Facebook Hiatus

Hi Everyone,

As tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, and Lent will be upon us, I thought I’d take the chance to talk about one of my goals for Lent this year: I am choosing to give up Facebook for the six weeks leading up to Easter.

Christians approach this season with a number of different priorities.  Some people will fast from something, a certain type of food or from cigarettes, for example, to remind them of the enormity of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross.  When you understand how hard it is to give up something like chocolate or meat, you will more fully appreciate what Jesus gave up in order to save people from their own sinful natures.

Others give up things during Lent in order to purify their bodies, thoughts or hearts.  Perhaps someone might try to give up anger during this time, or comparing him or herself to others.  These kinds of attempts are trickier to measure, but they too aim to focus one’s attention on Jesus, who, Christians believe, was the only example of pure holiness in human form.

Others choose to focus not on what they can give up but on what they can add to their lives (though, of course, this is really just the other side of the coin, since it’s impossible to add anything to our lives without taking something away, and vice versa).  Perhaps they might aim to take five minutes to pray every morning before work.  Or perhaps they might choose to tithe regularly for the first time.  

Though the intention of Lent is good, it can, like anything, be abused.  People can approach it with self-centered motivations (“If I give up snacking for Lent, I’ll surely lose weight!”).  People can use it as a way to try to gain God’s favor (“If I can just give up coffee this year, I will show God that I’m really dedicated.”).  Probably most common, people can use this time to show off and to boast about their own self-perceived holiness (“So for Lent this year, I think God is calling me to meditate for two hours each day because last year, when I did only one hour, it just didn’t feel challenging enough.”).

As with Lent, people approach Facebook with a wide variety of motivations, some more worthwhile than others.  Facebook has been around for less than ten years, but there are already over one billion people who use the site, and it has already changed the way we communicate, the way we run our businesses, and even the way we think about ourselves.  Precisely because it is so widespread, Facebook is many different things to different people.  It can be used to reunite long-lost friends, to organize an event, to learn about major happenings in the lives of friends, to share videos and photos, to express an opinion, to discover entertainment or information on the internet, to chat with people, and the list goes on and on.  

What’s more, people all have their own Facebook protocol or etiquette, which can lead to embarrassment (“How could he tag that photo of me without asking?”), or to confusion, (“Does ‘It’s complicated’ mean we’re together or that we’ve broken up?”), or to anger (“She knows I hate bringing up my political views in public -- why would she write that comment on my wall?”).  

So why, exactly, am I giving up Facebook for Lent?  This summer, The Atlantic Monthly published an article entitled, “Is Facebook Making Us Lonely?”  [Here’s the link to the article if you’re interested.]  The general conclusion was that though studies have shown that people can feel more lonely after using Facebook, they can also use it to boost their social life.  In other words, like all forms of communication, it is a neutral tool, able to be used for positive and negative ends.  And I believe this to be true, based on my own experiences with Facebook.  I certainly don’t think using Facebook is a sin in an of itself, but I do believe there are better and worse ways of using it.  Furthermore, I also believe it to be a luxury, and I think it’s good to have periods without luxuries every so often, so that we understand a.) that we can function without them, and b.) how best to appreciate them.  

There is great freedom in the way that Christians can celebrate Lent, just as there is great freedom in the way that people can make use of Facebook.  The important thing is  to examine your own life and discern what degree of restraint is appropriate for you.  I know enough people who I respect greatly who have given up Facebook altogether that I have been wondering whether I too should give it up for good.  But my litmus test is: does it help relationships or hurt them?  Is it making my relationships more superficial or more profound?  For me, Facebook still provides enough opportunities for genuine connection to people for it to be worthwhile.  My hope is that by giving it up for six weeks, I’ll be more attuned to the ways it can foster relationships, and more ready to ignore the ways it can trivialize ties between people.

Though the methods of celebrating Lent may vary, the common denominator is that they  all prepare us for and point to Easter.  So what does Facebook point to?  In the end, it seems that Facebook is about connections, whether between one friend and another, between a company and a consumer, or between a grandparent and his faraway grandchild.

