shrug*

It's strange, what you remember about a person--what stays with you--when he or she is no longer in your life.

I thought of you today, unexpectedly.

I remembered

Your earlobes
Small hands
The way you looked at me when it was just us, and you saw me.

I could hear your husky voice, the way you say my name.

Used to say my name.

Years and experiences, both terrible and good, whittled down to a few details.

They remind me that you were once flesh and bone and air to a younger version of me. But that was a lifetime ago.

The last thing I said was, I love you. I should've said

Thanks

For letting me go.

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, I hope you're well.

II.

What do you remember about the ghosts from your past? What has stayed with you even after they're gone? I tend to remember strange details:

the way a friend always smelled like sugar and frosting
my favorite professor's nail polish
the crunch of pea gravel on my favorite patio

What do you remember?

Daily Scribbles :: That first Christmas

2011-12-31T09:00:00.000-08:00

Just A Note:

If you're wondering why I started this project, you can read more about it here. I hope today's inspiration inspires you to scribble, too. If it does, I hope you'll share it with me.

Happy scribbling!

Bean

Inspiration: I found this gem on Mike’s old MySpace page.

December 19, 2005

i need you so much closer

i'malready privy to the best christmas gift i'll be getting this year, and ididn't have to dig through the den closet to find out. christmas comequickly, especially the evening half. today i walked around target and itwasn't so fun. i didn't even make it to the toy section. i can'twait to come home.

so come on.

II.

Six years have passed since Mike wrotethose words, but reading them takes me back to that first Christmas. I waslove-drunk over him, afraid that that if I blinked he'd change his mind, decidehe'd made a mistake and wanted someone else. Like all the others.

I tried not to think about him, triednot to let my missing-him show.

I’m sure it did, especially when I openedthe door and saw him standing outside.

He left home early and drove six hoursto say, “Merry Christmas”.

I knew then that he wasn't like the others. I knew he wanted to stay.

Best. Gift. Ever.

III.

Let's talk about your first Christmas. It doesn't have to be the very first one you remember, though it can be. It doesn't have to be a good memory, because not all of them are good. Some are really hard. Others are really painful. You don't have to share, but if you do, don't feel like you have to edit. Or polish it up. Or sprinkle it with glitter.

Let it be what it is.

It's yours, and that's what counts.

Change is gonna come. In a few days.

2011-12-29T23:49:00.000-08:00

[Condensed Version]

I'm going to change it up on this blog next year by adding two more features*:

*I don't think "features" is the right word but I can't think of anything else. Forgive me. "Features" sounds like I'm providing you with something of value, and I can't say for certain that what I'm adding will be of any value to you. :)

Book Reviews: informal. not serious. my solution to a book club, without the commitment and inevitable shame spiral that I fall into when I don't finish the reading.
Daily Scribbles: 100 words or less in response to a writing prompt. It could be anything--a poem, a song, a picture, an experience. Anything.

The book reviews and daily scribbles are for me--to keep me constantly engaged in creative pursuits--but I hope you'll join in, too. I would love to hear/read/see your responses to the book reviews and daily scribbles.

II.

[Long-winded Version]

I'm not good at playing most games--except for one.

I am the master of the compare game.

You know what I'm talking about right? When you compare [insert variable] with yourself? It often looks like this:

I just saw on Facebook that [insert person] got her hair cut. Maybe I should get my hair cut...

[insert person] has such a nice car! It's nicer than my car...

Mike, did you know that [insert person] writes a blog? She has way more followers than me...

If it were a good game to play, you'd want me on your team. For life.

Unfortunately, it's not. It's a very bad game, and I know it. So does everyone else.

Playing the compare game doesn't make me feel good. It keeps me from being happy for other people when really good things happen to them. It keeps me from believing that who I am, at this moment, is enough. And good. And lovely. Just like God says.

It keeps me from swimming in a glorious sea of contentment.

I don't want to live like this--play a game I cannot win--forever. I'm pretty sure God doesn't want me to spend time playing it. Besides, playing the compare game is always a slippery slope. It starts out as an observation, but before I know it, I'm coveting, comparing and grumbling. It leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.

This year, I want to play a new game--live a new life--that's steeped in gratitude and courage and love. I want to do, not just say. Aside from the spirit-enriching, character-stretching benefits of quitting the compare game, I want to play this new game because I'm not getting any younger. If Jesus comes back tomorrow, I won't have very much to talk about.

I want to have a LOT to talk about. I want to tell Him I didn't squander the gifts He gave me.

So, in 2012, I am going to stop listening to the voices in my head, the ones that are raspy and croaky and tinny. They say things like,

Don't kid yourself--she has enough friends. She's just being nice.

But that [insert new thing] is shinier/faster/lighter/prettier!

I wish I had [fill in the blank].

Your writing is just okay.

Your grammar is a little rusty...

The amount of followers and comments you have directly reflect your coolness/popularity/worth.

They're probably not going to like this post as much as the last one.

I know these voices don't say true things, but they are awfully loud. And convincing. Sometimes I mumble the things they say to Mike Fox, my sister, Sarah, and my friend, Nannette. (Thanks for listening to me, guys.) Sarah always knows how to drown out the noise with truth:

"Bean, write for you. Don't write for everyone else. Write because it makes you happy. Remember those stories you used to write in junior high? About the guy with the beautifully tanned skin and the black-as-night hair that was wild and tousled? And the girl with the sad grey eyes?"

She actually remembers more details and always keeps going, but I am blushing as I type this because those stories, and the writing in those stories, were terrible. TERRIBLE. But, Sarah always says, "Bean, that's not the point. The point is, you had fun then. And you wrote a lot. Your insecurities are keeping you from writing. You need to write!"

So, that's what I'm going to do.

I'll also be adding book reviews to this blog. Not serious book reviews--just some thoughts about what I've read, what I'm reading and what I'd like to read. I like the idea of a book club but am wary about committing. What if I don't like the book that's chosen? What if I don't finish my reading before the meeting? Then I can't participate and will feel like I'm hindering the group's discussion. And then I will just stop attending...Anyway, I will be sharing what I'm currently reading (or would like to read) here. I hope you'll share your reading lists with me, too. I'm always looking for another great read!

I'm most excited about starting a daily scribble post. Each day, I will write 100 words or less in response to a prompt. It could be anything--a color, a word, a quote, a song, a picture...(you get the idea). It will probably be really terrible writing--I'm sorry about that!--but if I try to edit myself too much, I will get caught up in the compare game. Or I'll just do what I normally do and wait for inspiration to come to me, which could take forever. (Actual timespan.) So, I'm going to spit out the words and let it be bad. Who knows? I might find something worth saving.

I'm forcing myself to write on this blog to keep me accountable. I could be writing to no one, but at least my words will exist outside of my body. Please don't hesitate to share what you're reading, respond to a daily scribble, or share something that inspired you. I hope that the book reviews and daily scribbles will be the beginning of a conversation, a creative collaboration.

As your friend, I have to warn you that there will be a lot of awful writing. You can stop reading and following me if you like. That's okay. I just have to keep writing. I can't die with words inside of me simply because I'm afraid they're not enough.

They're all I have, really.

i might need to take sex ed again

2011-11-16T16:40:00.001-08:00

I.

I'm not sure how I made it to 28 without knowing much about the reproductive system, but I will be the first to admit that a fourth grader probably knows more than I do. I'm sure I'd benefit from watching that video they show to girls in elementary school to teach them about their changing bodies. I think it was called "The New You". I remember it being strange and alienating. (Changes? What changes?) It was foreign to me but there were some girls in my class who already had new bodies. Those girls used to huddle on the playground during recess to talk about their new, grown-up bodies while the rest of us with ordinary kid-bodies played kid-games and dug holes in the sand box that smelled of cat pee. These new girls were modest enough not to talk about the most obvious change, but they did allude to new hair and smells and aching chests. It sounded horrifying and fascinating. I searched my body for signs of change every night to no avail. Until one day.

One day, I noticed a new hair.

I ran to where "the new girls" were huddled at recess and said, "YOU GUYS! I have a hair. You know--a haaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir."

(Obviously, my desire to fit in outweighed any shame a normal person with any decency might have felt from yelling about pubic hair in public.)

I directed their attention to the tiny eyelash growing out of the mole on my right forearm and waited for them to tell me I was finally welcome to join their new-body club. They smiled at me. It was a pity-smile.

"Lina, that isn't a pubic hair. You'll know when you get one. And if you're not sure, you should ask your mom."

I was so disappointed.

I know about as much now as I did when I was in fourth grade. (Well, maybe a little bit more.) This is inconvenient (to say the least) when you're trying to have a baby. You're probably wondering how I could be so ignorant. Didn't I take Biology and Health? Yes and Yes, but I didn't retain anything. When my doctor said I was healthy enough to start trying to have a baby, I just stared at her and said, "So now what?" I almost started laughing when she said, "Take prenatal vitamins and have lots of intercourse." I immediately called Mike to tell him the good news:

Me: The doctor said I'm healthy! She said we can start trying.
Mike: That's great news, Bean! I'm so excited!
Me: She told me to have lots of intercourse. HAHAHAHA! She said "intercourse". Who says "intercourse"?!
Mike: Doctors do.
Me: Oh. Right. That's true.
Mike: Real mature, Bean.

II.

I was worried about being healthy enough to have a baby for a really long time. There's still a chance the hole in my heart could re-open as a result of the strain of childbirth, and my Graves Disease could flare up and make me sick all over again during pregnancy. And then there's conception. Honestly, I just read about it a few weeks ago, and it felt like I was learning it for the first time. (What if the sperm picks the wrong Fallopian tube?! What if the sperm and egg barely miss each other?!) Despite these odds, I am constantly reminded that God is bigger than these "what ifs", that there's no detail He has overlooked.

He has surrounded us with an amazing community of friends and family members to love, encourage and advise us during this pre-baby season. I am surprised and humbled by the prayers, advice and encouragement we've already received. I even got an instant message from a co-worker that said, "Am I allowed to ask if you've gotten your period? Because I really hope not!" They've lent books, shared their own stories, and directed me to informative websites. One friend gave me all of her prenatal vitamins because she and her husband are taking a different route to building their family. Another almost took a picture of her cervical fluid to show me what I should be looking for! (I'm relieved she didn't but I appreciated the thought.)

III.

Dear Future-Babies:

You are blessed to be so loved and prayed for by such remarkable men and women. I hope we meet you soon! There are a lot of people who are excited to meet you.

There are a lot of people we want you to meet.

Love,

Mama Bean (And your dad. And Crosby and Gemma, too.)

Thankful for firsts. Sort of.

2011-11-14T21:46:00.001-08:00

I remember a lot of firsts.

I remember the first time I ate cottage cheese. It was Grandparents Day at school, and since my grandpa didn't speak much English (and I didn't speak much Lao), I ate lunch with a classmate and her grandparents at Sizzler.

I remember the first time time I slapped a girl. It was impulsive, and I immediately regretted it after I did it. I was in 5th grade. (I have never slapped anyone since.)

I remember my first kiss. It was exhilarating and hungry and wet. I was 19. He smelled like crisp air and clean laundry.

And even though it hasn't happened yet, I know I will always remember this Thanksgiving. Because this Thanksgiving, I'm going to host my first Thanksgiving dinner. For my family. In my home.

I. AM. ANXIOUS. (Understatement.)

I didn't think I'd be in this position for a few years! Yet, in too few days, I will be frantically cleaning my house, bathing my dogs, peeling potatoes and trying to figure out how to seat nine people in my dining room. (Our table comfortably seats four.) I have to think positively. Otherwise, my mind begins spiraling out of control.

How will I cook an entire Thanksgiving feast in my tiny kitchen? Can I even fit an entire turkey in my oven? Do I have place settings and seating for nine adults? Do I need to decorate?! Am responsible for creating traditions?! Will they like what I cook? What if they're disappointed? Look at my cuticles. My skin looks terrible. I look haggard. My spider veins look more pronounced today. I feel bloated. I want to eat cake and watch a Harry Potter marathon.

In addition to worrying about Thanksgiving dinner, my body has decided to shut down. I feel like a five-year-old is sitting on my head (and is hitting me in the face), and every time I cough, which is often, I feel like I might pop a lung.

I'm freaking out now, and I'll probably freak out on Thanksgiving day, but I know I'm missing the point.

I have many reasons to give thanks.

I am thankful for Mike Fox.
I am thankful for our home.

I am thankful that I get to prepare a meal for my family.

I am thankful for my tiny kitchen and too-small oven and table that only seats four.

I am thankful for my family and friends.

I hope I have good news to share after Thanksgiving, but if not good news, at least hilarious stories about how I botched the whole dinner and ended up feeding everyone fried rice.

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? If you're cooking, what are you making? Do you have any advice on how not to botch Thanksgiving dinner? If so, please share!

a safe place

2011-11-04T23:34:00.000-07:00

Aftermonths of constant motion, financially crippling surprises and work crises, I thinkwe’re finally slowing down.

Ithink we’re finally entering a safe place.

Ifeel like I’ve been clinging for dear life to a leaky vessel with one oar andtorn sails for months. My spirit feels as haggard as I look. I bet I havescurvy. But the clouds are just starting to part, and the sea is pushing myleaky vessel toward the shore. Ahh rest. At least for now.

Withoutgoing into too much detail about the misadventures we’ve had because of Gemma, Iwill say that she is responsible for our debt, exhaustion and weight gain. Hercuriosity landed her in the pet hospital and vet’s office several times overthe course of a few weeks. There were lots of tears (sometimes cuss words) andlate nights caring for her. Thousands of dollars later, we are still gratefulshe is alive. Life feels like it’s getting a littleeasier.

Iknow God is throwing us a bone by giving us a breather. I think He’s preparingus for what’s next. For now, I am marinating in His blessings because, asalways, they are surprising and good. Really good. He provided me with an opportunityto telecommute full-time so I no longer have to spend two hours in traffic. Healso preserved my job during a massive “restructure” at work. He also sent someoneto buy Mike’s motorcycle so we could pay off the debt we accrued from Gemma’smedical bills. And He continues to surround us with people who love us.

What’snext?

Wewant to meet our future-babies. A lot of people are really private about thisbut I can’t help but be excited. And scared. And overwhelmed. I have to remind myself that God is bigger than my sewed-up heart and wonky thyroid. (I had heart surgery when I was 14 to repair a hole, and I have Graves Disease--hyperthyroidism--though it has been in remission for two years.) I know my future-babies are hanging out with God in heaven, and that they're having a blast. I tell myself this every time I get a negative test result. It makes me a little less disappointed. Just a little. I don't want to neglect the good things in our lives just because God is saying, "Not yet."

For now, we are enjoying the quiet of this safe place. And every day, we ask, "Maybe Baby, are you in there?"

I've put it off long enough

2011-10-19T19:00:00.001-07:00

I've wanted to write something clever and/or witty for months now to make up for my embarrassingly long absence from the blog but I am officially giving up. It was too much pressure. Seriously. Every time I sat down to write, I'd be able to focus for 10 minutes before falling asleep or chasing Gemma down and grabbing trash out of her mouth.

(Don't be alarmed: Gemma is the newest addition to the Fox den. She's a 7-month-old Dogo Argentino/American Bulldog mix, not my neighbor or some random kid.)

There have been a lot more distractions that have kept me from writing, distractions that looked like

-A romp in a rain forest
-Weddings
-Beach days
-Getting rear-ended on my way to work
-Adopting Gemma from a rescue
-Taking Gemma to the vet/pet hospital/emergency clinic for eating things she shouldn't be eating, such as chocolate, gallon-sized freezer bags, Mike's glasses and a pair of my underwear
-Becoming a full-time telecommuter

Anyway, I'm back now. Sorry for being gone so long. What have you been up to?

Can't wait to catch up. For real.

Here are pictures of my biggest distractions. :)

Talk to you soon!

