i know. i'm blushing.

I just found this:

I happened upon some of my old journal entries from many years back, during some of my darker days when just being alive was hard work, and this was one of the things I found.

It’s so strange and funny, and sometimes shocking, to read things written in the past. Because I don’t think I always realized what I was saying… how true and real the things I hoped for could be. How now, years later, I’d still be me, but be so different. That I’d have such a new view. That Me Now would be reading these words from a place that Me Then would have wanted to be. That it’s possible to grow. That those growing pains back then were just a part of the whole, long, messy process. They were a part of my “failing and continuing on anyway.” They were—in some terribly inconvenient and uncomfortable way—a part of my dream.

. . .

Bryant and I were stopped at a red light when a car pulled up next to us. The passengers caught my eye. A mother and her son were having a very animated conversation. When my gaze met with theirs, they looked suddenly surprised and erupted into a huge fit of laughter. The son, with arms flailing, very clearly shouted the words “I TOLD YOU!” The mother quickly averted her gaze from mine and, looking down, tried unsuccessfully to hold back her amusement.

. . .

I stood in the aisle of the grocery store debating “to buy, or not to buy” when a couple with their two teenage kids rolled by me and started to laugh. As the mother passed in front of me she said to her husband under her breath, “I guess I was wrong!” It was hard to make out his response through his laughter. It was something like “it’s a girl!” Or maybe “good girl!” I don’t really know. But “girl” definitely was in there.

. . .

Stuff like this happens around me all the time—maybe it does to everyone—but for some reason when it happens to me, my hyperactive paranoia gland kicks into gear. I become convinced that people are laughing because they couldn’t tell if I was a guy or a girl. I become super self-conscious about my short hair.

Then anger pours into me, and I try to make these laughing strangers feel as uncomfortable as possible. I stare them down (in the case of the car at the stop light) or I walk right up to them and try to give them as much eye contact as possible while I peruse items on the shelf where they’re standing (in the case of the grocery store). The laugher always stops and they awkwardly avoid my gaze.

They were probably laughing about something totally unrelated and didn’t even notice me. That is, they didn’t notice me until I became the freak in the grocery store who stares strangers down for no apparent reason. No wonder their laughter stops and they try to avoid my gaze.

It’s ridiculous. It’s disgustingly egocentric of me to think that the whole world is having a laugh at my expense. There are millions of other more plausible reasons they could be laughing. But I have a really hard time controlling my reaction. I become convinced that me and my short hair have just become the butt of their joke. Call me crazy, but I react this way every time. And I have a really hard time recovering from it. The grocery store thing just happened less than an hour ago and I’m only barely emerging from my cloud of embarrassment and anger.

They probably weren’t laughing at me. But maybe they were. Weren’t you ever a teenager hanging out with your friends when someone spots a stranger who seems a bit gender ambiguous? Everyone gets a real kick trying to figure out what “it” is. I’ve been with that group before, I’m sorry to say. More than once. It’s something people find hilariously awkward. It’s possible that I could be on the receiving end of that joke, considering that I’ve been on the giving end of it before.

However, whether I’m the object of their jokes or not isn’t really the issue for me (despite the fact that it does hurt my feelings). This is something that irritated me even when I had hair long enough to ensure that everyone felt confident about my gender. I know that there are times that people laugh at the expense of others, and whether it’s at my expense or not, it infuriates me. What makes me so angry is the sense of superiority the laughers have… their total lack of respect for another human being. They laugh when someone looks different, when someone has a birth defect, when someone has a deformity, when someone’s hair is too short. Really? Is it really that hilarious to discover that people different from you exist in this world? And what I find totally intolerable is the idea that parents would be laughing along with their children. What amazing examples these adults are to their budding bigots.

Wow, the rage. …Talk about a sense of superiority… Sorry, I’ll come down now. But can you see? This is what happens to me. Total anger. Not healthy, especially considering it stems from paranoia. I have got to figure out a way to get over this, especially because I actually like my hair and don’t plan on growing it out any time soon. Why am I so self-conscious of it?

Driving home yesterday, I was wishing I was better at remembering. Remembering everything. Foreign languages, cranial nerves, the names of my friends’ siblings, and just the regular details of living.

I was thinking about the stories old couples tell. I love hearing them recount how they met fifty years ago, the hard times they went through together, the funny thing that happened that random day so long ago. I wish I could remember all the details of my life like that. I know they don’t remember everything, and their retellings likely change with time, but I am still amazed at the minutia they can conjure up. I was thinking as I drove, wouldn’t it be nice to be able to remember everything? To be able to tell those stories to your grandkids, so they could learn how you “knew it was right,” how you got where you are, and all that other good stuff. But I already feel like I’ve forgotten so much. So many of my memories are already hazy. I’ve never been terribly confident in my memory.