And in the end, Lent is about connecting too.  It’s about realizing that our sublimely profound God, who we, in our utmost triviality and depravity could never approach, has deigned to look our direction; He has “friended” us.  

To those who celebrate it, peace and joy during this Lenten season, and to everyone, have a good week!

Sarah/Mouse

Human, Only More So

Hi Everyone,

When I was living in South Africa in 2008, someone told me something that helped explain some of the frustrations I was having: “Every major problem in the world exists in South Africa in full force.”  I’m sure this could be said of many countries, but it definitely rang true with South Africa: it seemed that everywhere you turned, you faced corruption, environmental degradation, racism, greed, devastating poverty, educational apathy, sexism, serious health crises, and on and on.  However, I had to acknowledge that the opposite was also true: South Africa is saturated with potential, kind people, gorgeous scenery, thriving creative centers, promising youths, wise elders, a recent history that provides examples both of how to be and how not to be.  I came away from my year there with an admittedly biased conviction that South Africa was a microcosm of the world.

Since I’ve been working with the three- and four-year-olds at my work, I have started thinking similar thoughts about preschoolers.  Ideas about childhood have varied drastically throughout the millennia and usually reflect more about the society that came up with them than the children they describe, so I understand that it is highly presumptuous and ridiculous to put forth any general theory about childhood after working in a preschool for four months. Nevertheless, when people ask why I love working with young children, I’ve started saying, “I love that they’re just like other humans, only more so.”  I’m beginning to suspect that all of what it really means to be a person can be found in a preschool classroom. 

On a daily basis, these kids embody both extremes of virtually any adjectival spectrum I could imagine:

They can be so kind to each other one minute (welcoming a new student to the class by showing her where to sit at circle time) and so ugly the next (“I’m not your friend.  Get away from me!”).  

They experience extreme sadness (wailing at the top of their lungs because a classmate has ripped one of their drawings in half) and extreme joy (jumping on a mini-trampoline cures all woes).  

They can be others oriented (“Oh, Zach! You’re here! I’m so glad! I’m your friend today!”) and totally self-centered (I ask, “Who lives on planet Earth?”  And James replies, “I do!”  When his friends also claim to live on Earth, he bursts out crying, yelling, “No fair! Only I lives on planet Earth!”).  

They are at once optimistic (Kevin: “Hey, one day, I was swimming and a shark came up to me.”  Ryan: “And did you die?”  Kevin [elated]: “No, I didn’t!”) and pessimistic (“Jenny is on the trampoline and it’s my turn and she won’t give me a turn.” I ask, “Have you asked her for a turn?” “No, but she won’t give me one”).  

They are brutally honest (“Someone is making a pooping smell!”) and imaginatively deceptive (My co-teacher asks Megan what she is going to clean up during clean-up time, and Megan says, “Maybe my head is gone.”  She looks around for her head for a while, then says, “Maybe it’s around here somewhere.  I know... follow me!”) 

They are logical (“When I grow up, then I’m gonna be a Mommy.” “When I be little, I’m gonna be a baby!”) and totally nonsensical (After measuring me with a yardstick, Kristin declares, “You’re a humpback whale!” — at least, I hope this wasn’t based in reality!).  

They are easily excited (“Jordan’s sitting by me, and I’m sitting by me too!”) and easily bored (While reading Baby Baluga together for the fourth or fifth time in a row, Peter tells James, “This is Baby Baluga,” and James replies with a tired sigh, “Yes... I know...”).  

They are meticulous imitators (Sophie pretends to be a receptionist at a doctor’s office and as she escorts me and two other children to “the back,” she assures us in a comforting tone that “the doctor will be back soon.”) and they are fabulously creative (“My socks have red stripes on them. Do you want to know the red stripe song? [humming] Mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm...” [I later learned that this boy loves listening to the band The White Stripes]). 

They are frightened (being scared of the toilet flushing) and they are brave (“If the Big Bad Wolf messes with me, I’m gonna smack him like this!”).

