"Just call me Jennifer." or "Reflective Angles"

So, if you're wondering why July and August are bare of blog posts it's because I've been away at camp. I even chose to stay longer at camp.




This morning I went on a quick walk down to the lake. I sat not at its edge mostly because the gate was locked, but from where I sat I had a view well enough to appreciate. I don't know that I was conscious of what I was thinking- I was just thinking, praying my coughing wouldn't disturb the morning air...it did.

Like any mass of water it reflects what is around it,

from my journal today

I wondered what it would be like living in a reflection.

But then I wondered what the reflection must look like from the other side of the lake.

Then I thought, "The funny thing about reflections is that what is reflected depends entirely on the angle from which you view it."

Which would explain the innate desire to twist and manipulate images when I don't like what I see--I forget I'm viewing it at a different angle than yesterday, or a minute ago. It's still me- it's still the lake- I just happen to prefer one angle as opposed to the infinite number of other angles.




Self-reflection is key to who I am. I'm sure a lot of people can relate to that. I tend to be on the more obsessive end of self-reflection, but there it is- because of this I tend to forgo an observer's reflection of me. Not consciously though, I know I tend to seek out advice and criticism, and yet, I still funnel out all things I don't like to hear.

I accepted this job I have at camp without qualms, save one: "So, are you ready to join us, Jennifer?"

My prospective boss called me 'Jennifer' despite the rest of the conversation calling me 'Justine'. I considered telling him, "It's funny, my best friend's name is Jennifer," but I declined that little anecdote and replied instead, "So...my name is Justine? It is Justine."

"Oh! That- that was a test! Your name is Justine. I am ----. Justine, would you like to come work with us?"

Then I accepted and came without further qualms.

But I was told to have qualms, none of which I will list here because some worries should be kept private. Besides, most of these worries are FWP (First World Problems) which aren't generally problems in the long run anyway. But I wanted to come, needed to- I couldn't really tell you why, only that if I didn't go I would regret it.

I jumped both feet in and though I cringed on the drive down to the camp my experience since then has been, to say the least, encouraging, enlightening, and wonderful. I think all the more so because I came into it without any expectations or plans. I just kind of did it.

 

The above has been my mantra for a bit, given to me by one of my fellow counselors. I kinda, sorta (not really) apologize for the swear word.

Those words resonate with me mostly because I have been far too timid and judgmental. I have weighed balances I don't have; foreseen occurrences that never occurred.To a certain extent, I have pretended to know so many things without really knowing. Why do I do that? 

I don't want to pretend I know things. I don't want to assume I know exactly what you'll be like, or that I know exactly what will happen.

I have worked under the premise that I know nothing, but its twisted its head on me: I knew nothing and therefore knew everything. That's incredibly stupid.

I suppose before I took this job I saw only one thing: I got the job. What else is there to see? As much as I enjoy writing, I was tired of sitting around and doing nothing. One can only have so much time to oneself before one goes insane. Honestly, self-reflection can become psychotic without exterior perspective.

And thus came the newer angles from which I began to see my life.

I speak of taking risks without actually taking them.

I judge and hold onto my judgements more firmly and aggressively than I knew.

And yet, I also adapt to various situations incredibly well without coming across as high and mighty. ...knock on wood.

When did all this happen to me?

Why haven't I looked at myself from this angle yet? Where have I been hiding myself?

Who knew I could be capable of such elementary, childlike bravery?

Who knew I could laugh so loudly and well, and gain so many blessed new friends?

I ask all this and the answer couldn't be plainer, though it is very Sunday-schoolish: God.

Now, moving on! Time to see what's next!




Seriously, though, if the swear word bothers you... :P

vicariously

re-posted from my Facebook notes (15 October 2012). i have a lot of poems that are sitting unread and un-criticized- would you like to have a turn at them?