Bean

I need a prayer sub

2011-07-05T15:55:00.000-07:00

Life has been full of more hardships than good things lately. I am fine weathering storms but lately I feel as though I've been trying to swim in a riptide. Wearing jeans. And boots. Instead of going to God to say, "Unholy expletive! HELP!" I've kept kicking and paddling along--which is silly and futile, of course, as anyone who has ever swum in jeans and boots can attest to.

Instead, I have rescheduled appointments with God. I have tried to keep myself together with a lot of coffee and cheese.

This seemed like a plausible solution at the time. I now know it's dumb. And it makes my mouth taste really, really bad.

I finally cried. On Crosby. I buried my face into his warm side and cried, and then I apologized to him for getting his fur wet because it must’ve been annoying. Then I ate a piece of strawberry pie and too much Chipotle. When I say “piece”, I should clarify because “piece” is misleading: I ate through a quarter of the pie. By myself. In one sitting.

I felt a little better afterwards.

The relief was temporal because all of the things that made me feel sad/angry/frustrated/overwhelmed are still the same. Without going into too much detail, I will share that I have the heartbreaking privilege of standing beside some friends and family members who are in their darkest places right now. I have the honor of hearing about secret fears and tremendous sorrows—about cancer

and failing hearts
and dying family members
and crumbling marriages
and financial crises
and unhealthy work environments
and bodies that don't work like they should
and degenerative autoimmune diseases
and terrible side effects of medicines that might buy time
but demand too much of health and quality of life and dreams of future-babies
to be helpful.

But at the same time, I've also been invited to celebrate new beginnings--marriage, babies, jobs, adventures.
I am having a difficult time juggling joy and sorrow. I haven't figured out how to mourn and celebrate in the same breath. I feel numb and parched and achy all at the same time.

I don't know what to say.

(Is there anything left to say?)

I am trying to pray about all of these things but I don't know where to start.

I just can't stop crying.

Living the dream

2011-05-13T11:57:00.001-07:00

I took a mental health day today.

(I really needed it.)

But instead of relaxing, I am working on those freelance writing projects I mentioned in my previous post.
Know what I realized?

It doesn't feel like work when you're doing what you love.

(What a concept!)

Now that I've gotten a taste, I want more. (Uh oh...)

More later. Back to work!

Well, for me anyway. Crosby, on the other hand, gets to live his dream life all the time.

I am jealous. :)

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Daring to Dream

2011-05-05T01:14:00.000-07:00

“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” –C.S. Lewis

I only know three people who love their jobs:

My old roommate, who is a police officer for the Santa Ana Police Department.
My optometrist
...

Maybe I only know two people who love their jobs.

My old roommate LOVES her job. She works nights over the weekend.

Let me repeat that: she works the graveyard shift. OVER THE WEEKEND.

Yes, she loves her job. She is passionate about her work. She uses words like “thrilling” and “awesome” to describe her job. She also interacts with drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes in her line of work. Who else can say that? (I guess drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes can also say that…)

My optometrist also loves her job. I asked her if she liked staring at eyeballs all day, and she said yes. She said it was fascinating to her.

You know what?

I believed her.

And then I thought—just for a second—that perhaps I should’ve pursued a similar career path so I could kindly tell a patient she has astigmatism, and that her tear film is “spotty”, which is why she suffers from such severe dry eye. But that thought quickly evaporated (just like my tear film).

I couldn’t be a police officer like my old roommate because I typically don’t run toward danger. Also, I couldn’t do one pull-up to save my life. My old roommate had to do a lot of pull-ups when she was in boot camp. I mean, she had to do a lot of other things but I was most impressed by the fact that she could do pull-ups.

I couldn’t be an optometrist because I would never get into optometry school. Even though I think eyeballs are amazing, I don’t think I could force myself to know EVERYTHING about them. Besides, mine don’t work well at all. You should see me walk Crosby when I’m not wearing contacts or glasses. I make angry, squinting faces at my neighbors and wave in their general direction just in case they waved.

The only thing I could ever be is a writer.

So, I pursued writing.

II.

I had glamorous ideas about being a starving writer. It just seemed so sexy!

Working three jobs just to pay the bills? OF COURSE! That will add to my credibility!

Single? You bet your butt I will be!

A billion tattoos? Uhh YES.

Cigarettes, coffee and wine? All day, every day!

I had those ideas when I was in my early twenties. They changed when I met Mike.

Here’s what happened after that:

We graduated and moved to Orange County to be close to my family.
Mike proposed.
I got a writing job at a big company.
We got married.
We bought a house.
We adopted our dog, Crosby, from the animal shelter.

· All that occurred over the course of five years. Sometimes I think, where has the time gone? Am I really at this place in my life now?

Yes. What I once thought was the distant future is my present. I am living it now.

And boy, does it look different:

I'm happily married.
I'm building a nice home with Mike.
I have a mortgage.
I have a great dog!
I spend Saturday mornings cleaning my whole house instead of sleeping in till 1:00 p.m. and detoxing before the next wild night out.
Even my body is different. It's wobblier.

You know what else looks different? I spend all day writing non-creative things. By the time I get home, I’m too tired to write anything else. In fact, after a 12-hour day, all I have time to do is cook a quick dinner, hold hands with Mike, and pet Crosby before going to bed.

I’ve done this for four years now. Somehow, I thought this year would be different. I thought I would learn to set boundaries to protect my home life—my writing life—but I was wrong. Instead of learning to set boundaries, I learned that I am terrible at setting boundaries.

I learned that I am bad at saying no. Instead of saying, “No, I can’t do this”, I say, “Okay, I’ll get it done”—and I sacrifice my life, my marriage, my relationships, and my true self instead. This rhythm of all non-creative-work and no life made me sad. For months, I thought—this is it. This is my life. I’m 28. I’m officially OLD. It’s too late to try something new, to dream a new dream (or revive an old one).

(I know those were my fears talking but in my defense, they talk really, really loudly.)

My prayers looked like this:

What the cuss, God?! Is this it? Will this job be the measure of my life? I can barely nurture, love and support my husband right now. How will I sustain a family? Can I even conceive? I’m so stressed out all the time I don’t know if it’s even possible. And God, one more thing: I never thought I’d want to be a stay-at-home mom but I’ve changed my mind. Is that okay? Is that even possible in Southern California? Do we have to move out of state? Hello? Are You still listening? WHAT DO I DO?

I don’t have any answers yet. (And that’s okay.)

I know God has heard me wail, moan, cuss, complain and weep bitter tears over my job and what my life was becoming.

But He has also said, Bean—I’ve got this. Just wait—you’ll see.

So I’ve waited. I’m still waiting. And from what I can tell, I think His surprise is going to blow my mind.

(I just pictured brain matter flying out of my ears like popcorn. Did you?)

III.

While I’m waiting, I have decided that I must write, and not just because I can’t be a police officer or an optometrist.

I must write because that is the only thing God made me remotely good at.

I think He is saying that, too. Right now, I have the privilege of working on two freelance writing projects at the same time. Yes, I am now working three jobs, which is why I’m writing this blog entry past midnight.

For the first time in years, I AM HAPPY WITH MY JOB(S).

I feel like I’m just starting to live.

I feel like these writing opportunities are just the beginning—of what, I don’t know.

I’ll wait and see.

IV.

A lot of my friends work their behinds off at jobs they don’t like. I think it’s more common than uncommon. But friends—don’t get lost. Don’t throw yourself and your dreams away. Work hard—yes—but live well.

Let’s fight to reclaim our lives, to live lives worth talking about. As Mary Oliver says,

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

Yes—tell me.

Unraveling

2011-05-03T00:40:00.001-07:00

I can't go to sleep.

My heart and mind are too full of wonderings and unanswered questions and secret hopes and joy and sadness and fatigue and

Secret fears.

All of these things that are normally kept bottled up are leaking out of my eyes, tracing salty messages on my face. Does God send someone to collect the unspoken prayers that collect in shallow pools in my ears?

I hope so.

Because I have a lot of messages to send him. I have a lot of stuff to send him

About work
And believing in myself and the beauty of my dreams
And my future-babies
And friends whose dreams continue to be deferred
And finances
And what it looks like to be a good friend to other girls
And what I'm supposed to do when people I love are being betrayed by their bodies and are slowly crumbling to dust.

I want to write a million words and cry a bottomless lake of tears but I am so tired right now. I don't know where to begin. I am afraid that if I start, I'll unravel in a matter of seconds and all that will be left of me is a few fillings and some lint.

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Dear God: How do You speak so loudly without saying anything aloud?

2011-01-01T22:34:00.001-08:00

My ears are ringing, my heart is throbbing and my brain is abuzz.

Because God has been talking to me a lot about

G R A C E

Loving people

Weird, not-nice, difficult people. Mostly-nice people who have great hearts but don't know they can be not-nice with their words and actions. Really nice people who just need patience and prayer and grace from me. Grumpy people. Jealous people. Spiteful people. Lazy people. People who don't know God. People who do know God but are mad at Him. People who do know God but are "taking a break" at the moment. People who do know God but haven't heard from Him in awhile. Or ever.

The beauty of our dreams.

Change.

Hope.

Stories.

Every cell in my body is saturated with thoughts and whispers and questions about these things. I would say God is practically yelling at me but I don't think that would be accurate. I think He has been talking to me for awhile about these things.

I just wasn't ready to hear them.

I just wasn't ready to hear Him.

I just wasn't willing to hear Him.

Because I was too busy listening to my voice.

Because I was too busy listening to other people's advice.

Because I was too afraid to hear what He'd say.

Because I was too unwilling to change.

Because I was too afraid of trying to change

And failing.

Because I was too afraid of failing.

This is a lot of things to hear and feel at once, I know. I often won't write when I'm mentally and emotionally constipated with thoughts upon thoughts but this time, I felt I had to share.

Because I don't think I'm alone.

I hope you know I'm more like you than you might think.

I didn't go to a Christian college.
I didn't study theology.
I'm not well-read on Christian-ANYTHING.
I majored in Literature and Writing.
I know more about William Faulkner and the appropriate use of semi-colons than exegesis of the bible. (I'm sure I didn't really use "exegesis" properly in that sentence. Please don't judge me too harshly.)
I pursued what I thought was a meaningful existence instead of pursuing a relationship with God. Thankfully, He allowed me to survive my pursuit of "the good life" so I could get to know Him.
I have a hard time flossing regularly.
I don't return my library books on time.
I like cheese. A lot.
I have spider veins and cellulite.
I don't wash my face before bed.
Although I once told my now-husband I wasn't like other girls in this area, I do like purses and shoes. A lot.
I have a mustache. My husband, Mike, calls it a "catfish mustache".
I find shaving my legs to be a laborious chore.
For the most part, I want people to like me. I get sad when I find out they don't.
I cuss sometimes.
I'm not always kind, although I'd like to change this about myself because I really value kindness.
I sing aloud loudly and off-key, and I typically get lyrics wrong. Really wrong. When I heard, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC, I thought it was, "Dirty deeds and the thunder chiefs." I didn't know the song wasn't about Indians until Mike told me I was wrong. He laughed at me for a really, really long time.

I'm not an expert on anything. I'm just a girl who wants to know God before she meets Him face-to-face.

SO. That being said, I think there will be more questions and conversations with God on this blog this year. To be honest, I'm a little scared because I'm bad at the things He's talking to me about—you know, loving people and showing grace to them. (No big deal.)

(Just kidding.)

But I will be as honest as I can in case you're going through the same stuff.

Know you're not alone.

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This Year

2010-12-15T17:13:00.000-08:00

This year has been a year of firsts.

This year, we bought our first house.

This year, we adopted our first puppy.

This year, we bought our first appliances.

This year, we bought our first pieces of grown-up furniture.

This year, we celebrated our first Thanksgiving with multiple families under one roof.

This year, we bought our first Christmas tree.

This year, we hung Christmas lights on our house for the first time.

This year, we began hosting Life Group at our house for the first time.

This year, I decided to try being friends with girls for the first time in years.

This year, I had my feelings hurt and my heart broken by girls. It hurt just like the first times.

This year, I asked God if it would be okay if I gave up trying to be friends with girls.

This year, just like every year, He didn’t say anything—He just held me while I cried salty tears all over my dog.

This year, after my friendship fiascos, God tasked a few women with the terribly difficult, often times exhausting job of loving me. For the first time in a long time, I felt safe and loved. By girls. (In case you’re not sure, this is a big deal.)

This year, I talked on the phone with my far-away friend for the first time. She called to speak truth, love, wisdom and encouragement over me. At the end of my life, when God and I are sifting through the highlights, her phone call will be one of them.

This year, my heart ached for my future-babies.

This year, and not for the first or last time, I cried when I found out I wouldn’t meet them yet.

This year, I realized that when people talk about “young people”, they’re no longer talking about me. *gasp*

This year, I began using all sorts of creams to make my eyes and neck-and-chest skin look young while the rest of me gets old.

This year, I learned (am still learning) how to love people without trying to “fix/help/rescue” them.

This year, I learned (am still learning) that growing up is hard but good--so so good.

What a year.

P.S. I would love to hear about some of your firsts.

P.S.S. No pressure or anything.

P.S.S.S. But seriously, I would love to know what your year has been like in a few (or a slew of) words.

Remembering Grandpa Singam

2010-11-08T21:43:00.000-08:00

A lot of life has happened since I last wrote. Mike and I bought our first house. We adopted a puppy. I experienced a loss of trust and all the emotions associated with such a betrayal. I learned I’m not as patient as I think I am. I mastered a delicious new recipe. I’ve cried more than I’ve laughed. And most recently, my grandpa passed away. I typically feel pressured to write about events in order (if possible) but I’m going to start here because it feels right.

And because whenever I try to write about anything else, my thoughts always come back to this.

I.

[Monday, October 25, 2010. 5:00 p.m. PST]

“I’m sorry, Bean, but your grandpa just passed away.”

Mike pulled me into a hug but I remained rigid.

“What?” I asked, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Or the second time. Or the third.

I thought, Why would you say that?

My grandpa was supposed to be recovering from a massive stroke. He wasn’t anywhere close to being released from sub-acute care but he was hanging on. But when Mike wouldn’t let go, I knew. Grandpa was no longer hanging on. He’d let go.

Then I thought of my mom.

And that’s when I really started to cry.

But I don’t think I really grasped the enormity of the situation yet.

It wasn’t until I watched my mom and her brothers and sisters say goodbye that I knew things would be different. They wept like I’d never seen before—unabashedly brokenhearted, each clutching tightly to memories worn thin from replaying over and over again, their mouths full of words they didn’t say. They clung to his small body, willing him to still be there, knowing he was already gone.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. So I just watched and lingered on the periphery. I didn’t want to intrude on their grief.

I heard my mom say, “You’re getting cold, Dad.” I watched my aunt cradle him gently and say, “I’m so sorry, Dad. Please forgive me.” And while the rest of us cried silently, she wept loudly. She was his youngest daughter.

As they took his body away, I watched my mom run after her dad. Crying.

II.

I didn’t know much about my grandpa. I didn’t know his favorite food, his favorite color or his favorite pastime. What I do remember about him I learned when I was four years old.

My grandpa was a quiet man. He lived with the woman I call my grandma in a small white house and a long concrete driveway in East Long Beach. There was a bean tree outside. My mom has always told me beans don’t grow on trees but I don’t know how else to describe this tree. It had long flat bean pods that turned mahogany brown when they were ripe. Grandpa used to pick them for me and show me how to peel the casing back to reveal the tiny beans inside, shiny and perfect and smelly. I didn’t really like the beans—they tasted the way they smelled—but I ate them because he offered them to me. I wonder if he picked them because I never refused.

I don’t remember much about the hours we spent with my grandparents while my parents were at work. I do know I tried my best to make sure my sister stayed as still and as quiet as possible. This was easy for me. I had perfected the art of being invisible, even at four years old. At church meetings, I could sit by my mom for hours without speaking or stirring. If I were a doll, my sister would be a baby bear—always getting into things. My grandpa didn’t seem to mind. My grandma did.

My grandpa smelled of Jasmine tea and seemed to have an endless supply of butterscotch disks. I can’t remember if I ever saw him eat one. I wonder if he just kept them for me.