Really, we are our memories. All we are is what we remember. If every day, we forgot everything we knew from the day before, we’d never survive. I mean literally. We wouldn’t be able to do anything—walk, eat, talk. What we remember makes us who we are.

There in my car, wishing I could remember everything better, this quote from my favorite book came to mind: “Student of memory. I remember some things and have forgotten others.” I’ve always loved that. Something about it just feels right. It’s calming. And sitting there at a stoplight, I realized it’s ok to forget some things. If we are what we remember, I’m glad I’ve forgotten some things. I thought of this woman I saw on a show a while back (coincidentally, I can’t remember what show) who remembered everything she ever saw. It wasn’t just a photographic memory. She actually remembered everything. She said it was a curse. To never have traumatizing memories fade? To never be able to quiet your mind? I hadn’t ever considered it before then, but it seems being able to forget is a blessing.

I am a student of memory. I forget some things and remember others. I learn from the things I keep. I just hope the things I remember and the things I forget are the right ones. And I hope the things I remember stay in tact in my mind for a long, long time to come. (And I hope the material from my anatomy class stays in tact at least one more week… long enough to pass my last two exams.)

Some types of change can be really exciting. Like moving someplace beautiful, or accomplishing a new goal, or moving your furniture around and getting a new bedspread. Those are all great changes.

Some types of change really suck. Like when a disagreement changes a friendship ever so slightly, or when you learn something you wish you hadn’t and things become awkward, or when you sense a change in the way a friend treats you and you can’t figure out why. Those changes suck.

Those types of changes leave you empty handed, with nothing but this uncomfortable hint of regret that you can’t really pin down because you don’t really know what it is that you would have done differently. They just leave an irritating sore where they keep rubbing against your thoughts. And you wish you could get some answers, or just let it go.

Almost regret. That’s what it feels like to me.

Um, so you probably shouldn’t read this post unless you’re my mom or something, because it’s one of those obnoxiously happy ones that makes you want to gag. Sorry. You’ve been warned.

I’m a little stressed. Life is this series of small fires needing to be put out. Nothing big and blazing—they’re all little things. But it’s getting old to constantly be running from one fire to the next. It’s hard to get ahead of the game. I’m behind on my reading; I’ve got a quiz today; supposed to have all the major blood vessels memorized by this afternoon; we’ve got this mysteriously appearing & disappearing swarm of fruit flies plaguing us (gah! I hate those things!); I have to register for summer and fall quarters in less that a week—definitely haven’t planned that far ahead yet; I’ve got two big, stressy exams next week—haven’t started studying; and I have to teach in church this weekend—haven’t organized my lesson. And I know when these things have passed, there will be more little things to worry unnecessarily about.

But.

Somehow, I feel so happy. I’ve got good friends coming to visit over the next few months. Bryant and I just planned a summer trip to spend on the beach with my family. The stars have miraculously aligned and on that same trip I get to get to spend some time with my soul sister that I haven’t seen for seven years. We spent the first sixteen years of our lives joined at the hip and have only gotten to see each other once a decade since. (Though I guess technically, there has only been one decade since…) But still, it’s been a long time, and I couldn’t be more excited. I love where I live. I’m making good friends. I love what I’m studying. I’m married to the best man. And we had a giant thunderstorm last night—first one since moving here—and I love a good thunderstorm.

Is this possible? It seems like it’s not allowed for things to be so good.

Admittedly, my moods still swing like a pendulum. But things still are good.

I know these kinds of posts are the last thing in the world a sane person wants to read, but I just felt so satisfied and happy that I wanted to get these feelings down. That way in thirty minutes, when I’m in a bad mood again, I can remember that, yes, things are good, and yes, I am happy.

A week from today, I start my NAC class. (Stands for “Nursing Assistant-Certified.” It used to be called “CNA” instead of “NAC,” and I don’t have any idea how long ago they changed it, but I’m having a heck of a time switching.) Becoming an NAC is part of my plan to ultimately go to PA school (“Physician Assistant” …too many acronyms here, I know), and then finally become a PA.