----

simple math.

simple truth.

there is no reason why 1+1 can't equal 2.

but as i stand here,

driven mad up the wall,

i think of all the possibilities waiting for me outside the front door.

i only need to step out and it could be raining or sunny--

all that in the midst of my shallow humdrum!

in the midst of my shallow humdrum

i remember that all

around

the 

world

people are living,

earning their deaths.

they are making, creating

paintings,

books,

music,

sculptures,

chocolate,

homes,

and jewelry--

and in all the humdrum of my life

i cannot forget that this hour is not an eternity

and one day i will be living...

well, i am living!

there is a beat in my chest!

but am i earning my death?

will the dash between my DOB and DOD be full of stories?

especially full of privileged stories that none but my closest friends ought to hear?

(else they were already there with me!)

will the dash between my DOB and DOD be more like

a square-ten inch block?

part ii-

will i live for those who cannot?

who, not forgetting to earn death,

were given death too early,

and missed the chance to lengthen the dash between their most important days?

will i live for those who cannot?

who, stuck behind the bolted door,

ignored the key in their pockets,

and missed the chance to remember that one hour is not an eternity?

that by their lives others could have lived,

because others wish desperately for their lives,

wishing after your mediocrity,

thinking it the life of a celebrity!-

but were too busy scratching at their clothes, patched and dirty,

to notice others' nakedness, depressed and unhealthy.

will i live for those who cannot?

and will i meet them in streets?

and when they ask me what 1+1 equals

will i say '2',

or give them 2?

OR!- will i take that 1 and add it to 2,

making three,

and give them three meals they daren't foresee?!

will i- 

rich in heart,

rich in mind,

rich in body-

give all i have to others?-

poor in heart,

poor in mind, 

poor in body.

will i show them that math, while true,

can do them no good,

until i can first remind them

that they can live?

for if life is what you make it,

i suppose you could make it rock,

but

if life is what you make it

then i will make it,

and give it to others

who do not know they possess their own tools in their own hands.

i will live for those who cannot.

even behind this dusty cash register.

"i can help whoever is next!"

"Don't mind me if I burst."

Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. When I say 'sometimes', I might mean 'all the time'. In the hardest parts of my heart I want nothing to do with problems because I, frankly, just don't like them, and want them to go away.

I also wish, to a certain extent, that I could be the one that makes those problems go away. Sometimes, I think, that by acknowledging the problem and attempting to solve the problem actually makes the problem worse. Godforbid I make anyone's problems worse- that would be unbearable.

And yet, I am no prophetess. Just as we cannot estimate the strength, and therefore damage, of a typhoon, so we cannot estimate the sort and amount of help that will come to those in greatest need.

I have no immediate family that was affected by the typhoon, and I've been a first-world citizen since birth. You know, I shouldn't care...but, I do.

Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. But if I am to learn anything from trite hollers of "YOLO" and "Love life" and "Just do it"- just because we trivialize the profound does not make the profound any less profound- obviously the profound is accessible to any person: first-world, second-world, third-world, 3/4-world; Mars.

So, I will care as much as I can, and then attempt to care more.

Don't mind me if I burst.

That's what supposed to happen when you care.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."- from C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves (I'm pretty sure I quote this all the time.)

“So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition of conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” –Philippians 2.1-11 

Here's some of the disaster, compliments of Al Jazeera.

And, how to help? Well, this link is a great list of NGOs, compliments of the Huffington Post, or seriously, just Google it :P Maybe even start your own fundraiser, yeah?

God bless your endeavors.

My Greatest Fear

I am writing a story, and so far, I am loving it. I have all these ideas and they're all meshing together so wonderfully, it's like someone's writing through me! I've had this sensation before, but never for an extended period of time--no, it's not this constant high (I'm not under the influence, not illegally, at least), and it's also not made me ignore all of my other responsibilities. I am thoroughly enjoying this story and I can't wait until I'm done with it...although that may not be for another year or so.

Now, while I enjoy writing this story (it's fantasy/science fiction, by the way), and though I want to finish it...what do I do with it after I'm done?

"You publish it! Online! With a major publishing company! Or an independent publishing company!"

"Well, yeah, but...what if they hate it?"

"Who cares?! This is your work! Let your story shine!"

"No, no, no, I don't think you understand. I care a great deal if people enjoy my work. It's- it's my work. What if people don't like it? What if it just collects dust on the shelf? What if it ends up like-?"

"Like what?"

"What if it ends up like that one book?"

"What book?"

"Exactly!"