I’m not sure which came first—me or the chair—but there was a tiny footstool my grandpa built that was always unquestionably mine. It was simple—just three pieces of wood nailed together to look like the symbol for pi—but in my little girl mind, it was grand. I’ve been told we passed the time sitting next to each other, grandpa in his chair, me on mine.

This is all I remember. This is all I know.

III.

[Thursday, October 28, 2010.]

I cried for my mom and my aunts and uncles on Monday.

I cried for myself on Thursday.

Before Thursday, I was too tired to cry. As is customary in Lao/Cambodian culture, we cooked and cleaned and served everyone—friends and family and strangers—who came to mourn with us while my grandpa remained unburied. “Mourn” can be translated loosely. Women came to help cook. The men mostly came to drink and gamble. While their presence (and wins or losses) didn’t help me wash dishes or create serving-sized portions of sticky rice for meal service, it was strangely comforting.

I didn’t cry until I watched the slide show my sister made for my grandpa’s service. There was a picture of Grandpa, Mike and me on my wedding day. He looked solemn but handsome in a gray suit. I’ve looked at my wedding pictures countless times but for the first time since I got married, I noticed that his paisley-print tie was a beautiful shade of eggplant. He’d picked a tie that matched my wedding colors.

How could I have missed that detail? How could I have grown up and missed seeing/knowing him?

IV.

[Friday, October 29, 2010.]

When they called us to the front of the funeral home, I remember looking at my grandpa in his casket and thinking, That’s not my grandpa. That man looks like George Takei.

We all cried like it was the first time. We all knew it wouldn’t be the last.

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Where God Hears Me

2010-06-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

I.

When I was a little girl, I used to try and imagine what it would be like to meet God and Jesus at the end of all things. I imagined God reviewing my life on a larger-than-life screen—every joy and sadness magnified in great detail (and this was before HD)—as the rest of the world watched and waited for the special screening of their own lives. I used to get very anxious about sharing this movie with my parents and aunts and uncles. I didn’t want them to know everything. What would they think? I could almost feel my mom’s embarrassment over my mistakes burning into the back of my head. I thought she might want to interject and say, “God, I didn’t raise her to be like that.” And then I would feel even more shame and regret for making her look bad in front of God. You can probably see where this is going so I’ll just say I did not look forward to meeting God. I always felt engulfed by a sense of shame and anxiety and terror whenever I thought about it. My parents didn’t raise me to believe this. I didn’t hear it in church. I just have a wild imagination.

But I don’t think this is how it will happen.

(This is just my opinion.)

I think God will talk to me about my life over coffee or while He’s showing me around heaven. I think (and hope) it will take a long time.

II.

I get up a little bit earlier on the days I know I have special me-time scheduled with God. I shower (even going so far as to shampoo TWICE) and brush and floss my teeth. I know this doesn’t sound special but I floss maniacally when I am nervous, like right before a date or a job interview. Then I pick out a nice dress and fuss over which shoes to wear until God knocks on my door, at which point I feel pressured into wearing the cuter shoes instead of the comfier ones. God says,

“Oh Bean, it is so nice to see you,” as though He hasn’t seen me in ages and is genuinely delighted to see me. I imagine God makes everyone feel like that every time He sees them (even if it’s multiple times in the same day). We hug.

“I think you might want to bring a sweater. I know you get cold easily.” So I grab my favorite sweater before joining Him on my porch. He hands me a porcelain eco tumbler. (Because God is very eco-friendly.)

“I brought you coffee.”

“Thanks God.”

And then we watch the world wake up while sipping our coffees in comfortable silence. We wave at my neighbor stretching before his morning run and say “Good morning”. I re-think my shoe choice and run inside to change into the comfier shoes. As He steps off my porch, He says

“I want to show you something.”

He is a few steps ahead of me down the walkway so I run to catch up with Him.

“What? What is it?”

“Wait and see. I’ve wanted to show you for a long time.”

My head is spinning but I notice I’m lagging (this happens often because I get easily distracted) so I force myself to focus. We walk through the copse of old trees toward the city. It looks like we’re going to the Library of Dreams but He doesn’t stop as we walk past the big wooden doors. He smiles and waves at people we pass in the street but keeps walking walking walking—past the bakery and the florist and my favorite bookstore. We pass people walking their dogs and leopards and iguanas and wave at children flying brightly-colored kites at the park off the main road. God buys us Churros at the Churro cart and motions for me to sit beside Him underneath a big tree. The sun is warm on my legs. I kick my shoes off and wiggle my long, crooked toes.

“Aren’t these the best Churros?”

I nod, my mouth full of warm, crunchy, cinnamon-and-sugar goodness. It’s also all over my face.

It’s also all over His face.

“You have stuff in your beard again.” He brushes the crumbs out of His beard but there are still more.

“No, there’s still—right there, okay a little more.”

“Thanks Bean.”

“Your beard is good at catching things. I bet it would be useful.”

“Do you want one?”

I look at God to see if He’s joking. He is trying to hide His smile. It’s not working.

“Maybe just for an hour but not today, please.” God laughs. It is deep and hearty. It’s the kind of laugh that makes plants grow really fast, like the amount it would take to grow in three days.

“This park is nice,” I say. God nods before adding,

“But it’s not where we’re going. Come on.”

So we get up and brush grass off our clothes before we continue walking. I am trying to be patient but I am restless so I scratch my arm even though it isn’t itchy. I am about to comment about how far we’ve walked but I can’t think of anything clever or witty to say. God says,

“I remember when you first learned to ride a bike. I watched you from here.”

I look around. We are walking toward a lake, blue-green and glassy and calm on this sunny day. There’s a long, sun-bleached dock that yawns from the shore into the distance. And beyond, I see an island, blurred and green against the horizon. I stop walking.

“From here? You watched me from here?” God stops mid-stride, turns to me and says,

“Well, here and there,” He says. He is pointing toward the island.

“That’s where we’re going?”

He is already on the dock so I run to catch up. When I reach Him, He has already climbed into the sail boat (it wasn’t there before—weird) and is patiently waiting for me. I take off my shoes and step cautiously into the boat, holding His hand to steady myself.

And all of a sudden, we’re off—sailing quietly across the lake. I lie on my stomach and peer over the edge. A sea monster, lithe and graceful and gray-green in the water, is keeping pace with our boat.

“Are you curious about where we’re going?” God asks. I sit up.

“Of course, but I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me now.” God smiles and shakes His head.

“I was out on this lake when you asked me for a baby brother.”

I look at Him but have to shade my eyes because He is radiant. And because the sun is blinding me.

“Yeah, and I got Sarah. But I’m glad You sent her. She worked out great.”

God smiles knowingly. He has a wonderful smile. It makes me feel loved. It almost feels like my body is having a physical reaction to His love, like my hair grows a little bit longer and teeth get whiter but I think that’s just my imagination (again). We pull up to the dock, a twin of its brother on the opposite shore. God gets out first and helps me out of the boat. I am still holding my shoes. I run down the dock, my feet pounding against the weathered wood, before jumping onto the sand. It is soft and warm beneath my toes. I bury my feet.

“You might want to put on your shoes. We’re not there yet.”

I reluctantly put on my shoes and follow God toward a path through the trees. It is cooler (cold, even) in the shadow of the tall trees so I finally put on my sweater.

“What is this place?” I ask. We are now in a clearing—lush and green and beautiful—that rolls into a hill. Atop that hill is a house.

“I guess you could say this is one of my offices,” He says.

We climb the hill toward the house. It is beautiful in its simplicity—a ranch-style home with a wrap-around porch and neatly painted shutters. A tawny lion is sprawled out on the landing. It gets up as we approach.

“Is that yours?” I ask. God pets the lion’s huge head. It licks and nuzzles His hands affectionately.

“He doesn’t belong to me. He just doesn’t leave.” The lion swaps its heavy paw at God’s leg. The lion turns its massive head to look at me but doesn’t come closer (but I think it’s close enough). I am terrified but cannot move; I am mesmerized by its eyes—clear pools of liquid amber.

“You can pet him. He’s friendly.”

Before I can muster up the courage to take a step forward, it licks my face. I scrunch up my nose and wipe the drool off.

“T-t-t-t-t-t-thank you. That’s enough,” I stammer. God laughs. He opens the door and waits for me to enter.

The house is a lot bigger than it looks. The walls are covered with framed pictures of all different shapes and sizes. There are books everywhere—beneath lamps, in stacks on tables, stuffed beneath couch cushions. I really want to explore but God says,

“Bean, follow me. There’s something I want to show you.”

I really want to check out His book collection and explore the rest of the house but I follow Him down a long corridor lined with doors. They are curious doors of different shapes and sizes and colors. There are different markers on each one—gold plaques, hand-written scribbles, antique signage—but we’re moving too quickly for me to study them. Of course, I still try, which is why I don’t notice that God has stopped in front of one of them. I walk straight into His back.

“Oops. Sorry.”

We are standing in front of a green door. There’s nothing fancy about it but it’s simple and sturdy. My name is engraved into the wood. I smile as I trace my fingers over each letter. God opens the door and what I see

Takes my breath away.

The door opens into a forest as old as time. As God leads me through the doorway, I sneak a look back at the hallway to make sure it’s real. My green door—embedded in a thick tree trunk—is still open. I can see the bright blue door that is across the hall from mine. The forest is noisy with the questions of curious birds and the whisper of the wind rushing through tall canopies. In the distance, I see a field of wildflowers—bright and bold and almost ridiculous. God beckons for me to follow Him. We are walking toward the field.

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure where we are yet but it reminds me of Narnia, which makes me happy.” God laughs and says,

“Oh Bean—your imagination makes me happy.”

And that makes my heart really happy. As we walk toward the field, He says

“This is our place.”

There is such tenderness in His eyes as He says this.

“Our place? Like this is mine? I don’t get it…” I say. God picks a yellow flower and hands it to me.

“Look closely at it, Bean. Tell me what you see.”

It looks like a yellow wildflower at first glance. But as I peer closer, I see

My words

Faintly ingrained into its delicate petals. I can barely make out, “…heal my heart…” I pick more flowers—pinks and peaches and corals and golds—and see prayers I prayed a million years ago in the stems and leaves and petals and hearts of each flower.

“Please heal him, God, even though there’s no cure…”

“I am so lonely…”

“…I am tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of being hurt…”

“I don’t want to love you-know-who. Can I pass on this trial?”

“These are my prayers.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed at some of the prayers I see and drop those on the ground.

“Do you know where we are now?”

I hesitate.

“Are we still in your office?”

“Yes.”

“Is ‘heaven’ the right answer?”

God laughs. At least two dozen wildflower prayers bloom in response.

“Well, it’s an acceptable answer but it’s not the answer.”

“Oh. Are you grading on a curve?” I ask. We both laugh.

“You’re not being graded. This isn’t a pop quiz.”

“What a relief. I hate those.”

“So, do you give up?”

“Will you think less of me if I do?”

“No, of course not.”

“Thanks, God. You’re nice.”

I punch God softly in the arm. He punches me back very gently. I’m sure a real punch would’ve put a hole in my torso. God lays down in the grass and puts His hands behind His head. He is watching a purple dragon soar overhead. He points toward it and says,

“See that? That’s one of your prayers, too.”

I lay down beside Him and look up at the sky. I can only look at the dragon for a little while before my eyes begin to water, it’s so bright. I have to take off my sweater and use it to cover my face. I am in danger of dozing off—it’s just so warm and lovely, I can’t help it!—when I hear God speak.

“This is my favorite place to hear you.”

“I’d come here, too. It’s nice.”

“I think it is, too. Nice work.”

“What?”

“You made this place.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Whenever you talked to me about friends or boys or your family, I always came here. This place is made of your prayers, our conversations...”

“They’re all here? Every single one?”

“Yup.”

“Even the unanswered prayers?”

“Just because you thought I didn’t answer them doesn’t mean I didn’t.”

“What about the ones I didn’t pray? What about those times I didn’t talk to You?”

“Oh Bean. I was here, waiting for you, even when you didn’t want me around.”

“But why here?”

“I’ve wanted to bring you here for so long. But you weren’t ready.”

“Ready for what? Are you annoyed with all my questions?”

“No, but you sure ask a lot of questions. That’s fine.”

God smiles. I scratch my elbow.

“Ready for what?” I sound like a broken record.

“I’ve been waiting for a long time to show you what I can do with your prayers—even the ones you thought I didn’t answer; even the ones you prayed in hurt and anger.”

And like no time has passed, I remember all the times I prayed prayers in anger and frustration. I remember all the times I talked at Him instead of to Him. I remember the things I said. Worse, I remember the things I didn’t say. I remember the things I did.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. That was a long time ago.”

“I still feel bad.”

“That’s not why I brought you here.”

God looks at me and says,

“Don’t you see, Little Bean? Don’t you see what I can do with your prayers?”

A curious hare is sniffing my toes, its whiskers tickling me relentlessly. It’s almost unbearable but I struggle to restrain my trembling feet. I don’t want to kick it in the face!

“You make things?”

“I turn them all into something beautiful. Now do you see?”

III.

So much life has happened lately that I feel like I haven’t been able to have really good conversations with God about everything. I’ll have snippets of conversations—I like to think of them as text messages—but no five-hour talks over three cups of tea. I am hungry for those. This post was born out of a longing for a good conversation with Him. Because a LOT has happened: relationships have changed; growing up keeps happening (even though I don't feel ready for it); my skin is losing its elasticity (which means I'm aging); everything in between. As I hurry to keep up with the pace of life these days, I think about Him, waiting to talk to me.

And that makes me miss Him.

Do you ever feel that way?

Real Life (or something like it)

2010-04-06T10:58:00.001-07:00

I.
"This is your real life, Bean. What are you going to do with it?"
When Mike asked me this question, I thought these were my options:

Fly a kite.
Buy a home. Have babies. Provide a nice life for them. Love Mike and our babies till my teeth fell out.
Quit my job. Hole up and write feverishly for days/weeks/months/years. Write something memorable. Make my mom proud. Get interviewed by Ellen. Dance with Ellen, after which she will say, "Wow, you're a great dancer! I like you. Those are nice earrings!"

At the time, my answer was b, although I dreamed of (coveted) c on a daily basis. Since then, I've learned that there was another option:

All of the above. Yes, really—or something like it.

I just couldn't see it. I thought I had to pick one option and stick with it forever, which is why I felt stuck. And being stuck—or even just feeling stuck—is terrible.
I should rewind to explain how I got there (that place called stuck).

II.

Setting: The not-so-distant past.

When you're young, you feel invincible. You truly believe you can do anything you set your mind to. You dream lofty dreams and make plans to chase them. Some people actually do (and those people inspire me).

Me?

When I graduated, I needed a job that would pay for health insurance; that's what it boiled down to.

I was sick and needed to see several doctors so I had to find some way to make it happen. In college, I'd dreamt of chasing the poor-but-romantic "writerly" life. I wanted to see my name in print! I wanted to write stories about people and real life! I wanted to write about my mom's childhood in Cambodia, the war, her experiences in the refugee camp, coming to America. I felt I was born to write about her life! My last project in college was a screenplay that captured everything from skinning eels as a girl to watching Superman in black in white for the first time. I even imagined myself giving an acceptance speech for best new screenplay (or whatever), during which I would thank God, my parents, Mike Fox, and Laurie Weeks—my favorite writing professor.

I put those dreams on a shelf (for some day, I said) and got a big-girl job in a glass building with windows that didn't open. I got my own cubical, my own badge, my own stapler. I got the health insurance I so desperately needed and sought treatment to get well. I was financially independent. I was a responsible adult!
Every now and then, I would take my dreams off the shelf, dust them off, and hold them in my hands. I'd whisper softly to them, telling them I hadn't abandoned them—that I still loved them—before putting them back on the shelf for safe keeping.