They are naïve and inexperienced (“If you have a sister, you’re going to be a mom.  If you have a brother, you’re going to be a dad.”), and they are wiser than they’ll ever know (While reading a picture book with me and Kelly, Allie points to a character who is walking off the page and says, “That’s God.”  I ask where God is going, and she says, “He’s going home.”  I ask where God lives, and Kelly chimes in: “In a tunnel.  Wanna see?”  I say, “Definitely!” and she says, “Well, we can’t.”  Though they obviously didn’t know it, in this brief exchange, these girls summed up much of my theology.).

Every major emotion or characteristic people can exhibit exists in the extreme in our classroom every day.  They are fiercely human, these tiny people.

Recently, I reread C.S. Lewis’ essay,"The Weight of Glory," which is one of my very favorite pieces of writing.  In it, Lewis discusses the Christian concept of glory, and how it is manifested among people.  The whole essay is worth reading, but my favorite part is when he says, “Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses.”  Lewis reminds us that all people are human, only more so.  We certainly can’t spend our entire lives in speechless awe of humanity — we would lead incredibly unproductive ones if we did.  But I, at least, am never in danger of that.  More often, I’m tempted to forget that anyone I encounter — whether I have known them my whole life or am passing them momentarily in a grocery store parking lot — is a gift.  In those rare moments when I remember to remember how sacred people are, I feel a deep and thrilling honor, and under my breath, I whisper, “Wow! I get to be in this world with you!  With you!”  

The trick, of course, is remembering this while cleaning up the third milk spill of the day, and trying to prevent World War III from breaking out over a particularly desirous Lego.  But that’s the great thing about kids.  Just when you think you’re going to have to ship one of them to another country so that he doesn’t make any more of his classmates cry, he will “do teamwork” with one of them, putting away a puzzle, or constructing a rocket ship out of blocks.  The longer I spend with these inconsistent, mysterious, holy little humans, the more of that sense of honor I feel.  

And know that far more often than I make time to relate, I remember that I am profoundly honored to know each of you.

Have a great week!

Sarah/Mouse

Go Tell It on the Mountain

Hi Everyone!

When I first arrived at Hollins in 2009, I had to be corrected when I referred to the lovely surrounding elevatory attractions as “hills.”  

No! I was informed.  These are not hills! These are Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains!   Noted.  I now make a point to compliment the mountains regularly whenever I go back.  Savannah freely admitted to its distinctly level environment.  It was well known that the city’s biggest elevation gain was one of the freeway onramps, a fact which got long distance runners in trouble when they repeatedly tried to use it to train for races occurring in more hilly locations.  Savannah itself is full of gorgeous old buildings and giant live oaks dangling Spanish Moss everywhere, but once you get a few miles outside of downtown, you get a better sense of the surrounding marshy landscape: 

no one is claiming to have any mountains there.

All that to say, one of my favorite things about living in the Northwest again is the mountains.  The real, no-doubts-about-it, high-up-in-the-sky mountains.  When you drive across Washington, you get to pass through scenes like this: 

and in college, one of my dorm bedrooms looked out onto Mount Rainier:

(although this view is from Seattle, not Tacoma).

Portland is further south than Seattle and Tacoma, and therefore has a different view of the Cascades.  On my drive to work, I sometimes see Mount St. Helen’s:

(most famous for its dramatic eruption in 1980, which explains its now modest peak) and Mt. Hood:

I say I “sometimes” see these mountains because many days, I can’t see them at all.  There’s not even a trace of them.  I hear all of you who live in this area saying, “Well, yeah!  What’s your point?”  But I hear some objections from others of you who have not lived in areas featuring both geological behemoths such as these and, shall we say, an array of forecast options.  “What are you talking about?” You are saying.  “How can a mountain be there one day and just vanish the next?  You, Sarah Jackson, have read too many children’s books.”  First of all, you can never read too many children’s books.  Let’s get that out of the way.  Second of all, it’s true!  There is often so much rain and fog and cloud cover that the mountains just disappear.  