"You're being ridiculous."

"I know, it's just...I want people to like my work."

"And they will."

"How do you know? Who's they? Why do we keep talking about them? They don't really matter but they do! I mean, I envy a posthumous sort of fame but, that's my mind. Would my heart be able to work through a posthumous fame? Could I be an Emily Dickinson or a Vincent van Gogh?"

"But you're not either of them so it doesn't matter."

"You're right. You're right."

"Didn't van Gogh consider a posthumous fame? Didn't he write that down in a journal?"

"Yes! But not because he actually wanted it! He just wanted the stars and breezes. Oh, I can never be as good as him. He wanted fame neither before nor after death! What a selfless human being. How dare I want posthumous fame."

"...are you going to have your story published or not?"

Working in a book store I lay my hands on a lot of stories that won't ever be read, or, at least, read and recommended for future generations. I cannot tell you how many times I've accidentally seen my name written on the byline and shivered. What if my story is overlooked, overwrought with well-meaning but pointed criticism? Such as:  "Miss. Triunfo, though attempting to write a fantasy novel after the fashion of Tolkien, Le Guin, and Gaiman, has, instead, single-handedly murdered, with her trite tale, the very Respect the fantasy genre has had to build over decades. Any who wish to seek out fantasy literature as a prescription for under active bowel movements should read Triunfo's work, unless her work caused your under active bowel movements."

And I would say, "Is this the part where I wear white for the rest of my life? How about cutting off my ear?"

But this is just a dramatization. It is, right?

We go together like...

Growing up I wanted to know how many friends I had, or could have. What middle schooler didn't want to know how many friends he or she had? You can imagine my disappointment when shopping in Claire's all the BFF jewelry could only be split between two, or among three, and I totally had more BFFs than that in middle school! But I just couldn't find any jewelry that could be shared among, at least, fifteen best friends. 

But I didn't really have fifteen best friends. I only had one. I think, at the time, I could only handle one best friend at a time. I mean, I liked talking to lots of different people, but I think middle schoolers are sometimes too insecure to know what to do with so many best friends which explain a lot of premature 'somebody I used to know' stories. 

So, I went on a walk this morning, by myself. Well, me and God. Or, at least, I was on my way to see him. I had to tell him something. 

I sat and started to write out a prayer. Short, simple; lots of lookingintothedistance, wondering what else to tell God. When a thought occurred to me: I don't have to be anywhere. I don't have my own thinking spot. I don't have a place where, if I ran away, people would intuitively know to find me. I don't have to be somewhere in order to talk to God. I just need to start talking...praying. 

I should be able to be anywhere and still feel close to those who are closest to me: something I couldn't understand as a middle schooler. 

On my walk back home I found these two puzzle pieces. They do not go together. 

These two pieces would make a horrible BFF necklace, bracelet or ring. 

But when you turn one of the pieces over...

They may not be right next to each other, but it is evident they are pieces of the same puzzle.

I don't have to be anywhere.

What if, really, we weren't just two pieces. A Romeo and Juliet; a Sherlock and John; lovers. A pair of friends are always excited to be joined by a third. 

I don't have to be your conjoined twin to know we get along, especially not at first glance--we might be as insecure as middle schoolers before we can know we're really part of the same puzzle. 

What if I never really knew my fifteen middle school friends because one of us was wearing a mask, and here we are, older, somewhat mask-less, and really, very similar. Yes! We really do want to do the same things! yes! We really are interested in the same things! Yes! We can talk to other people without throwing fits of intense jealousy or rage. We don't belong to each other. It's not us against the world! I am who I am because of the other puzzle pieces I've met along the way. 

Whether we were part of the same puzzle, or our crooks fit well together; whether we were completely abhorred by the other--doesn't matter. 

I may not find the right BFF necklace in Claire's to share with all my good friends. But it's good to know that I am part of a small piece of a huge puzzle, and that we're being put together by God. 

No, I don't have to be anywhere. 

Anyone that I used to know I may not have really known. 

Besides, whoever heard of a puzzle with only two pieces? Whoever ate peanut butter and jelly without bread? Even gluten-free bread! 

When I have good news I like to share it.

May I only be brave enough to be.