Mike and I saved up our hard-earned money and paid for our wedding. Life was (still is) great. But living a "writerly" life looks different after you get married. I no longer wanted to spend all my time alone writing my break-out novel/screenplay/memoir. I wanted to spend all my time with Mike (and I did). We talked about our future home and future babies and what our life would look like; without realizing it, I spent more time entertaining those dreams while my own collected dust on the shelf. I took them out to breathe and stretch their legs on occasion but didn't spend much time playing with them like I used to. In truth, I felt guilty for trapping them, for keeping them tightly sealed in a jar on the highest shelf. I tried to explain it to them gently but I think it was more for my sake than theirs.

"Now is just not the right time. We're saving for a house and our future babies. But don't worry—I haven't forgotten about you. Your time will come, too. Just be patient."

But when those plans looked up at me with sad, puppy-dog eyes, I couldn't return the gaze. You know why?

I was afraid.

If I let them out and follow them wherever they may go, will I get lost? Will I lose them? What if I fail?

Instead of finding answers to my questions, I ignored them and focused on work.

Like most plans, ours required a steady income, so while I didn't find my job inspiring or fulfilling, I persevered. I told myself God had great plans for my life that looked different from the life I was living. I considered my time in the cubical farm a temporary stint.

But work was rough. I didn't understand corporate politics or "double-speak". (Why don't people just say what they mean?) I didn't understand why people didn't speak the truth. I didn't understand how or why people could want to "teach you a lesson" by sabotaging your projects. For the first time, I had to engage and interact with people who did not like me. It was all new and exciting in a bad way. At first, I screamed,

"GOD! GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

That didn't get the type of reaction I was looking for so I tried to change up my game plan by praying the "right" prayers, the kind that start with, "God, I'm thankful for my job…but—" I prayed for God to change my heart attitude toward my work and everything that ate me up inside. I manufactured a good attitude when I felt rotten, when the bitterness made my mouth taste bad, like when you drink orange juice after you've brushed your teeth. And when I was tired of praying the "right" prayer, when I was tired of crying, I allowed myself to indulge in (and roll around in) an attitude of entitlement.

"I'm better than this! (Aren't I?) Is this what You planned for me? This is the story You wrote for my life? Because I'm sorry—it's boring."

I know—I've got a lot of nerve. But I was frustrated with work! I felt like no matter how many hours I worked or how hard I tried, I couldn't stay on top of it. I struggled to stay afloat. I cried almost every week. I was physically exhausted. stressed out. emotionally drained. close to hopeless. It was stealing the best parts of me.

It left nothing for Mike.

It would leave nothing for my future-babies.

And if there was nothing left for my family, what was left for my dreams?

In my heart I said, this has to be a temporary thing. There has to be more to life than this. Aloud, I said the right things. I said I knew God had a plan for me. I said the purpose of my whole existence might be to work at my job for the rest of my life. I said the sum of my entire existence could be a conversation I might have with someone, a conversation that might introduce that person to Jesus. And I was okay with that.

But I wanted more, and sooner rather than later.

So I started to pray—fervently at first—and wait for an answer. I said I was waiting for any answer but my heart hoped for the answer I wanted.

I prayed. I waited. I worked. I cried. I shook my fist at my laptop and yelled expletives. I complained. I stopped praying. I apologized for complaining and for being ungrateful for God's gifts. Repeat.

It was exhausting.

I explored my options. I updated my resume. I thought of how much stuff I'd have to pack on my last day. I thought all the things I would be able to do for God once I'd left my current job.

It was after weeks of mind-numbing whining and discontent that Mike asked me the question I did not want to ask myself:

"This is [my] real life. What [am I] going to do with it?"

I didn't have an answer for him. Not then.

"What do you think would make you happy? What's your dream job?"

This is what I blurted out:

Something that involves writing. Something that allows me to be creative. I want to touch peoples' lives. I want to bring them joy. I want a job that will allow me to provide for our family. I want to be available for my children. I want to write meaningful stories. I want to do something that I can be proud of. At the end of our lives, I want God to be excited to talk to me about my life.

And as Mike explored my options and helped me see what I needed to do to make these things happen, I realized that in some way, I already had everything I wanted.

Most importantly, I saw that I had everything I needed at this point in my life.

I just had a bad attitude (also known as a "bat-titude"), too.

OH.

III.

Setting: Right now

My real life right now looks like a corporate job that allows me to save for our future home. And I can say that it is good for right now because Mike is right—this is my real life right now.

My job allows me to be friends with my co-workers. It allows me to send e-mails that are ridiculous, creative, and almost too silly for the work place. It allows me to come home and write words that remind me of life, and living, and living a life that pleases God, and what it looks like to make mistakes and still be loved by God. While the stuff I write here (in this blog) might never get me a spot on Ellen's couch, it helps me share stories and meet people and make new friends.

And I think God is pleased with that.

At least it's a step in the right direction. I know He is working on my heart and is writing my story. Since then—the not-so-distant-past—I have taken my dreams off that highest shelf and let them roam freely around our small apartment. Sure, I was upset they chewed through cables and peed in my favorite mustard-yellow flats, but I'm happy they're back where they belong: with Mike and me.

I now know that my real life right now includes my dreams. I just have to ask God to show me where they fit in.

He has done more than that: He has surrounded me with people who, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, are chasing their dreams. Through these precious friends,

He shows me what it looks like to overcome financial "limitations" and frail, broken bodies in the pursuit of living a full, rich, joy-centered life.

He shows me what it looks like to have faith that moves mountains.

He shows me what it looks like to cast off doubt and ignore naysayers.

He shows me what it looks like to step forward in courage. And faith. And hope.

He shows me what it looks like to love LIFE—to pursue dreams because He gave them to us.

He has shown me much through these friends of mine. It has been eye-opening and humbling and awe-
inspiring. Because I thought our great big God didn't care about my dreams (silly me). I thought He was too busy saving the rest of our planet! I thought our great big God was not bigger than my fear and doubt and obstacles.

Seriously—silly me.

Some parts of this dream-chasing business are still very new to me. I'd be lying through my big teeth if I said I wasn't scared. I am terrified of failing. But this real life is so short! I think I've wasted enough time whining and complaining and entertaining doubts and making up (weak) excuses.

So here's to chasing dreams, because if I don't, they'll pee in all of my shoes.

IV.

This is what my options look like now:

Muster up the courage to touch a sea anemone. (Gross.)
Host another supper club meeting. Play board games with friends. Laugh till I get cramps in my cheeks. Make memories.
Live adventurously!
Hopefully buy a house soon. Create a home. Start a family. Make memories.
Write down the stories that emerge along the way (and share them).

Will you share your dreams and stories with me?

some thoughts about life [for lack of a better title]

2010-02-18T12:07:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: The format of this post could cause eye strain, maybe even dizziness or vomiting. I apologize in advance for the eyeball work-out you will receive. Please forgive me for being so indulgent!

I.

When I finally meet my future-babies, I don't want to tell them about things I wanted to do but never did. I don't want to tell them about dreams deferred, about writing as a hobby--a foolish dream I entertained when I was young--and about the life I wish I had lived.

I want to tell them I lived.

And when I meet God, I want Him to be excited about the life I've lived. I want Him to ask me to retell certain parts over coffee and cupcakes [even though He knows all the details] as we sit on the porch of my house in heaven.

II.

God gives us this one life to do so many things: create.

                                                              inspire.

                                                    imagine.

                                dream [BIG!].

                 know Him.

                                 play.

                                       discover.

                                                  LOVE.

                                                           wonder.

I don't want to waste this precious [fleeting] opportunity to live.

I don't want to meet Him at the end of all things

                                                                       for the first time.

I don't want that for anyone in my life.

This life of mine--what do I want it to look like? Now is the time to ask

What does God want it to look like?

I believe He wants me to be content

      with His tremendous blessings

             with circumstances beyond my control

                     [because He is at work even if I can't see/feel it.]

I believe He wants me to learn to love

with no agenda [on His terms, not mine]

love people where they're at

[even if they're there for the rest of their lives]

                         with steadfast patience and diligence

                   like it's my job

                         [because it is]

I believe He wants me to know Him intimately

so I can know His heart.

I believe He wants me to CREATE

friendships and live a good story.

[Thanks, Don Miller, for putting it in perspective and in words I could understand].

I believe He wants me to INSPIRE

        with LOVE and JOY and PEACE and

               PATIENCE and KINDNESS and GOODNESS and

GENTLENESS and FAITH [Galatians 5: 22-23]

[Will I ever truly understand the weight of these things?]

I believe He wants me to BELIEVE in His true nature

because if I did,

I would trust myself and the [limited] things I learned

from school and Google and Wikipedia

less;

because if I did,

I would believe that He is GOOD.

I would believe His promises,

His hope and unfathomable love for this broken little planet and its

lost, broken, beautiful people.

I believe He wants me to pray without ceasing,

which will take some work since the only thing I'm really good at doing

without ceasing is

complaining about things that don't really matter.

and procrastinating.

I believe He wants me to pluck out my eyeballs and give them a rest

because my eyes still err on the side of judgment

instead of compassion.

I believe He has a plan for my life

that could amount to me becoming

a woman after His own heart.

Everything else would be details for the story.

I believe He wants me to worry less

about buying our first home

and having healthy babies

and regrets about the past because

HE. LOVES. ME.

I believe He can change people I thought never would or could change.

He just might not change them the way I think He should.

After all, He is changing me.

III.

And I believe that's what He's doing now because many people I talk to are having the same conversations. I take comfort knowing I'm not alone, knowing that it's not too late to get to know Jesus and God as a grown-up.

Jesus is my Facebook friend

2010-02-01T22:11:00.000-08:00

I.

Dear Jesus,

Will You please accept my friend request?

Love,

Lina

II.

Dear Lina,

Will you please accept mine?

Love,

Jesus

III.

I have a(nother) confession:

I don’t love Jesus.

I don’t love Him the way I love Mike Fox.
I don’t love Him the way I love the sound of children’s laughter.
I don’t love Him the way I love (macaroni and) CHEESE.
I don’t love Him the way I love sunshine and green grass and a cloudless blue sky.
I don’t love Him the way I love America, especially during the Olympics.
I don’t love Him the way I love libraries.
I don’t love Him the way I love the idea of starting a family with Mike.

I could go on for days about all of the things I love (seriously—days) but when it comes to Jesus, I could talk about Him for an hour at most. And I wouldn’t even be talking about Him—I would be talking about things He has done for me and how He has changed my life, [insert most of the right things to say]; unfortunately, I usually spend more time talking about my experiences vs. Jesus. I am embarrassed to admit this but I know it’s true because I have friends who don’t know Him who ask me about Him. I stumble through the highlights of His life like I’m running through a mental outline of everything I’ve ever learned in Christian school or absorbed through osmosis as a pastor’s kid. I try to sound sincere about how much I love Him but I know it sounds

E m p t y

or sort of made-up and pieced together from books and blogs and journal entries and sometimes the bible (sans scripture references because I haven't memorized one in years). And afterwards I run through the conversation again and again and beat myself up about the talking points I should’ve included or how I should’ve mentioned that time Jesus saved me from the pervy old man because the story is so ridiculous it proves (without a doubt in my mind) that Jesus is real and that He cares; otherwise He wouldn’t have saved me.

I try to sell Jesus even though He doesn't need to be sold.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I break into a cold sweat when I try to introduce my friends to Jesus. I can talk to you about gravity and photosynthesis (loosely, with some made-up words and a crude drawing) so why not Jesus?

And then it clicked (loudly):

I don’t really know what I’m talking about.

And then it clicked for me again (just as loudly):

Jesus is my Facebook friend (and not much more).

I know all of the important details and check in often enough to stay in touch but I don’t make the effort to spend time with Him. [Sometimes I send Him flair to change up the routine.]

Saying it aloud hurts:

I don’t know Jesus.

I can barely whisper this but when I say it in my head, it echoes and echoes until it gets swallowed up by the damp stickiness of my head-space:

[I don’t love Him.]

I don’t know Him well enough to love Him.

IV.

I have decided that I want to be more than Facebook friends with Jesus. I want to meet Him and get to know Him because

I want to fall in love with Him.

I don't want to just get by on memories or the relationship I used to have with Him; I don't want to force Him to accept the shadow of the girl I once was.

I want to say

I love You

and mean it (for real).

I want to tell my future-babies, my co-workers, my neighbors, my family members, my friends who don’t know Him and anyone else God sends my way about my real friend, Jesus; the Jesus of my grown-up-life, beyond the flannel-board, lamb-carrying bearded Jesus of my childhood. I loved Him then.

I want to love Him—know Him—now.

In Medias Res: In the middle of things

2010-01-19T10:29:00.000-08:00

I am embarrassingly yet characteristically late at writing about the wonder of Christmastime, my hopes and dreams for the New Year and revelations experienced thus far. I had good intentions (I always do) to write more regularly this year and already I have failed. I don’t know how else to explain it but to say I was

In medias res,

which is Latin for,

“in(to) the middle of things.”

This is probably one of my favorite Latin phrases (and not just because it’s also a literary term). As a literary technique, the writer jumps right into the action (right into the thick of it!) and propels the story forward from that point instead of starting at the beginning with “Once Upon A Time”.

Tangent: In case you’re wondering, “Tinea Cruris” is a close second favorite; it means “ringworm of the groin". This is more commonly referred to as jock itch. End of tangent.

I digress.

2009 segued into 2010 without giving me time to do anything beyond brushing my teeth and rubbing away eye boogers. I needed a “zero week”—you know, that first week of school that doesn’t really count when your professors hand out syllabi, give you a reading assignment, and excuse you for the rest of the class. Since the real world doesn’t believe in such frivolities, I’ve kept going (on auto-pilot). I realize that if I wait for the "right" moment to share/unload/let go, I will be emotionally (and perhaps physically) constipated.

I'm not jumping in now but I will soon.

Because I have much to share/ask/talk about loving people where they’re at (which I’m learning is strangely similar to where I’m at, says Lina in retrospect ), LIFE-right-here-right-now, Jesus as my Facebook friend and everything in between.

Sorry I've been gone for so long. I hope you've been well.

Talk to you soon.

Love,

Bean

Dear Pregnancy Test: I Wish You'd Grade On A Curve

2009-11-23T15:53:00.000-08:00

I took a pregnancy test on Friday.

I didn’t pass.

I wasn’t really surprised to fail but I was disappointed, and that surprised me. Mike and I talk about our future-babies quite often because we’re both excited to meet them and teach them things, like how long you should dunk your Oreo cookie under milk before it completely disintegrates into a soggy, crumbly mess at the bottom of your cup. Important things like that. We agreed to wait awhile before trying to have babies for grown-up, responsible reasons. So I was very surprised when my friend suggested that the culprit behind my menstrual cycle mystery might be something far less sinister than I'd imagined:

A baby.

When someone says "baby", I don't think of baby powder and dimpled hands and feet and wet, gummy smiles. I mean, I do but the mental picture doesn't stop there. I also think of college tuition, teen angst, diaper rash, chaffed nipples, sleepless nights, mucus plugs, emotional outbursts, emotional breakdowns, insurance, teenage drivers, diapers and bottles galore, etc. I know there's nothing glamorous about ear infections and soaked breast feeding pads. And yet when I think about babies, I feel

love.

Call me crazy but I'm excited to be a mom. This has a lot to do with my relationship with my mom but I'll save that for later.

I thought about my future-babies as I scanned the aisles for the perfect pregnancy test. I knew there was one out there that was perfect for me and my urine. Unfortunately, there were many options. To an indecisive person, selecting one out of many feels like a trick or some sort of test. I'm sure shoppers wondered why I was crouched in the middle of the aisle holding three or four different pregnancy tests. What if I picked the wrong one? What if one brand really was more accurant than another? I was drawn to the pink box because the silhouette of the woman on it just screamed fertility, like it would really read my urine sample more accurately than the others. But the pink box, though alluring, was pricey. I ended up picking the purple box because I like purple. And because I had used it once before, only that time I was so nervous I forgot to remove the cap that covers the actual test strip. I peed all over it (and my hand).