So my class is in Seattle and it starts at 7:30 in the morning. I know that normal, productive people are like, “What’s wrong with 7:30? It’s my favorite time of the day. It’s my time right after yoga class, when I eat my fiber-full bran muffin and peruse the New York Times. You know, right before I solve world hunger at 8:00.” But I’m not like that. For me, 7:30 is stupidly early. I know I’ll suck it up and rise to the occasion or whatnot. Maybe I’ll become a morning person or something. Who knows. Stranger things have happened. I think. At least it only lasts five weeks. Short and sweet. I can hack it.

But… I’m nervous. Not about the difficulty of the NAC class. I’m optimistic that I’ll do okay with the material. It’s not even the early-morning issue that makes me nervous. At least not directly. What gets me worried is time.

TIME!

It’s all I’ve had lately. Soooo muuuuch tiiiiiiime. I know, I know, I’m the only one in the world who has ever had an excess of free time. But I did. And I liked it. As deadening and soul-sucking as it was to feel like I didn’t have direction, it sure was amazing to have tons of free time.

This move to Washington has been the catalyst for tons of changes in my life, one of them being less and less time to spare. I’m back at college, and I love it. I also love that college has been the only thing putting demands on my schedule. I’ve got all the time in the world to study. This NAC class will change that. I’m fully aware of how thoroughly ridiculous I sound. But I feel it, so I’m going to say it and just hope no one holds it against me. I’m worried I’m going to have a hard time getting used to balancing more than a couple things at once again. It’s been a long time, folks.

Plus, I probably wouldn’t mind as much if class started, oh I don’t know, after the sun came up? ;)

I’m feeling the urge for some Sunday evening quotes again. Too bad by the time I’m finally posting this, they’re not really “evening” quotes anymore… more like “ridiculously late Sunday night/early Monday morning” quotes. Ah well. Here are two that jumped out at me tonight as I fanned through my quote book.

I didn’t remember until just a minute ago that I quoted this E.M. Forster line in an old post on an old blog from what feels like an impossibly long time ago.  It seems appropriate that the same quote that affected me then—as I first started plowing through this funk—affects me now, years later, as I’m finally emerging from it. I have a very different feeling about this quote now, though. It’s somehow more comforting and less ominous than it was then.

I’ve got this Excel spreadsheet on my desktop titled “moving list.” It’s a huge, exhaustive list of all the things we needed to do before we could move. It was long and daunting and usually overwhelming. During the past two months the file was nearly always open, waiting for me to check something else off the list.

Tonight I’m sitting here in my living room next to a dozen glowing tea lights in front of my ridiculously bushy (and free, and undecorated) Christmas tree. I’m here with my laptop on the floor, because we have to wait another four days before our belongings arrive, and for the first time in over a week, I noticed that Excel file on my desktop.

I opened the list to have a look and it suddenly struck me: the list is complete.

I’m amazed. Somehow we managed to get everything done/sold/cleaned/packed, get ourselves to Seattle, and get an apartment. Now we’re here. It almost feels like it was simple. How can that be? It felt so complicated at the time.

But here right now, it’s so peaceful. …Goodnight. Merry Christmas.

Well, I figured it out.

I don’t know how it happened, but something clicked, and suddenly everything is right.

Remember my drought of ideas? How I struggled to muster up my go-power? How I was afraid of leaving my comfort zone? Or how about my inability to make big decisions without stewing over them f o r e v e r first?

I hesitate to say this because it sounds a little foolhardy, but I think I’m over it. At least for now. I know I’m not a different person—I still have the same personality flaws and weaknesses—but in some small way, I am different. Less hesitant, less fearful, more optimistic, more willing to step into the unknown. I found my momentum again. And let me tell you, the momentum is picking up.

Big changes are happening in my life. And what’s better, they’re big changes that I feel excited and confident about. I should probably admit that sometimes my confidence wanes, but those times always pass if I don’t cling to them. And since I’m being honest, you have to know that there’s still a little fear and nervousness with me in all this, but they don’t control me. Plus, I think those feelings are understandable. Especially considering what we’re doing.

We’re moving. To Seattle. That’s a place I’ve never been. We’re going without a place to live or a job lined up. Bryant and I are packing up our little cave of an apartment and simply driving away. I guess we’ll figure it all out when we get there. Oh yeah, did I mention, all this is happening really soon? Cause it is. In just over three weeks. Oh yeah, did I mention, I’m going back to school? Cause I am. Class starts the first week of January.

Oh, and did I mention, I couldn’t be happier. :)

I don’t understand people who claim that our country is falling apart because we don’t have religious freedom anymore. “Our children don’t pray in school.” “Our children aren’t being taught about God.” I’m sorry, but if your children aren’t praying in school, it’s because they’re making their own choice not to. If your children aren’t being taught about God, it’s because you aren’t teaching them. School is not the place for mandated prayer time, and it’s not the place for catechism.