My parents recently stayed in a hotel on Mount Hood and didn’t see the mountain the whole time!  It’s not uncommon to go weeks without seeing the mountains, but this makes it all the more striking when the sun returns and we suddenly see what’s been there all along.  

This summer, I got to go on a retreat with the Krista Foundation, a group that encourages service as a way of life for young adults.  One of the workshops I attended was about our “inner landscapes,” the terrain that characterizes our emotional, relational, spiritual life.  I realized that for me, being able to see out over a great distance, especially from a great height, is one of the most exhilarating and comforting experiences I know.  I’m a big picture person, and I love having a sense of the big picture around me.  But at that point in the year, I did not feel like I had been on a mountain in a long, long time.  I hadn’t even seen one recently.  I was beginning to wonder if they were even there behind the fog and the clouds.  

Since then, I have changed positions.  I have settled into Portland, which seems to be a good fit for me right now, and I am starting to find a community there, and activities to keep me engaged in life.  One of these activities, which fulfills a dream I’ve had for the last few years, is joining a gospel choir.  One of the songs we’ve been singing for the holidays is “Go Tell It On the Mountain,” which I’ve always loved, but which took me an embarrassingly long time to realize was a Christmas song.  (You’d think lines like “Down in a lowly manger, the humble Christ was born” would give it away, but I was distracted by what I imagined to be a bunch of people from the Ricola commercials announcing good news to each other from mountain to mountain through giant alphorns.  When I later learned that this song is an African American spiritual, I ended up with a very confusing concoction of mental images for a while.)  

But now it’s obvious to me that this is a Christmas song, for this is a season all about good news.  There may be days or months or even years when we can’t seem to find any good news or a mountain from which to shout out it.  However, this song is a song of varying heights.  It mentions not only mountains, but also the “humble Christ” in a “lowly manger.”  When the God of the universe decided to enter our world, most people didn’t notice.  Much of the time, we miss it now, too.  How could we ignore such an obvious connection between heaven and earth?  How could we be blind to such a massive, gorgeous, startling presence of sheer reality?  Part of it is that God came in a characteristically nonsensical way, obvious only to those who aren’t obvious.  Another part of it, though, is that there is an awful lot of rain and cloud in our lives.  But if I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that it’s during the foggiest times that we most need to know that there is something other than fog.  For our own sakes and for everyone else’s, we need to go and tell our good news — whatever it may be — on the mountain, even if we can’t see the mountain we’re on.

To those who celebrate it, have a Merry Christmas.  To everyone, have a joyful week, filled with good news of one kind or another.

Sarah/Mouse

Senseless

Hi Everyone,

Potty time can be a bit of an ordeal in the three-year-old room, and when you think about it, that’s understandable.  There’s a lot involved: pulling your pants off, balancing so that you don’t fall in, aiming (more or less) just so, putting your pants back on, flushing, and then quickly plugging your ears so you don’t become deafened by the loud rushing noise.  And this is all assuming that you have realized in time that you have to go!  It’s no wonder that the last important step -- washing with soap -- can sometimes be forgotten.

One little boy is usually in a particular rush to get back to whatever game he’s been playing, and needs special encouragement to wash his hands.  To make the process a little more enjoyable, I’ve started making dying germ sounds whenever he scrubs his hands.  When the germs stop screaming, he can turn the water off.  He then says cheerily, “Bye germs! See you tomorrow!” and spits summarily into the sink.

If a simple act like hand washing can require such a process, it’s certain that the other teachers and I miss some opportunities for hygienic instruction; with a room full of busy three-year-olds, it’s impossible to be a “no germ left behind” classroom.  The kids seem to come out no worse for wear.  As adults, the teachers’ immune systems, however, have been systematically weakened by decades of hazards like regular bathing and hand sanitizer.  And as the newest member on staff, I’d had the least exposure to the barrage of bacteria attacking us from every angle.  In short, I’ve been sick for the last month and a half.