I drank a lot of water and waited. I drank more water and thought about my future-babies. I skimmed the instructions without absorbing anything. I kept telling myself, don’t forget to remove the plastic cap. Don’t forget to remove the plastic cap. This time I remembered.

I put the cap back on the test and waited, still on the toilet, because I was afraid that if I moved or left the bathroom I would mess up the results. I wiggled my toes, scratched my calf and wiped up the excess pee. Slowly, a single blue line appeared. Just one, not two. I waited a little longer. Perhaps the second line just took a little longer to appear.

Nope.

I know I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. But the thought of meeting our future-babies sooner than we’d expected flooded every cell in my body with sheer

Happiness.

Excitement.

Joy.

Wonder.

One day, I will pass the test. Today's just not the day.

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Distractions

2009-11-12T22:18:00.000-08:00

Hello.

Sorry I’ve been gone so long. I’ve been distracted by
Dirty pennies
Sweaty string cheese in my purse
Pale spiders
The tiny new freckle on the top of my left foot
Angry in-grown hairs on my body
The way apples make my hands waxy as I wash them, and
How I always have to wash my hands after washing apples
Muffled voices though too-thin walls
Dust particles dancing in beams of light
Shadows and silhouettes
The ghost cats I always hear but rarely see
Baby snails
Hairlines
Hair loss
The hair art I make on my shower wall
Words
And non-words, too.
But recently—especially at night—I have been distracted by

The quiet,

Which has been my roommate this week while Mike has been not-with-me.

It used to be a familiar friend but now it makes me afraid, but only a little, and only deep on the inside in a wet sticky place beneath my spleen. But even worse than the quiet is the missing-him-ache I have in the lower ventricles of my heart. Don’t ask me how I know that’s where missing comes from—I just know that’s where all of the missing feelings are born. And when your heart is too full of missing, it tumbles out of your heart and fills up your stomach, and even if you’re full, it makes you feel empty.

I have been afraid of the quiet and full of missing all week.

But every day

I sing silly songs about chocolate milk and poison oak and spiders that drink apple cider because these are songs I made up on our honeymoon. They make me laugh. If Mike were at home, he would laugh at them too (because he always does).

I play the same Iron and Wine record (usually the B side) on our record player because it reminds me of Mike.

I look at the blue shaving foam residue on the bottom shelf of our medicine cabinet. It reminds me that he will be back and that his can of shaving cream will go in that place. That light blue ring misses him, too, and that makes me feel a little better.

And every night

I stay up as late as I can to distract myself from the quiet and the missing.

I rub my feet together and wiggle my toes and slide them over to his side of the bed where his feet would be, because this is how my feet say goodnight.

I sleep with my bedside light on, curled away from where he is supposed to be because I don’t like that his side is empty.

But he is coming home soon. Knowing this makes the quiet less scary and the missing shrink a little (but only a little).

Knowing this makes me less distracted, which is good because there are some things I want talk about.

Later.

When I'm not distracted at all.

Not Ready For Goodbye: My thoughts and recent revelations about why I’m so afraid of making new girlfriends.

2009-08-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

I.

Dear God:

With regard to the recent revelations that have come about regarding my deep-seeded hurt and crippling fear of rejection, I wanted to say thank you for speaking through Mike. I realize that all of this could have been revealed some other way; You just picked the nicest way possible. I am grateful for the gesture.

Affectionately Yours,

Bean
II.

When I wrote about my reluctance to make new friends/open up/give of myself in “Green Eggs and Jelly Beans”, I didn’t think I’d write a follow-up piece so soon. But here I am, exhausted from crying, my eyes still swollen and waterlogged from peeing out of my eyes for hours last night. This sounds dramatic but it’s not far from the truth. I look like I’ve had an allergic reaction to shellfish. In my defense, the hurt I had buried deep within me was coaxed to the surface. When I finally had the courage to peek at it, which was more of a sidelong glance if I’m honest, I realized that my heart still bled over this wound. And that it was the root of my fear.

It started with an unassuming conversation over a cup of coffee at The Gypsy Den. Mike gently brought up my friends or lack of friends, to be more accurate. He cautiously, gently, kindly mentioned that he had noticed that I’d changed from the girl he first met:

“You immediately bring up some embarrassing story about your bodily functions—often times when it’s just shocking or inappropriate. Why do you feel the need to do this?”

Silence.

I didn’t answer because I really didn’t know. I’d never thought about it before. Heck, I didn’t even realize I had become this girl. He proceeded (gingerly) to share his thoughts about this new Bean:

“I think you talk about your armpits or farts to shock people; you use it as a way of ‘being real’, when it’s really not being real. The first thing I noticed and really liked about you was the fact that you were very interested in people, even if you’d just met them. You were engaged in conversation; you were present; you made yourself vulnerable by sharing so much of your life, but you were vulnerable without caring. You were just open and honest and sincere. Now, I think you keep people at arm’s length by just telling them funny and embarrassing stories about yourself. But whenever someone really wants to be friends with you—wants to get to know you—you just make up excuses for why you can’t or don’t want to.”

Pardon my language but

[Insert loud noises, fireworks, screeching tires, and high-pitched screams]

Of course, he asked why this had become my modus operandi. Of course, I didn’t have an answer. But I did start to cry. At this point he suggested we walk home. It felt like the longest walk ever. We walked in silence and listened to the sounds of our breathing, my sniffling, broken glass crunching underfoot, and the distant whirring of the freeway.

At home, Mike tried to help me figure out why I had changed so drastically. I cried a lot. I was sad I had embarrassed him on a few occasions. I was sad I had probably hurt really good, really nice girls by repeatedly rejecting their friend requests. I was sad because I knew that my eyes would be super swollen from my ridiculous cry-fest. But I think it was good for me.

I learned a few things that night:

1. Puffs tissue is soft on the nose but not very good at absorbing tears. I went through several tissues and discovered that the aloe moisturizers infused in the tissues make them somewhat water resistant. Okay, not completely water resistant but I don’t think they are as effective as normal conference room tissues. They felt slimy on my face.

2. I do keep girls at arm’s length, despite how nice and kind and perfectly wonderful they are.

3. I do this because I’m afraid to get close. I wasn’t always this way.

4. Mike is right: I am missing out on some amazing friendships by not giving anyone a chance.

5. I have never really gotten over her.

III.

It took us awhile to become friends. Our first impressions were off by a few degrees (to say the least). I saw her as the prettiest girl on campus, innocent and pure and the object of desire for almost every guy I knew. She saw me as a pretty b*tch. Needless to say, she was wrong about me (I was right about her), which led to our inevitable friendship.

And oh, how I loved this girl! She was fun and nice and lovely and innocent and wholesome and extremely bright and terribly beautiful. Despite my goofiness and emotional instability, she loved me and always seemed to bring out the best in me. It wasn’t long before I knew she was going to be one of those “forever friends”, you know—one of those people you know is going to be in your life for a long time.

We were practically joined at the hip. Everyone knew that where I was, she was too (and vice versa). She often took me as her date to sorority events even though I was not “Greek”. I felt loved and cool and special because this girl--this girl that was loved by so many girls and adored by so many guys--this girl was my roommate and one of my best friends. We shared our hopes and fears, our secret and not-so-secret dreams. I held nothing back from her. I loved her and wanted her to succeed, wanted her to find love and accomplish all of her dreams. I wanted the best for her, wanted to protect her from all the bad in the world and celebrate every victory and accomplishment with her. No matter what happened (and a lot happened to me), she always rooted for me. She was great at making me feel loved and special, like it was her job. In fact, it was because of her that I met Mike. That’s probably one of the best gifts—aside from her friendship—that she has ever given me. I experienced (and survived) some of the best, most volatile years of my life with her by my side.

The end was unexpected and heartbreaking. I can only speculate how she felt.

Our lives started to move in two different directions. She and another roommate were graduating after four years. I had another year to go because I had allowed my “extracurricular activities” to get the best of me. She had been accepted into the Master’s program at UCSD and was well on her way to becoming a doctor. While I celebrated their graduation I tried to hide my anxious fears and suppress my guts, which threatened to spill out at any time.

A beautiful boy who had talked marriage broke up with me. I had a full year to “get it together” and finish school; I had a lot of work ahead of me. To be honest, I was a bit sad I wasn’t celebrating my graduation with them.

There was talk of moving into a bigger house, one I couldn’t possibly afford to live in on my meager student’s budget. I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford the rent. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t want to disappoint her. It was easy to avoid thinking about the end of our cohabitation because she worked days, I worked nights; we hardly saw each other. When my other roommate asked for my rental application, I was just leaving for work so I had to tell her I wasn’t going to be moving with them because I couldn’t afford it. I hadn't even told her.

I felt terrible. I already missed her.

She was cool and distant toward me when I got home so I knew she’d heard the news. I felt bad I didn’t tell her myself. I believe it hurt her more than I thought it would. She didn’t understand. She said some things that seemed foreign coming out of her mouth, things I knew were meant to mask her disappointment. She ended with, “Good luck with that.”

For the second time that day, I felt terrible. And I felt very alone.

I spent the rest of my summer alone (in hiding, really), nursing my hurt. I didn’t have the courage to apologize for hurting her, for letting her down. We grew apart and hardly spoke. I spent most of my time alone. I hung out in bars while working on crossword puzzles. I drove around with a stuffed elephant (Aidan) I bought at Marshall’s strapped into the passenger’s seat. I just wanted some company. When I wasn’t at work, I drove up to Los Alamitos and Irvine to see my family and stayed until I had to drive back down to work. Sometimes I slept in my car. I went from having a best friend/almost-sister and a community that we belonged to together to being completely alone. I got used to the solitude. I never got used to being without her. We moved out without seeing each other, without saying goodbye.

I moved in with three boys I found on Craigslist. I just happened to be across the street from where Mike lived, but I didn’t find out till later, and that’s another story for another time. Aside from her, most of my friends had graduated and moved away. I started the school year alone.

I cried over her a lot that year. Just when I thought I had gotten over it, someone would call and ask if I was going to their party, and I’d have to say I wasn’t invited. Of course, that person would ask why since I was her other half, and I’d have to gently explain we no longer kept in touch. Those were always awkward phone calls.

I sent a few text messages and tried to call. I never received any responses. One day in May, I received a text. And then a call. I have to admit I was scared and anxious and hopeful all at once. We talked. She was familiar but not at the same time. So much had happened since we last spoke. We said we should get together for lunch sometime. We never did.

The last time I heard from her was on the day I graduated. I read it and re-read it to make sure I wasn’t joking myself. Mike and I were running around the field, giddy with excitement that the commencement ceremony was finally over. While looking for my family, I received a text:

I watched you graduate today. I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished. Good luck with the future.

Or something to that effect. I think there was more but I can’t remember it now. I immediately looked around to see if I could spot her watching from afar. I never found her.

I wrote to her a few times after graduation to say I had no hard feelings for how things turned out. I thanked her for loving me so much and for taking such good care of me while we were friends and roommates. I saw that she read my e-mail. She never responded. I stopped trying because I didn’t want to seem desperate.

IV.

It may seem silly and inconsequential to be so hung up on the end of a friendship but I haven’t had one like it since. Don’t get me wrong—I do have some girlfriends. I have two very dear friends—my best girls, my “forever friends”—who have been with me through the mire and back. They were around long before her and are still in my life now. Mike was really the first close friend I made after the fallout. And then he became my best friend. I assume you can guess what happened after that. To be honest, I sort of gave up on girls after her.

But I think I’m ready. I haven’t been a “girlfriend” to new friends in a long time. I used to be really good at it (I think). Now it feels foreign and terrifying. So much of me wants to run and hide and give up all at once. I am a coward.

But I am trying because Mike said I have a lot to give, and that I am great at being a friend (to him at least). He told me not to be afraid. He said he didn’t want me to miss out on great friendships for the rest of my life. He said I would be blessed by my girlfriends in ways I could not anticipate. I knew he was right.

V.

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, know that I still think of you. I hope you’re doing well and that your life is filled with much happiness, laughter, and love. You touched my life in ways you will never know. I think of you—the person you were, the person I was at that time in our lives—with the fondest memories.
And since it was your birthday (a day and a month ago) yesterday, Happy Birthday.

Future-Babies (or babies of the future)

2009-08-18T13:21:00.000-07:00

I.

I have a confession:

I actually talked to my imaginary children this morning.

I won't tell you what I said because I'm a little embarrassed to admit this but you can laugh at me. It’s pretty silly.

I looked in the rearview mirror and pictured them sitting in the backseat playing-poking-eating-laughing-screaming-crying-throwing up-waving-smiling-sleeping-looking at the outside world in wonder. And I thought,

I hope I get to meet you some day.

I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately (my future-babies). I wonder if God will give them to me, if He’ll send them to me for safe-keeping or if He’ll keep them with Him. I will be the first to acknowledge that for awhile, I lived my life without thinking about them at all. I made bad choices, ones that scarred me in ways I didn’t anticipate. And when the glamour and allure of the fast life eventually faded into black, empty nothingness, when I was left alone, I remembered my future-babies.

But was it already too late?

I buried my questions and anxieties and prayers and tears and guilt deep inside. I couldn’t let any of that baggage bubble to the surface, not when I was trying to find a friend, someone who would stick around even though I was a broken mess.

I never thought that the friend God sent me would be my great love, the person He had made just for me.

I wish I had waited for him. Mike never dwells on my past but I know it affects him. He never uses it against me. We have talked and will probably continue to talk about how my choices have affected us, are affecting us, will continue to affect us. It is at those times I feel the most remorse over the things I’ve done, the person I was, because it affects Mike and our future-babies. It's so unfair to them.

II.

Sometimes I wonder if God pulled Mike aside and gave him a pep talk. He's just so good at loving me I think he must be getting paid by my parents or has been guaranteed a room upgrade in heaven. A pep talk seems more realistic. I imagine God waiting for Mike at a coffee shop, some place charming and quaint with old wood, exposed brick walls, mismatched cups, and delicious food. Mike shows up and walks toward God’s table. He extends his hand to shake God's hand when God embraces him. It’s a real hug, too, not just a man-hug. Mike sits down. On the table are two cups of coffee, a tattered leather-bound journal, and cream and sugar. They both reach for the cream at the same time. Mike says,

“Sorry—You first.”

So God complies to avoid a potentially awkward exchange while Mike adds sugar to his cup. He adds cream when God is done.

They drink in silence before God says,

“What do you think of Bean?”

And I’m not sure what Mike would actually say (and don’t want to be presumptuous) but if I have to guess, I assume he would say something like,

“She’s great. I like her a lot.” He takes another sip of his coffee before adding,

“She has been through a lot.” God nods.

“Indeed.”

And because Mike isn’t sure what to say (or why God is asking) he adds,

“But I do love her, you know, despite all that. She’s cool.”

God nods in agreement but doesn’t say anything because He’s swallowing His coffee.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

Mike nods.

“I wanted to talk to you about Bean.” He stops a server walking past and orders a cheese Danish.

“Do you want anything?” Mike initially shakes his head “no” but at God’s insistence, orders a blueberry scone. Their orders arrive almost immediately.

“Bean is wounded. I’ve allowed her to experience much hurt and many types, too. Unfortunately, this makes her…complicated.”
Mike takes a drink of his coffee and says, “I understand.”

God takes another bite of His Danish.

“I made you for her because I know you will do the best job of loving her. She’s going to need you a lot, you know, to help her heal. I’ll work with her directly to handle the major issues—self-image, pride, brokenness, etc.—but I just need you to stay; stay with her, Mike. When she tells you to give up, please don’t. It’s going to be hard. And as you two work through everything together, you will be hurt as well, I’m afraid.”
Mike nods but doesn’t say anything. God flips through His journal, which is full of hand-written letters and photographs before finding what He’s looking for. He pulls out a photograph and slides it across the table toward Mike. It is a picture of me, or at least a girl/woman who looks like me. She looks very happy. He stares at it long and hard before asking,

“Is this…?”

God nods.