What is this notion that prayer has been brutally stripped from the classroom?

No child gets punished for taking a moment to bow her head and say a prayer in the lunch room before she eats. No child gets arrested for saying a prayer at his desk before he takes his spelling test. That’s why I don’t understand this claim that prayer isn’t in the schools anymore. What do these people want? They want their child’s calculus teacher to start the lesson with a prayer? They want the teacher to force the children to kneel down and pray together at the end of the day? What about people of different religions? Should we ship them away? Segregate our schools by religion? I don’t get it.

And what is this notion that kids aren’t allowed to be taught about God? That we don’t talk about religion and its role in history?

I just was flipping through the news channels and stopped on Glenn Beck’s show. I usually avoid this show, but I was so fascinated with the people speaking that I couldn’t change the channel. It was some kind of “mother’s forum” where the audience members were airing their grievances. Many were complaining about how their children don’t learn history anymore, so they’re losing their identities. Er, when was the last time these people sat through their children’s classes? Because I just sat through a 5th grade class last Thursday as a volunteer, and the whole time I was there they were learning about history. George Washington. This nation’s founding. It was pretty clearly a history lesson to me.

The people on this show were saying that their children weren’t being taught about how important religion was in the establishment of this land. Er, I’m pretty sure if you ask any mildly attentive high schooler why the pilgrims came to the Americas, they would tell you that they were seeking “religious freedom.” If you asked them if the founding fathers were religious, they would know that they most definitely were. In my own history classes, we discussed many different religions’ basic beliefs. We learned about who founded what, when, and why. We had a unit where everyone did a presentation on a different early-American religious group. As an eleventh grader, I taught a whole lesson about Joseph Smith. I didn’t get sent to jail. Neither did anyone else who taught about other religions, however unique or unconventional (or mainstream) they were.

This is what religious freedom is. We don’t impose our beliefs on others. We create an atmosphere where it’s safe to learn about all kinds of people and faiths. We don’t force anyone to adopt any behavior they don’t approve of. Children are allowed to pray in schools, but they aren’t forced to. We don’t hang the Ten Commandment’s from the ceiling, but we don’t punish people for keeping them in their hearts.

We live our religious beliefs within ourselves… it’s the way we act, the ideals we hold inside, the way we treat others, the way we choose to worship in our free time. We don’t need the government or our schools to enforce our own personal religious codes. We simply create a space where everyone can practice their beliefs “how, where, or what they may.” If you feel very strongly that a more personal view of religion and God needs to be infused with your child’s schooling, then more power to you. That’s why this country allows you to home school your child, to send your child to a private school, or even to start up your own charter school. We all have options. That’s what’s so great. We all are free to choose, regardless of whether we’re Muslim, Catholic, Jain, Mormon, or atheist.

The people on this Glenn Beck show were saying that they’re tired of the government trying to make us dependent on it for everything. Then why are they so insistent that the government enforce religion? It seems to me religion is a personal issue, taught in your home, fostered in your heart, and practiced on an individual level. I don’t understand its place in public schools beyond the scope of informing our children about the different belief systems that exist in our society.

One last thing and then I’ll cap it. The people on that show were also saying that we don’t live a free country anymore. They said that “we’re only partly free,” and one woman—a black woman, no less—asserted that after the fifties, everything began to fall apart. So I guess that granting civil rights to blacks and suffrage to women were all steps backwards in extending freedom to our citizens?

I think that their assertion that we’re not quite free wedged itself so deeply under my skin largely because of the movie I watched last night.  Bryant and I watched The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, a World War Two movie about a death camp, and it was still very fresh in my mind.  I think I got so annoyed at the people on that show because I felt like they weren’t taking seriously what they were saying. They’re not free? Really? Not being free is not being able to voice your opinion for fear of serious repercussions, like the torture and murder of you and your family. Not being free is having to hide who you are—your heritage and your beliefs—because if people knew the truth, you would be ripped from your home and sent to a gas chamber. Not being free is not being able to help a stranger in need without being beaten to death by the authorities. Not being free is having to agree with the government no matter what.

Not being free is definitely not a Mormon hosting his own talk show on a cable network in a room full of women passionately voicing their disapproval of the President, his administration, and various aspects of our nation. That is freedom. It may bug the crap out of me, but it most definitely is freedom. And I’ll take it.