On the plus side, it hasn’t been boring.  My symptoms keep changing: there was the normal cold/cough combo, then dizziness and exhaustion, then what turned out to be bronchitis.  But most recently, I’ve just been very stuffed up, and haven’t been able to smell or taste anything for about ten days.  The apple cinnamon muffins the four-year-olds were making, the smell of which was tormenting everyone else in the building?  Nope.  The garlic in my lunch?  Nope.  (Sorry, friends!)  The result of the sniff test to see if a kid’s bag of clothes was clean?  Nope.  (Sorry, co-teacher -- that one’s on you!)

After a few days, though, I got used to not using those senses.  And really, it wasn’t that big of a deal.  Whenever I’ve asked people what senses they’d cut if they had to lose two, they almost always say smell and taste.  In general, they can be pleasant and sometimes helpful aspects of our existence, but aren’t strictly necessary.  

And even though my three most crucial senses were in working order, the word “senseless” kept surfacing in my mind.  To be sure, by the most literal definition, I was senseless, at least partially.  But there are two definitions of the word “senseless.”  According to the dictionary on my computer, “senseless” can mean “incapable of sensation” and “without discernible meaning or purpose.”  Sadly, part of the reason why the word “senseless” has been on my mind so much is because of the violence in Israel and Gaza over the last two weeks.  Many people on either side of the conflict would offer heartfelt justifications for this newest edition of Retaliation Squared, would feel that further violence against the other side is the only fair form of retribution.  But when does a civilian death ever make sense?  What grief-stricken parent will ever acknowledge that her child’s death made sense to the other side’s military? 

In a way, the two definitions of “senseless” seem unrelated at best, and contradictory at worst.  One has to do with our physical sensation, the other with our mental processes.  And yet, the more I think about it, the more I step away from traditional notions about the separation of the mind and the body.  Our brains process the information that our senses experience as we interact with the world around us.  Is a lack of physical sense therefore related to a lack of human sense?  If Palestinians spent time tasting Israeli food, if Israelis spent time looking at Palestinian art, if they each spent time listening to each other -- not just to political arguments, but to their songs and stories and laughter and tears, would there be a decrease in the kind of senseless violence that has tragically characterized that region?  I honestly don’t know.  Conflicts centuries-old can’t be solved in a single paragraph.  But I do know that over the last few weeks, as my head has felt muddy and my senses have been dulled, I have felt particularly disengaged from the people and surroundings around me.  

A few days ago, with the help of extra-strong nasal spray, my sinuses calmed somewhat, and my senses of smell and taste began to return.  After a week and a half of olfactory and gustatory darkness, even the most minor sensory experiences came as a bit of a shock.  I kept smell-tasting this vague, sort of sweet odor, and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.  Was it from the nasal spray?  Was it from some lotion I’d used?  Was it just what my nasal cavities always smelled like, and I was only just now noticing because of my heightened, almost superhero-eqsue sensory powers?  Everything was so real!  I ate a bite of salad and gasped.  Are croutons always this strong?  I could finally smell the wet leaves and the crisp autumnal air covering Portland at the moment.  As my senses returned to life, I felt more alive.  In turn, I feel more able to appreciate and care for the life around me.  

It could be mere coincidence that in this country, the two holidays most traditionally associated with family and community are also the ones associated with good smells and tastes.  Nevertheless, as we have just celebrated one, and are entering into the season leading up to the other, I want to try to savor the upcoming delicious smells and tastes even more than normal, knowing that they help me connect to people and settings outside of myself.

That said, I might not reveal my recovered ability to smell at work just yet.  I could go another few days free of sniff tests.  

Have a great week, full of good scents and good sense!  (Sorry.  I couldn’t help it.)

Sarah/Mouse

Laughter

Hi Everyone,

I have always been a bit embarrassed by my biblical namesake.  For years, Sarah, the wife of Abraham, seemed to me to be one of those characters whose presence in Scripture serves as an example of what not to do.  The story I had in mind comes from Genesis 18, when three visitors, understood to be messengers from God, visit Abraham and Sarah, both nonagenarians, and promise them a son.  Sarah responds by laughing, which is taken to be a sign of her lack of faith.  As a five-or-six-year-old, I found this story very upsetting.  You don’t laugh at God when He promises you something.  If I’d received a message from God, I certainly would not have laughed.