“This is Bean the way I made her to be. I love her so much, Mike. I wish she could see herself the way I see her.” There is a mixture of fondness and sadness in God’s voice as He talks to Mike about me. He has tears in His eyes. Mike, perhaps because he feels awkward or out of respect, keeps his head down.

“Somewhere along the way, she has forgotten how much I love her. She can no longer see herself the way I see her.”

He hesitates before continuing, which prompts Mike to look up.

“Please love her. Show her how much I love her, and when you want to give up because she has hurt you so, remember this photograph. That girl is in there somewhere. She’s the one for you. You’ll see.”
III.

When I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Mike, wanted him to be the father of my future-babies, wanted to grow old with him till my teeth fell out, I felt guilty.

Had I spoiled our chances to meet our future-babies?

Of course, I don’t have the answer to this question. I used to be better about suppressing it and hiding it from everyone. Lately, for whatever reason, it has been harder to ignore. I often find myself thinking about my sweet future-babies and wondering if I’ll ever meet them or if I’ll have to wait till we get to heaven.

IV.

Dear Future-Babies,

Wherever you are, I hope you know how much I love you. I want so badly to meet you, to hold you, to smell your sweet baby drool and feel your heart beat against mine. I want to sing songs to you off-key till you fall asleep…unless my singing is so bad it keeps you awake. I can play tapes. And hum, I can hum. I want you to meet Mike because he is wonderful! He is excited to meet you guys, too. He’s funny and kind and can’t wait to teach you all sorts of things about the world. We talk about you guys often and look forward to the day we meet, whether it’s during this lifetime or when we get to heaven.

Love,

Bean (and Mike, too)

Heaven

2009-07-28T08:34:00.000-07:00

I.

I wonder what heaven is like.

I know the Bible talks about heaven and what it’ll be like—streets of gold and endless praise and all that—but my imagination also pictures a different kind of heaven.

I hope God doesn’t get mad at me for picturing it differently.

I envision our first meeting to be very personal; for some reason, no one else is around when I arrive at the entrance to heaven. It’s not a defined entrance—I don’t see pearly gates marking the entrance to a massive walled enclosure of sparkly stucco. All of a sudden I am just there, wearing a pretty white dress walking down a dirt road toward God, who looks more lovely and radiant than I ever imagined. In fact, when I close my eyes and try to imagine this encounter now, I keep seeing Morgan Freeman even though I don’t imagine God looks like him. Oh, I should mention that I am in my 26-year-old body, which is soft and wobbly and grown-up. And I still have purple hair. When we meet, I say,

“Hello, God. It’s nice to finally meet you.” We hug, which I think is appropriate. He says,

“Hello, Bean. I’ve been waiting for you.”

As we walk together He points out noteworthy sites, which are curious and more remarkable than anything I’ve ever dreamed up (of course). Heaven is wild and natural and beautiful. I am so curious about all of the animals roaming around (I just want to touch them!) but I don’t ask questions; I’m shy. Those who know me know I’m not really shy but I think I would be when I first meet Him. I would say little and just walk in silence (and awe).

Somehow the town we are approaching blends seamlessly with the wild, like it sprouted out of the ground alongside the tall oak trees and wild flowers. It is dusk—my favorite time of day—and I notice that the old fashioned lampposts turn themselves on gradually, like they’re waking up from a long nap.

And oh, the people!

I can’t help but stare, which is natural since I do have a staring problem. Their faces are handsome and beautiful because they look rested, peaceful, happy. God pauses (since I can’t stop staring) to watch as people trickle out of their homes toward an unknown destination at what appears to be the heart of the town. I can’t help but admire their grand attire. They smile and nod as they pass us by.

I am about to ask where they are going (and whether or not we will go, too) but He is a few steps ahead of me walking down a trail that branches off the main road. I scramble to catch up. The road winds through a copse of old trees. As we walk, God points out healthy ferns and vibrant flowers; He is patient with me and waits while I stoop to look at tiny mushrooms. He doesn’t seem to mind that I wrinkle my nose when I see snails and the occasional slug.

The path we have followed eventually breaks through the trees into a clearing. There, at the top of a grassy hill, sits a white house with black shutters and a red door. I see an expansive wrap-around porch, complete with a porch swing and comfy cushions. It looks inviting.

“Welcome home,” He says.

I don’t know what to say except

“Thank you”, which doesn’t seem adequate.

I see a few houses in the distance. Some of my neighbors are tending to their gardens while others are sipping iced tea on their porches. They wave. God waves back.

He opens the front door for me (God is quite the gentleman). I hesitate before crossing the threshold. I am surprised to find

I am home.

It’s not the home I grew up in or the tiny studio I live in now. It’s an amalgamation of all of the places I’ve ever lived with some details from my dreams. It is comforting and familiar and brand new, all at the same time.

The hardwood floors creak happily beneath our weight as I explore each room; this time I lead and He follows. Like a child, I must touch everything. My fingertips graze the banister, already worn velvety-smooth by countless hands. I’m not sure whose hands but it feels like it has been smoothed by multiple generations living in the same house. There are books everywhere! Stacked on end tables, haphazardly organized on shelves, and strewn about the house at random. Books I loved as a child, books I checked out from the library that were never returned, books that eventually grew mold because I read them in the shower.

Twilight casts long shadows throughout the house, and like the lampposts, the lamps and candles wake up to reveal more treasures that were hidden in the semi-dark. Every detail is reminiscent of an item from my life—real or imagined. The walls are covered with familiar faces that smile back at me. On display above the fireplace is a picture of Mike and I on our wedding day. And although I am happy my throat tightens a bit because for the first time since I arrived in heaven, I realize he is not there. I feel guilty I didn’t realize it sooner. And my heart begins to ache.

Because He is God, He knows why my throat tightens but doesn’t say anything. Instead, He leads me back outside to the porch and we sit on the porch swing. There is a pack of cigarettes on the end table next to a plate of decadent triple chocolate fudge cupcakes. I eye the pack of cigarettes but don’t make a move. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to smoke in front of God; this is my first meeting, you know. In fact, I am not sure if there would be cigarettes in heaven but there they are—an indulgence from a different time, a different life.

I sneak a glance toward God, which of course, isn’t as sneaky as I think it is. He reaches for a cupcake. I hesitate before reaching for the cigarettes. He doesn’t say anything. I light up. Of course, they’re unlike any cigarettes I’ve ever tried. In fact, they smell and taste like cinnamon rolls (and of course, they are not bad for you at all). We sit in silence and listen to waves crashing on a distant rocky shore.
“You miss him.”
“Terribly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

God finishes His cupcake and licks His fingers. I put out my cigarette. I notice that God has crumbs in His beard.

“You have…something [I gesture toward my chin where my beard would grow]…leftovers…”

“Oh. Thanks.” He brushes them away.

I cannot stop thinking about Mike; I know there is a sadness lingering in my eyes.

“What do you miss the most about him?”

I’m ashamed to admit this but I’m pretty sure that I would start crying. I cry easily so I should not be surprised that I am crying during my first meeting with God (but it’s still a little embarrassing). I’m sure I would be a leaky mess, blubbering and sucking in sharp breaths to try and control the sobs that are jumping from my gut. All I can say is,

“I miss him”

But God knows (because He knows everything) that what I really mean to say is

I miss his smile.
I miss his after-work smell, which smells like hard work and graphite and metal and sweat and deodorant.
I miss his just-out-of-the-shower smell, which smells delicious and fresh and clean.
I miss the way he cups my face in his hands when he tells me I’m beautiful.
I miss the way his hands always find mine when I sneak into bed after he has already fallen asleep.
I miss his witty remarks.
I miss his sense of humor.
I miss hearing, “Hi Bean” on the other end of the telephone.
I miss his heart, which is kind and generous.
I miss his cute butt, which reminds me of a fuzzy peach.
I miss his jagged handwriting, especially the “I love yous” he scrawled on scraps of paper and hid around my room.
I miss the way he holds me when we slow dance to old records in our living room.
I even miss his farts.

God hands me a box of Kleenex and says,

[Silence]

But in the silence I feel His compassion. I blow my nose loudly.

“Where is he?”

“He’s not here yet.”

I try not to look as miserable as I feel because I’m in heaven (!) talking to God (!!!). Unfortunately, I have always been transparent and a not-great liar.

“Can I ask when? Am I allowed to? Okay, well, I guess I’m asking now…”

“It’s not for you to know. It’s better this way.”

It is night. The sky above us is a rich blue-black, peppered with white-hot stars. God and I sit in silence. I reach for a cupcake. Oh my gosh: it’s amazing. Between mouthfuls (but still with my mouth mostly full), I ask,

“Does it get easier? Will I miss him like this for always?”
“It gets easier. Over time, you will hurt less…but I made his heart for you…yours for him. There will always be a part of you that feels his absence.”
I finish my cupcake. I am tired from crying and my mouth tastes salty and slimy, like chocolate and tears. I want to brush my teeth.

“This sucks. Oops! I mean, this is hard. I mean, okay--I understand…sort of, or rather, I accept.”

“I know this is hard; this is love. Do you get it now?”

It is late now but God still sits with me. I'm not sure if He had other plans but I'm glad He is still there. We don't talk; we simply sit in silence as I mull over His words.

II.

Mike, I can never tell you enough times how much I love you. So I am telling you again--here, now, at this moment and for always:

I love you.

You are the best thing in my life, the one whom my soul loves. I know God loves me a lot because he gave me you--hilarious, wonderful, incredible you.

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Green Eggs and Jelly Beans

2009-06-25T22:11:00.000-07:00

I.

I have avoided writing about what’s really going on with me because I know I’m in the middle of a lesson. I wanted to wait till the end to write a cute fable about a trial (complete with funny and slightly humiliating anecdotes) and end result (regardless of how big my accomplishment or whether or not I accomplished much at all). Well, that takes time, and then it takes a few days (give or take) to come up with a witty one-liner about the moral of my story, something that will resonate and linger long after you’ve forgotten my words.

June has been one long lesson peppered with mini victories and disappointing mess-ups. Sometimes I feel like my slow progress doesn’t count because of the mess-ups. I feel like a dog wearing roller skates making frantic, futile attempts to stop rolling down a steep hill. Over the past couple of months, God has cracked me open and revealed several “areas of growth/brokenness”, much to my chagrin. My character looks like the inside of a pumpkin in December. I’m sharing because I want to be honest. I can tell people that I found a blue microbead from my body wash stuck in my butt crack but hesitate to share what God is doing in my life? How silly.

I hope that regardless of what you may think of me after reading this, you see what God is doing in me. I tried to ignore Him by offering valid excuses—wedding planning, work, Graves’ Disease, marriage—but I’ve run out, and not a moment too soon, I’m sure. I don’t know what He has in store but I’ve finally stopped resisting and am willing to be changed into something better than what I am. Though I fuss and whine and get angry about the lesson, I thank Him (probably not as often as I should) for loving me, for wanting me to be the best version of myself.
II.

I always empathized with the nameless character in Dr. Seuss’ beloved classic, Green Eggs And Ham. He knew what he liked and those odd green eggs and ham just weren’t on that list. Personally, I respected that and wouldn’t have pushed him. At the same time, I admired Sam-I-Am for his tenacity. By golly, he had a prize to share and he wasn’t going to give up until the person unknown tried it for himself! I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I realized that I am guilty of playing both roles (when it’s convenient).

I feel that I deserve to act like the nameless man when it comes to jelly beans and people. I know I sound like a terrible person for admitting that I am stubborn and selective about the people I “allow” into my life so I’ll first talk about jelly beans.

Jelly Belly jelly beans take me back to childhood visits to my mom’s office, which was pretty much the only time I had access to the huge jar of jelly beans she kept on her desk. I think it was for decoration or for other people because my mom always snacked on fruit. Whenever my sister and I got to visit, she would allow us to eat those magical, sugary beans on one condition: we had to pour them out of the jar or grab them by the handful. We were notorious repeat offenders, guilty of only picking our favorite flavors and leaving behind the mud and stucco colored beans; you couldn’t tell if the coloring was intentionally drab or if they were old. Because she was Mom--second to God but only by a miniscule margin--we complied. Both of us would take turns pouring the jelly beans into a bowl or onto a napkin. My sister, four years younger (with the patience to prove it), had a tendency to pour the beans quickly and without any technique. I, on the other hand, poured slowly, often rotating the jar to see if I could locate a pocket that contained all of my favorite flavors. Once located, I’d gently sift the beans out so the least amount of offending flavors made it out of the jar. Licorice, Grape Jelly, Buttered Popcorn, Plum, Jalapeno, and Strawberry Jam were always put back when my mom wasn’t looking.

I still consider my technique to be a legitimate loophole.

Unfortunately, I also apply this philosophy to people. Insert pregnant pause where children cry, my mother shakes her head in disapproval, and my sister disowns me. And everyone un-friends me on Facebook.

Please don’t assume I don’t feel bad about this. I consider myself to be a fairly nice person, though I know I used to be much nicer/kinder/more compassionate. At 26, for whatever reason, I feel that I am “allowed” to be selective about the people I choose to let in. I mean really let in. I use quotes because I act like I have control over the guest list. I offer ridiculous excuses to God about why I don’t want to let certain people in:

“Oh God, that person is needy. Boundaries--there would be no boundaries if I got involved…and then it would just be messy. Yeah, I just don’t do too well with needy people. I don’t have the patience, sorry…but You know who does have loads of patience? My friend from church…”

“You’ve already introduced me to her. I can’t help her, God. I mean, I know that only You can help her but I’m just saying I showed her Your Word, prayed for her, and told her what she should do but she’s still doing what she wants. *shrug* I don’t think there’s much else I can do.”
“I don’t think I’m a good candidate to help this person. For starters, I already told him about that night I got trashed and puked and peed in my underwear at the same time. Wouldn’t it be kind of weird to talk about You knowing what he knows about me? Yeah…I know I should think more before I share certain things…okay lots of things…I’ll work on that.”

“I see this as being more than a self-esteem issue. I can’t force them to believe they're valued and loved by You; you can know something but not believe it, but of course, You already know that about people. Anyway, You don’t force people to believe so who am I…? There are plenty of other people who are naturally (okay, spiritually) gifted to affirm and encourage…Plus, I was hoping I could pass this one and get a break. I’ve had a heck of a year already, what with the wedding, my family, health, work, now marriage…I mean, I know You already know about all this. I just like repeating things…”

So I exaggerated a little (because the ridiculous is funnier and more acceptable) but I am guilty of thinking or feeling these thoughts. *wince* I just don’t want to get involved. I am selfish! I admit it! I don’t feel the need to keep adding to my friend pool because the people in my life are fantastic! They’re smart, funny, kind, humble, compassionate, creative, very inclusive, adventurous pirates, bold karaoke singers, and are passionate about food, the environment, song and dance, laughter, and sunshine. Oh, and they’re all (more are less) self-assured—not cocky—and are very easy going. Most of them really love God and are constantly seeking Him. They ask deep (and sometimes not-so-deep) questions to which we do not always have answers (and this is perfectly acceptable). Together we try to figure out how we’re supposed to live out His love in tangible ways in our local and global communities; I'm sorry that sounded like a mission statement. It just tumbled out before I had a chance to restrain myself. Yes, it’s true--I am part of a traveling hoard of Jesus-loving gypsies. We are perfect.

Not.

Getting to know people is easy (for me). Letting them in, committing to doing life/walking alongside them through the mire—that’s another story. It’s a lot of work. I am already part of another community; I’m not really looking to branch out right now. I’m really not the right person to help you through this. You need God. You already have your own friends. You’re weird/difficult/awkward/tactless/insert useless reason. I have a lot of problems/issues that I need to focus on right now. I'm just as screwed up as you are (probably more); I can't really help you if I'm drowning (I'm a weak swimmer).

I know I’m wrong. Even before God tapped me on the shoulder, I could feel I was wrong. It’s sort of like that itchy feeling you feel in the back of your throat when you know you’re getting sick. You know what’s coming. When your butt hole itches, you know it’s because you didn’t wipe well. You have to go back for a second wipe. I tried desperately to ignore Him but He’s God. He’s everywhere, in every detail. Through conversations, devotionals, prayers, events, and the wetlands at first light, God said:

YOU ARE WRONG!!! *Cue thunder, lightning, and chariots of fire.