And perhaps five-or-six-year-old (other) Sarah wouldn’t have either.  Perhaps she would have had enough unadulterated belief at that point in her life that she could have swallowed crazy stories from a God she couldn’t see, without a trace of skepticism.  But the older we get, the more we learn not to take people literally.  We are constantly bombarded by pledges which we dismiss (almost) entirely: “Best burgers in America!” “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met!” “Only you can prevent forest fires!” “If elected, I will restore the economy!”   A kernel of hope may begin to grow in us when we hear these things (“What if these really ARE the best burgers in America?”  “What if my efforts to prevent environmental destruction actually made a tangible difference?”)  But we suppress it, partly due to our experience of repeated disappointments, and partly because we know that we ourselves are not always to be trusted.  It’s easier to react as Sarah did, laughing at promises too good to be true to prevent us from crying when we discover they are impossible.

Over the last year, I too have wrestled with cynicism as I’ve tried to determine what the next stage of my life will look like.  My ever-patient parents bore the brunt of my negativity, as I scoffed dramatically at the notion that anyone anywhere would ever want to employ me.  My laughter was distinctly ugly.  It sounded like fear with tinny echoes alternating between self-pity and self-loathing.  In a particularly exasperated moment, I wrote this poem:

     Narcissus Contemplates Divorce

     I’d been courting myself for years,

     but I proposed my freshman year of college.

     Nothing is sure in adolescence, but there, 

     amidst photographable brick arches and 

     impromptu late night roommate talks,

     I knew:

     I was the One.

     We were married two years later,

     myself and I,

     on the handsome coast of Northern Spain,

     verdurous hills and ruddy independence 

     my bridesmaids, a drunken seagull 

     my ring bearer.

     “For better or worse,” we vowed,

     and seeing Better reflected in our eyes,

     we meant it.

     The honeymoon was lengthy,

     as we traveled and explored our globe-home,

     the way everyone told us we should:

     “while you’re not tied down.”

     I learned about my delightfully complex self, 

     imbibing wide-eyed life lessons

     like wine coolers.

     Now, though, I wonder at myself.

     Who are you? I ask, and receive only echo.

     Reflections have lost their luster,

     features flattened by time and tension.

     Busy, crowded, Better had allowed me to ignore

     ugliness lingering, wallowing, simmering,

     in my core.

     Perhaps we were wrong,

     myself and I.

     We were naive.  We were Better then.

     We coldly consider possibilities:

     separation, annulment, divorce.

     Myself’s cynicism, a loaded diaper, hangs from me,

     weighing me down bottom first. But 

     loath to disappoint myself or any passersby,

     I inject hope and confidence 

     at the end of conversations and poetry

     with a needle the size of my ego’s phantom.

     Leaving cheap Chap Stick kisses on the mirror,

     I attempt to fool myself into loving again.

     Our eyes link and leak hope in short, cathartic bursts 

     like comic relief at a funeral.

     Who are you? my reflection returns,

     and as silence beats a steady drum,

     we march on.

I was more like Sarah than I thought: Cynical Sarah, Doubter of Promises.  

Except that Sarah was wrong.  About nine months after the three visitors announce their ludicrous message, she gives birth to a son.  Abraham names him Isaac, Hebrew for “laughter.”  I’ve always understood this to be purely delicious irony, a giant “I told you so!” from God.  But recently, I’ve come to see Isaac’s name as a profound gift to Sarah, for even as she was laughing in scorn, Laughter himself was being formed within her.  Whenever she called out her son’s name, she could be reminded of how her cynical dismay had turned to hopeful joy. 

And over the last few months, I suspected that I too was wrong, even though I was too cautious to admit it fully.  When I left Savannah, a friend from my church made me a bookmark with this Bible verse: “She is clothed with strength and dignity, she can laugh at the days to come” (Proverbs 31:25). Since I got the bookmark, I confess that much of my laughter at the days to come has been laced with doubt and downright negativity.  But the whole point of a bookmark is to show a work in progress.  So as I’ve continued to read (and/or write) the next chapter in my life as I’ve moved to Portland, I have been grateful to realize that laughter has been forming in me all along too.  For me, as it was with Sarah, joyful laughter is both a method of pushing through cynicism, and an indication that I already have already done so. 

I have many things to keep me laughing here in Portland:

1.) My housemates.  Molly and Lucy, are fantastic and welcoming and hilarious.  

Molly, me and Lucy at Multnomah Falls

We spend a good majority of our time together laughing, which, in my opinion, is an essential activity in friendship, and in being at home.  

2.) My city.  Part of the reason I wanted to move to Portland is because of its reputation for weirdness, and I have not been disappointed.  This last weekend, for example, a new friend and I went to the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta, in which participants kayaked across a lake in giant pumpkins: 

"Splash Gourdon" has apparently participated in the race for many years now.

The official Seed Extractor.  Crucial job.  Mustache required.

Some other racers.  Waldo won the prize for best costume.

The gentleman in black is the mayor of Tualatin, 

the host of the West Coast Giant Pumpkin Regatta.

This racer valiantly chose to navigate the largest pumpkin at the race, 

originally weighting over 1500 lbs.

3.) My job.  Yes, I do have one.  I suppose if I’m going to get an “I told you so!” I’m glad it comes with a job attached.  I have been working mostly full time at a preschool just north of Vancouver, and while I’m still considering other options, this has been incredibly helpful as I’ve settled here.  

I’ll write more on life in Portland next time, but for now, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite conversations from the preschool:

     A three-year-old, totally out of the blue: “You have to be 16 to have beer.”

     Me: “Actually, you have to be 21.”

     Three-year-old: “Yeah... on my next birthday, I’m going to be 21.”

Ah, to have the faith of a child! 

Thank you for all of your encouragement as I’ve made this move, and may you all live into deep laughter in the upcoming week!

Sarah/Mouse

More Amazing Journal Highlights

Hi Everyone,

As I mentioned last week, I’m moving to Portland this Sunday.  Because I’m in the middle of transitioning, I thought it would be a good time for another round of highlights from my Amazing Journal, especially since it’s been almost a year since the last one.  Here they are:

My most recent Amazing Journals

November 16, 2011: Today I read about how SCAD has been on this list of schools that restrict academic freedom (it has been on the list for the last two decades).  They tried recently to get off the list but when the people came recently to evaluate the school, SCADMINISTRATION restricted where they could go and who they could talk with.  So no . . . 

November 19, 2011: Today I learned that when you’re holding a chicken, if you twist its body back and forth, its head will stay in the same position, like a weighted ball that won’t ever roll over properly.

November 25, 2011: Today when Erin and I were at lunch, Erin noticed an older gentleman at a nearby table who had an acorn tucked behind his ear.  Did it just land there and he didn’t notice, or did he put it there for some reason?

December 3, 2011: Today I overheard two ladies speaking in some Slavic-sounding language in Forsyth.  Then all of a sudden, I heard a word I recognized: Effingham.  Of course.

December 4, 2011: Today when I went to check in to my flight online, I was told I couldn’t because I was an infant and my guardian needed to do it in person.

December 6, 2011: Today, I went to STCU [my bank] and saw a sign with a triceratops riding a horse.  I asked what that was about and was told the triceratops was riding a carousel.   OOOHHH!  Well, that explains it, then.

December 13, 2011: Today I remembered that yesterday, UPS sent me a letter asking for a donation of $0.  That doesn’t inspire confidence in either UPS or in me!

January 15, 2012: Today I ordered a chai from the Rocket Bakery, and it came in a very plain white mug.  I was going along when all of a sudden, I spotted what seemed to be a kiwi in my drink! It turns out that it was a green ceramic fish glued to the inside of this fish.  Why? So, so weird.  And terrifying.