If that had happened, I would’ve peed in my pants for the third time in three years. Nothing supernatural happened. He just held up a mirror—not in judgment or condemnation, but in love—and waited till I had the courage to look. And when I looked in the mirror, I saw those people I scorned, judged, held at arm’s length, criticized, gossiped about, ridiculed, and crushed with my words, attitudes, actions, and self-righteousness. Except instead of their faces I saw my own.

I cried.
III.

Like I said before, I’m in the middle of the lesson. I wish I could tell you that I’m so much better at loving people now, that I have become an excellent listener, faithful confidante, and regularly attend and invite people to fellowship gatherings (or whatever). Truthfully, my progress/growth fluctuates every day (as I expected). It makes me uncomfortable because every fiber in me wants to politely say, “I empathize with your problems but can’t help you. I’m retired/on sabbatical.” I might even add,“I appreciate your kind and generous offer—and you have much to offer—but all of the roles in my community have been filled.”

Thankfully, God sends certain people in my life to gently lift up that proverbial mirror when I need it; at this point, it happens several times a week. Yeah, I’m a terrible person (but God and I are working on it).

Looking Back

2009-03-24T10:18:00.000-07:00

I.

November 19, 2005. 4:00 A.M.
About three-quarters of the way through Monty Python: Quest for the Holy Grail, Mike--my close friend, classmate, and neighbor--tentatively reached for my left hand in what I imagine was an attempt to hold it. He only managed to grab my pinky and ring-finger. I’m not sure if that was his intention but he didn’t make a second attempt to get a better grip. He just held on and stared at the television. I didn’t know what to do so I did what I’d wanted to do for a long time: I freed my fingers and gouged his eyes out.

Just kidding.

I held his hand. It was nice.

To be honest, I don’t remember the rest of the movie. While the credits rolled (and there were a lot of credits) he spilled his guts, which were messy, and waited--scared--to see how I would react. Then I spilled my guts. We found out our guts liked each other. A lot. And then it was 6:15 and I had to leave for a 7:00-7:00 work day. I didn’t want to leave! I wanted to figure out how all of our guts were going to affect our friendship. The inevitable change freaked me out a little (okay, a lot) because his friendship was the best thing in my life. Deep down inside, I wanted to know if his guts, unlike the others, would actually stick around. To my sweet surprise, he gently kissed me on the forehead. All of a sudden those questions weren’t so urgent. In fact, some weren’t even relevant. I realized I had never been so happy about being so utterly exhausted in my entire life, and that I didn’t want to wash my forehead.

II.

I remember the first time I told Mike I loved him. We were fairly brand new at that point—maybe a month or more into our relationship—and I wanted to do everything the right way (whichever way that was; I had no idea). I was raised to believe I shouldn’t chase--I should allow myself to be chased--so saying “I love you” first was definitely against the rules. But I wanted to do it. I knew I didn’t want to date anyone else for the rest of my life. So I foolishly told him I had something to tell him, which made it sound like I had some big secret to reveal. Of course, he gave me his complete attention, which made me feel…self-conscious, I guess, even though I knew I had no reason to worry. He wasn’t going to point at me and say, “You love me? That’s stupid!” or “Really? Thanks! I love you, too, but I’d love you more if you waxed your upper lip.”

I think I was just afraid “I love you” wouldn’t be good enough. I didn’t want him to misinterpret it as being cheap or forced. I tried to think of alternatives but what were supposed to be one-liners turned into epic poems; “You complete me” had already been done. Even my attempt at an acrostic fell short! Those are supposed to be slam dunks, your ace in the hole! So I licked my lips and started to fold Mike’s laundry. He told me to leave it, that it wasn’t important. I sprawled out on the bottom bunk. He sprawled out next to me, waiting patiently for me to say something.

“I…I…wow, I didn’t think this would be so hard…I mean, it’s not hard because it’s not like I’m lying…I’m just really nervous…” *licking lips*

Mike looked at me and said, “Don’t be nervous. It’s just me. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Just tell me when you’re ready, if you’re ever ready.” When I get really nervous I have a habit of tugging on my earlobe or scratching myself even though I’m not itchy. I launched into an ear-tugging body-scratching fit. I must have looked odd but Mike didn’t say anything.

“No I want to tell you. It’s not a bad thing! It’s a good thing! I just…I’m having...I’m scared…”

And so it went for 12 long minutes before I blurted, “I heart you” instead of “I love you.” LAME! How STUPID! "I'm a man" would've been more exciting than "I heart you"!!!

Two hours later, without much fanfare or build-up, I simply said, “I love you”. Beneath a brilliant sky, he smiled and said, “I love you, too.”

III.

September 22, 2007

We were supposed to be meeting our friends, Shiao and Christian, on the San Clemente Pier before heading to Sonny's for dinner. I was really excited about dinner! I had been thinking about what I was going to order all day: wild mushroom ravioli with tomato cream sauce. Instead, I saw this:

And before I really knew what was going on, Mike was down on one knee asking me to marry him. I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything. In my defense, I really had been focused on the wild mushroom ravioli (it's DELICIOUS!)...and Mike said we wouldn't be getting married for awhile.

"Is that a yes?"

He didn't even know which hand to put it on. I could barely speak so I thrust my left hand at him. I always thought I'd be incredibly glamorous (or at least more feminine) when a man finally proposed to me. You know, I thought I'd finally have that whole "woman" thing down. I thought I'd at least be wearing a beautiful gown and have thick, flowing locks, which is ridiculous because I've never had thick flowing locks in my LIFE. I guess it fits that my best friend proposed to me while I was wearing a thermal, jeans, and brown Converse. *sigh* Oh well.

I started to call my parents when I heard screaming. I looked up to see my twelve-year-old cousin, Michaela, screaming and waving her arms as she ran toward us. Behind her, our families carried flowers and rushed toward us yelling and cheering. Everyone that mattered most to us had been hiding, waiting for the proposal. And then I started crying. I just couldn't believe that of all the women in the world, he had picked me.

As we headed to my parents' house for a surprise engagement dinner, I looked at Mike and said, "Does this mean we're not going to Sonny's?"

You know, the ring was nice and all but I'm still waiting to eat wild mushroom ravioli.

Kidding (mostly).

Questions

2008-12-10T22:41:00.000-08:00

I.

"Do you think God makes just one person for each of us? Do you think you can only have one great love of your life?"

When asked, I said, "No", but I don't know the answer to this question. I don't think I'm supposed to know.

II.

When I was 13, a boy fell in love with me. He was 16 and loved me with a respect and sincerity I did not appreciate, could not appreciate. He wrote me a letter to express his feelings because he was too shy to say them aloud. He had beautiful handwriting, a deep strong voice, and an easy smile. He became my first boyfriend. The shyness never went away so we continued to write letters. Somewhere in my parents' garage there is a binder filled with letters, his words of shy affection scrawled in pencil on lined paper. Sometimes he'd play me songs-without-words on his guitar. Looking back, I realize that everything he felt, everything he was too shy to say aloud, was in those songs. We never kissed. We hugged a few times. I was young and didn't understand the depth of his emotions. I ended it. I can't remember the reason now but I know it wasn't good enough. We continued to be in each other's lives and became good friends. I never talked to him about other guys. I knew that beneath the surface of his friendship, his heart ached, that he still loved me. He told me on several occasions, yet all I was able to say was "Thank you for loving me." He didn't deserve the "friend card"; it seemed too cruel. Yet there was no other card I knew of, and so I played it over and over and over again. And I felt awful every time.

When I was 18, I moved to San Diego for school. Shortly before I left, he announced he was leaving on a missions trip to Thailand that would last for several years. His parents held a prayer meeting at their house before he left so I attended with my parents to see him off. He handed me an envelope and an unmarked CD and said, "Please, don't open this till I'm on the plane tomorrow morning." Of course, I opened the letter as soon as I got home. It was long, filled with congratulations and high hopes for college and well-wishes and reminders to keep in touch. In his familiar, beautiful handwriting, he ended by saying he loved me, had always loved me, would continue to love me, and that he had to leave because he didn't know what else to do. He had tried dating other girls or preoccupying himself with other things but found his heart and mind were always with me. He said he knew God was taking us on different paths and that he hoped they would cross in the future.

I cried.

I could not understand--and felt guilty because of it--how this boy-turned-man could just love me steadily and quietly for years knowing that the part of my heart he desired would be out of reach. I felt worse knowing that I could not ease his heartache. The CD was a beautiful compilation of songs, a tribute to our friendship, the letter had said. I listened to it and wondered,

What happens if you fall in love with someone who's not meant for you?

I heard from him a few times while living in San Diego. He'd send a card from Thailand or an instant message if he was in a major town and had access to a computer. It was always good to hear from him. He reminded me of home, of simpler days. Always, he'd end his letters or his messages with, "I still think about you every day. I still love you." It broke my heart every time. It seemed so unfair for him to love one person--me--with such unwavering devotion and not be loved in return.

Over time we stopped being friends. He told me it hurt too much, that it was just too hard for him. I complied. Years passed before I received a random phone call asking for girl advice. A few months later I got a text message just saying, "Hello". The last time I received a text message from him was when I was on my honeymoon. We were in Monterey, and it was late. It said, "Congrats, my mom told me you're getting married." I'll admit that after all these years, I still felt a twinge of sadness for him, felt the need to protect him from the truth. I just said, "Thanks!" and hoped he would leave it at that. A few minutes later I received another text: "When's the big day?" I hesitated before responding. I didn't know what to say aside from the truth, and the truth seemed insensitive. When I needed them most, my words failed me.

III.

I still ask that question, you know. I'm the happiest I've ever been in my life and am married to a man I don't deserve; I live a blessed life. Still, sometimes I wonder about my first boyfriend and other men and women like him who have fallen in love with someone who hasn't chosen them. My heart aches for him, for them. I didn't expect to get so emotional while writing this entry. I cried. I cried because I was there once, and I remember the bottomless ache. I remember loving that person's heart and soul so much I wanted nothing more than to simply be in his life. I chose his happiness over mine, and I continued to love him even after he chose another. Another story for another time.

What happens when you fall in love with someone who's not meant for you? What happens if you love someone who's unavailable?

IV.

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, I just wanted to say I'm sorry I couldn't love you the way you needed me to.

The view from here: A Mike and Bean Thanksgiving

2008-11-29T12:57:00.001-08:00

Here are pictures from our feast. It was more than enough food for the two of us.

I didn't think it was possible to fit so many marshmallows on top of that little casserole dish but Mike was determined.

Look! I'm domesticated. :)

A Mike and Bean Thanksgiving

2008-11-28T10:54:00.000-08:00

Mike and I just celebrated our first Thanksgiving dinner as a married couple. We had planned on spending it with my family but ended up running to the grocery store on Tuesday to buy all the fixings for a "traditional" Thanksgiving meal.

I cried (a little). This was my first Thanksgiving spent without seeing my family. I won't get into all the emotions I felt; too messy. I missed them. And the food. But I received an unexpected gift: a free pass to spend Thanksgiving however I wanted. With Mike.

We woke up Thursday morning and realized we had forgotten to thaw our bird. Since we didn't want to wait 10 hours to eat, we ran to Ralph's to purchase turkey breasts. Beginner's mistake. Let's just say we'll be eating turkey for Christmas, too.

Thankfully, we had no other debacles that day and we did get to eat:

So our table is set incorrectly. Let's just say it was all part of a very Mike and Bean Thanksgiving. :) We spent the day in our pajamas watching football, the National Dog Show, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (my first time watching it!), The Incredibles, and of course, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

P.S. I realize Mike looks like he's flipping me off in the picture but he's really crossing his fingers. :)

The view from here: Carmel

2008-10-10T12:27:00.001-07:00

Chubby squirrels!

Carmel is for lovers.

On the road: Carmel

2008-10-03T00:41:00.000-07:00

As a Southern California native, I think I live in the greatest place on earth. I'm not an arrogant snob--I just like where I live. :) People vacation in my neighborhood (cut me some slack). :p Our drive up the coast has done a pretty good job of blowing my mind and almost (just almost) convinced me to move. Here are some of the things we fell in love with:

1. Elephant seals.

2. Chubby squirrels.

3. Carmel Beach.

Things we dislike:

1. Drivers of Sebring convertibles. PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: If you feel the need to fly from Kansas or Idaho or North Dakota or (insert lackluster state here), rent an economy convertible (a.k.a. Chrysler Sebring), then proceed to drive along Highway 1 from San Diego to British Columbia, it is NOT necessary to go 15 miles per hour the entire way. The speed limit in the state of California is 55 mph if not otherwise posted. Yes, the coastline is beautiful. Yes, your rented convertible can drive that fast. Yes, I will pass you on a blind curve b/c it is that annoying driving behind your pasty, sun-starved ass. I don't fly to Kansas and drive 15 mph around your corn fields.

2. Cyclists. It's called a car. It's faster and requires much less effort. Or are you just looking for an excuse to wear a spandex onesie?

3. Cyclists missing limbs. I bet you actually do have a car and a handicap permit. B/c you can ride a bike for 100 miles, but you can't walk from the far side of the parking lot. Seems logical.

**Disclaimer: Items 1-3 are Mike's contribution to this blog post.

4. Everything closes at sundown. Carmel becomes a ghost town after dark. We couldn't even find a coffee shop open at 7:00 and had to drive to Monterey!

On the road: Santa Barbara

2008-09-29T15:03:00.000-07:00

I got married.

I will have to revisit this--a HUGE task--some other day when I have more time and am not on my honeymoon. Be patient; wait for it...wait for it...

I will eventually start a blog with Mike to share all the sordid details of our life with you but for now, while we're on our honeymoon, I'll keep writing in this one. My 13-year-old cousin, Michaela, and my sister, Sarah, asked me to keep a travel journal or honeymoon blog of sorts ("without the intimate details, please"). I assured them I would write diligently but forgot how awkward and cumbersome it is to type with fake nails. Stupid vanity. My progress has been frustratingly slow.

Since I'm behind and partially handicapped because of my talons, I'll only include the major highlights from our stay at the Old Yacht Club Inn in Santa Barbara:

1. After spending an hour or so in an emergency clinic, we found out that Mike had tendonitis in his left foot and not the broken toe we had feared. Rx: rest and pain killers/anti-inflammatory drugs.

2. The first breakfast I had--an omelette covered in "feet cheese" (a.k.a. parmesan)--made me sick. I became fast friends with the pink stuff and took a shot every half hour.

Aside from those two surprises, Santa Barbara was lovely.

Juggling, Part II

2008-08-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

It started with a question:

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a writer.”

“What are you doing about it?”

Silence.

I didn’t like the question, but after years of avoiding its impenetrable gaze, it was staring me right in the face. I didn’t like my response either. Even the non-words, stacked atop each other in what I had hoped would be a formidable silent barricade, could not withstand the searing truth.

In the aftermath of this conversation, I began thinking about probable responses in the way I labored over formulating the perfect retort to a caustic remark; it consumed me.

My excuses, once so convincing, had lost their appeal. It’s a lonely place to be, really, when you’re out of excuses. The masses have gotten tired of hearing them and have slowly abandoned you to listen to the sound of your own voice. I imagined myself as being left behind by the circus, standing in the middle of an empty field littered with stale, damp popcorn, tattered fliers, and trash. Forgotten stakes, a few cigarette butts, and the shriveled corpses of popped balloons are the only remnants of the bustling show that turned the nothingness into a wonderland.

Alone, I began thinking about the juggler.

I thought of him juggling in the park, an easy smile across his face. I thought of him juggling staplers and hole-punchers in the stairwell of an anonymous corporate building, white paper dots flying everywhere. I thought of him brushing those paper dots out of his hair while putting the staplers and hole-puncher back in their usual place on his desk. I thought of him sitting down in his chair with a small sigh, barely audible over the click-clacking of synchronized keyboards, before contributing to the din.

II.

It has taken me weeks to find a response to the initial question. My fingertips have been poised over the keys, hesitant, waiting. I have watched the cursor blink against the blank page countless times, an unbiased metronome controlling the rhythm of the non-words in my mind. On the eighth day, a break through: write.

III.

The juggler doesn’t talk about juggling—he throws things in the air. A writer doesn’t talk about writing, shouldn’t write solely about not-writing because it’s safe—a writer writes.

IV.

And so, I write.

Juggling, Part I

2008-08-06T07:25:00.000-07:00

I responded to a Craigslist roommate ad my fifth year of college and found myself living with a juggler, a pilot, and a Mexican Jack-Johnson-wannabe with a penchant for grooming his genitals; I discovered the evidence on more than one occasion floating in the toilet like a furry Portuguese Man-O-War. I even found a hair stuck between the blades of my Mach 3, which I left in the shower to shave my legs. I asked the juggler and the pilot if they had used my razor and they said, “I have hair down there” and “I do that at my girlfriend’s house”.

Silence.

We erupted into a fit of mock dry heaving, followed by uproarious laughter. Everyone told me to confront him but I never did. What was I supposed to say?

But this isn’t about “Jack”. This is about the juggler, but before he was the juggler, he was just “Matt”. He was quiet, a lanky fellow with sad eyes, a slow smile, and a mop of brown curls. I left him alone most of the time because he was always studying, or appeared to be studying, as both the pilot and the juggler were majoring in aerospace engineering. Shortly after I moved in, I discovered the pilot was a movie junkie. We spent much of our time watching movies from his vast collection of pirated DVDs; of all the roommates, I was the easiest to persuade to postpone homework.

One such afternoon, he asked if I wanted to watch a movie, and since it was 4:30--too early to start studying--I agreed. I sat down on our dingy, sagging couches while he walked to the kitchen to get chips, salsa (El Pato), and salt. I should mention the pilot ate his chips and salsa in a particular fashion: take chip, scoop salsa, sprinkle with salt. Eat. Repeat. He had just started his chip-eating routine when he turned to me, crunching furiously, and said, “Have you seen Matt juggle?” I raised an eyebrow. The pilot sprinkled salt onto his chip before continuing.

“Matt wants to be a professional juggler but his parents won’t let him.” I raised the other eyebrow, grabbed a chip, dipped it in salsa, and after a moment’s hesitation, sprinkled it with salt. Instant upgrade. The pilot, excited he had converted me, raised his arms into the air and yelled. “See? The salt makes the whole ‘chips n’ salsa’ combo better. Anyway, yeah, Matt juggles.” I salted another chip. Crunch.

“Juggles? Like, he juggles balls? Really?” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. Drip. Salsa had dripped onto my pants. I wiped it up and licked it off my finger.

“Matt is fucking crazy. He juggles knives and chainsaws and shit. I’ve seen it and thought, you are fucking nuts, man!” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. I imagined Matt, tall and quiet, tossing three roaring chainsaws into the air at a construction site. I don’t know why I imagined him juggling chainsaws at a construction site. It was either the construction site or the circus. It freaked me out.

“If he wants to be a juggler, why is he majoring in aerospace engineering? Couldn’t he have picked an easier major if he just planned on juggling after college?” The pilot quickly brushed the salt off his lap and stood up to get us beers.

“Matt is also obsessed with planes and flying shit. Like me.”

Matt never talked about juggling—I don’t think he knew I knew his secret—so I didn’t bring it up. I thought I would one day catch him juggling spoons or empty beer bottles in the living room so I waited. And then I saw him as I was leaving for school one day, juggling in the park next to our apartment. A six or seven-year-old kid was watching him with his head cocked to the side, eyes squinting from the effort of trying to follow the pins flying high above Matt’s 6’ frame. He had a wide, easy smile across his face, his eyes hardly blinking. He looked really happy. Anyone who saw him at that moment could tell he was doing what he loved, what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

When I told him I saw him juggling in the park, he just smiled and said, “I was just practicing.” I asked him if he would juggle knives for me, as long as we were outside and I was standing far away from him. He salted a chip and said, “Sure”. Crunch.

He got a few paid gigs at Disneyland performing in the parades. I never got to see him but his face lit up when he talked about them. I admired him for pursuing his dream despite the fact it seemed to contradict reason. That didn’t seem to matter—it made him happy.

We graduated in June and parted ways. Last I heard he had followed his girlfriend up north to Stanford where she was attending grad school. I think he got an office job like the rest of us, maybe an office with a view. Matt was a genius. Although I can’t say for sure, I bet he is still juggling. I secretly hope to see him juggling in the parades at Disneyland. Even though I know he’s up north, I still look for him among the brightly-colored, spandex-clad jugglers, a tall and lanky fellow with a genuine, easy smile across his painted face.

Words.

2008-07-29T00:43:00.000-07:00

I love words.

I don't claim to understand a lot of them or use them in a fanciful way, but I do love them, truly I do. I like the way they taste in my mouth, the way they roll around on the tongue and bounce off the sides of my mouth before springing lightly from my lips. It's my favorite guilt-free indulgence. Words words words. They come in so many shapes, colors, sizes and can be used and reused a number of times. They are a familiar friend, and yet there are times when they escape me. Sometime I desperately want them to encourage a soul caught in the doldrums, warm the cockles of a despairing heart, or assuage a broken soul grieving a loved one's passing, but alas, it is at those times they elude me. Lately, I have found myself without words, a place I once thought would be uncomfortable but now realize is necessary, becomes more comfortable with time, with maturity. I have found that the simplest words suffice. Really, what can I say to my friend who has just lost his sister, whom he has been taking care of during her four year battle with cancer? What could I possibly say to comfort him as he packs up his sister's entire life for the long, lonely drive home? What do I say to my friend who is trying to riffle through what's left of one chapter of her life? Everywhere she looks she is reminded of the end of her marriage: receipts, credit cards, junk mail, forgotten shoes, countless mason jars, etc. How do I tell her to cling to hope? And although I desperately search for the right words--differently shaped, some shiny, others tarnished and worn--none of them are appropriate. Oh words--don't fail me now.

In the absence of words, the non-words have appeared. They were shy and indistinguishable at first, mere wisps of words. Once they became accustomed to the silence of my mouth on sabbatical, they lingered and took a definite form, smooth and velvety in texture, cool to the touch--like Jell-o pudding. I have learned to love the non-words and the silence that accompanies them. The non-words, in their own, shy manner, have helped me see they are the words I had been looking for.

I have learned and am still learning to say little, sometimes nothing at all. I am learning to hold back the confetti language for another day, a brighter day. I am learning to get used to the taste of non-words in my mouth. I am learning to let silence do the talking because the non-words I feel are best conveyed when I cancel out the noise.

Noise

2008-06-12T19:41:00.001-07:00

"There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start."--Charles Baudelaire

I am a writer.

It feels weird to say it aloud (with any amount of confidence) so I generally whisper it; sometimes I just scrawl it on a scrap of paper before throwing it away. That way, I know the statement exists somewhere, even if that somewhere is at the bottom of my trashcan beneath used napkins, empty yogurt containers, and velvety banana peels.

I am a writer, yet I haven't written anything in months. Maybe even years. I have good intentions to write, I really do. Some days the creative juices are flowing and I can't seem to write or type fast enough. Other days are quite the opposite--I can spend hours staring at a blinking cursor or a blank page. I twirl my pen a few times before it flies from my fingertips. I stroke the keys lightly in anticipation. And then--nothing. I get discouraged and walk away.

I know I can write. I used to do it a lot when I was school, only then I thought my writing wasn't very good. I thought it would get better, that I would feel more like a writer once I received my degree. I thought it would give me credibility as a writer (not that I was going to frame my diploma and hang it around my neck for the world to see). I feel the same, only I write less (much less). No one cares about that piece of paper.

So now I'm trying to write. I've been having a hard time distinguishing between content/ideas and noise. I realize I spend a lot of time listening to noise because it's harmless, entertaining static. It distracts me long enough to prevent me from committing to any one idea.

Maybe I'm just afraid of commitment. That could be it. I am anxious about committing to a project because I might be horrible at it.

What if I am horrible at it? What if I've been deluding myself this entire time, falsely believing I have a smidgen of talent, when I'm really mediocre at best?

And this is where I am now. I locked myself in my room to be immersed in silence. Silence used to be a familiar friend when I was younger, a more passionate, reckless writer, at times brash and volatile but always honest.

I need silence to give me courage.

I need silence to hear God.

I strain my ears to hear the silence that has been eluding me, the silence that will free me from my fear of failure.

But all I hear is noise.

In between dreams

2008-05-22T22:29:00.000-07:00

A Dream Deferred
By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

"At 30 a man should know himself like the palm of his hand, know the exact number of his defects and qualities, know how far he can go, foretell his failures--be what he is. And, above all, accept these things."--Albert Camus

My life at twenty-five doesn't look the way I thought it would when I was twenty. I had pictured a glamorous existence as a starving, would-be writer living in a crowded apartment--with a fire escape, of course--filled with mismatched furniture, stacks upon stacks of books, newspapers, takeout boxes, and a cat named Oliver. I saw myself working two or more odd jobs to support my feeble attempts at writing, or one soulless job as a cube-occupying peon in a big glass building made of windows that didn't open. I relished the thought of living in dingy wife beaters and torn jeans, the tell-tale cigarette at my fingertips whenever I wasn't drinking my fourth cup of coffee or plunking loudly on my Underwood typewriter.

*I know it's more practical to use a computer but I think antique typewriters are beautiful machines. I was so close to purchasing one on Ebay but was outbid by an auction ninja. I cried.

I realize now I will never have that life. There's a part of me that mourns the death of that dream because I had convinced myself I needed that lifestyle to give myself credibility as a writer. I thought if I looked the part, I would be a better writer, would convince myself I was worthy of the title/profession.

I have a confession: I sold out. Instead of avidly seeking creative jobs that paid pennies for a byline, I put on unfamiliar clothes I had never before owned--ones that needed to be ironed and dry cleaned--and sought out those glass buildings with pretend windows and practically begged for a cubical and a name placard. I never thought I would work in a cubical but at twenty-five, I find myself sitting in a three-walled cell every day by choice. There are days I enjoy having my own corporate work space. I have grown fond of my stapler and Post-It note dispenser. They are very reliable tools that belong to me during my tenure at my current job. I have tried to humanize my cubical with pictures and toys. Some days I enjoy my job while other days drag on for hours and not even the My Little Pony can make me smile. I look for remnants of my original dream but all I see are plastic knights waging war at various areas of my cubical.

Not all is lost. My dream didn't die; it changed. If I'm honest with myself, I changed, too. I didn't realize it at the time but in retrospect, I can see exactly when it started to veer off course.

Enter Mike.

In the glamorous writer lifestyle I had pictured in my early twenties, there was no room for love. Oh, there was definitely room for exciting trysts, dramatic break-ups, and awkward run-ins with ex's and their ridiculously beautiful new lovers; that bleeding-heart material is great fun to write, especially in the late late hours of the night over a glass of red wine and a cigarette. Everything that flows from your fingertips is passionate, full of abandon, and slightly convoluted; emotional diarrhea at its finest. I almost sought relationships doomed to fail to give myself credibility. Almost.

Mike ruined everything. He entered the scene when I was looking for a friend, a fellow writer with whom I could smoke cigarettes and drink endless cups of coffee beneath a black sky and talk about real life (as we knew it). I didn't mean to fall in love with him. I intended to love him, yes, but not be openly in love with him. It seemed stupid to ruin a good friendship. Plus, if I spilled my beans and he didn't love me back, I would feel awkward and silly. More importantly, I would lose a fantastic proofreader, muse, friend.

I'll fast forward through the details and fill you in on the important part: he loves me. What does that mean? The starving writer scenario only works for a single person! In my mind, I could not have both Mike and that beautiful lifestyle. I had to choose.

That part was easy.

Do I regret my decision?

No.

For starters, I am no longer addicted to caffeine and tobacco, although I sometimes miss those addictions. They were bad for me but they made me so bad ass. All the writers I had ever known had those two addictions (at the very least), not to mention a collage of cryptic, artistic tattoos and a thousand bizarre adventures that appeared in various noteworthy pieces, the kind that get read aloud at cool writerly gatherings. Those addictions granted me access to the literary circle of brilliant, compassionate, extremely intellectual Lesbian writers at UCSD! I felt like I belonged, at least for a little while. Alas, those were the days. The tradeoff: I have a nice job and have met excellent people. They too are caged birds singing their own songs, telling their own stories of how they never dreamed they'd end up where we are--in between dreams.

Being in between dreams is not a fixed state. It's constantly shifting, changing, fluctuating. It's called living. I now realize my dream didn't die--it changed course. It is still coming into its own, still finding its shape and rhythm. At twenty-five, my in-between dream looks like a corporate job in a glass building. I am grateful for it. What does the next stage of my dream look like?

*shrug* Only God knows.

Although my job, addictions, wardrobe, and city have changed, I will keep scrawling away, littering my fragmented thoughts and unfinished stories in countless journals (paper and electronic) until my chicken scratch turns into something beautiful.

Sprinkles

2008-05-15T22:31:00.000-07:00

Me: I've been really into triple chocolate fudge cake with cream cheese frosting lately.

You: Oh goodness my hips just exploded at the thought.

Conversations like that make crazy days at work so much better.

Good night, Moon.

2008-05-13T01:32:00.000-07:00

I. 1:54 AM.

I received a copy of my birth certificate in the mail a few days ago. Have you ever looked at yours? I actually got choked up. Twenty-five years ago, my parents claimed me. They said, "Yes, she belongs to us," and signed their lives away. My dad was 25, my mom, 19. My eyes traced and retraced her signature, lingering over the neat, vertical loops and the carefully calculated slant. How could she have known it was going to be hard? I don't want to continue writing about this because then I'll never go to sleep. I'll revisit this soon.

II.
I was born at 8:27 PM. There's an old wives tale that basically equates one's affinity for day or night with time of birth. If it's true, it explains why I have always loved staying up late. I did my best writing between 2 AM and 4 AM with a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and nothing but the stars to keep me company. That was all it took to clear my mind. I would stand on my second-story balcony, unhinge my brain, and scatter the dust, ash, and noise into the blue-blackness of the night. Three years later, I've kicked the tobacco habit, I drink coffee in the morning like everyone else, and try to sleep at a decent hour every night. I feel so grown up. I wish I could feel grown up--be grown up--without sacrificing my nights. I miss standing on the balcony and listening to the world sleep. I miss sitting on the balcony smoking a cigarette in my underwear, brainstorming for my next writing assignment. I miss San Diego night skies the most, especially the 3 AM sky. It's a breathtaking sight--black velvet peppered with white-hot stars, and if you look closely and if the time is right, you can see Mars.

I found my best friend, my "husband of the future" while looking for Mars and other red things. It was an assignment from our Writing and Culture class. Do you know how difficult it is looking for red things at night? We walked around our neighborhood and searched for exciting red things; I was hoping for a little blood (at least dried blood) but didn't have any luck that night. I wanted to have the coolest "red" piece to share in class. We didn't see too many red things that were extraordinary. Red curbs, a dying balloon in his neighbor's living room, brake lights, his roommate's t-shirt, and the fuzzy red flowers growing on the tree across the street; they looked brown in the street light but I knew they were red, so I jotted them down anyway. The best part of that assignment was getting to hang out with Mike. I remember sitting on a cold, hard curb beneath a brilliant 3 AM sky talking about life, smoking cigarettes, and looking for Mars. I remember thinking a few things:

1. I hope I stay friends with him forever.
2. I can't believe we're friends because he's effortlessly cool while I don't even make an effort to regularly shave my armpits, which makes me uncool.
3. I am BUTT TIRED because it's 6:15 in the morning but I don't want to be the one to say good night because he might realize I'm not very cool, and then he won't want to hang out with me anymore.

III. 2:48 AM

I am finally ready to go to bed.