February 14, 2012: Today I read about a shark that swallowed another shark! It’s a carpet shark, and apparently can unhinge its jaws so it can swallow large prey.  Oh perfect.  Because the only thing nicer than a shark is a SNAKE shark disguised as a rug.  Oh joy.

April 3, 2012: Today Marcy, Frank and I saw a guy walking with two other people who were dressed normally. He was covered head to toe in a grassy substance that made him look like Chubaka gone to seed.

April 6, 2012: Today John and Pooja got an inspection of the sewer system at their new home.  They were given the results on a DVD and it came with a bag of popcorn.  When the video robot came to the part where there were roots pressing into the pipe, it couldn’t get through and it just kept slamming against it like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

April 28, 2012: Today we discovered that a (very tame) marmot had made a nest in the bonnet of Claude [our Toyota Camry]! It had spent the night in the garage and had chewed at the insulation in the door trying to get out.

May 24, 2012: Today, as I turned onto Strong Road, there was this magic floating cotton storm, except it was sunny and calm and lovely.  I felt like I was in a movie.

June 10, 2012: Today, on the way to the Tallahassee airport, we were on a very deserted back road early in the misty morning and we saw one man walking on the shoulder and another walking very determinedly toward him.  That one had a cowboy hat on and it seemed like they were about to have a duel.

July 23, 2012: Today I was embarrassed to learn that one of the books I’d gotten for Paul Zelinsky to sign was already inscribed by several people.  But fortunately, it was inscribed to someone named Sarah, so I totally pulled it off!

August 19, 2012: Today, when Daddy and I were taking out the ceiling in my bathroom, we found a ball of my hair in the space leading to the laundry room.  It looked like a cobweb made of hair and I have no idea how it got there.

August 24, 2012: Today I saw a person busking.  He was wearing black from head to toe and was wearing a Darth Vader mask.   He was also playing the fiddle.

September 6, 2012: Today I saw what I was convinced was a dead vervet monkey by the side of the highway as I was leaving Portland.  Even this city’s roadkill is weird!

September 7, 2012: Today, at Bennidito’s, a family was sitting outside near us.  For some reason, they went over and sat outside Subway for a while.  When they came back, the son, who was maybe eight or so, gasped, leapt up and said, “My toothpick!”  He sprinted back over to the table outside Subway and retrieved the toothpick.  Crisis averted.

September 15, 2012: Today I babysat the Van Sickles and we made a rainbow angel food cake that basically looked like a brick of cotton candy.

Next time, I’ll be writing from Portland!  I have gotten several requests for my new address.  Let me know if you’d like it, and I’d be happy to pass it along.

Have an amazing week!

Sarah/Mouse

Super Patient

Hi Everyone,

This spring, I stumbled upon some stickers I’d gotten from the doctor’s office when I was little.  I gave most of them away to the triplets as math prizes, but I kept this one:

“This,” I told myself, “is exactly what I need to be.”  I’m sure any of you who have been around the health professions for longer than half a second are completely fed up with the “patients”/”patience” play on words.  (“Yes, I’m a doctor.  Yes, I have patients.  BUT NOT WITH THAT JOKE!”)  So my apologies for this mediocre-at-best pun.  I have a pun scale which I use to evaluate my family’s puns, and this would register somewhere between a 1 and a 2 out of 10... definitely in the category of “not worth mentioning.”  But I am mentioning it nonetheless because for me, this past year has been characterized by both kinds of “patient,” so the sticker seemed particularly appropriate.

I’ve spent much more time at the doctor’s this year than I normally do.  Since November, I have had foot surgery, and have experienced an increase in tonsil stones.  I have got the worst flu/cold/cough combo I’ve ever known, and have had chronic dry eye (or “chapped eyeballs” as my doctor explained it to me).  I have sprained my ankle, encountered random numbness in my right elbow, and my knees have started popping with every step I take.  I have discovered the hard way that I’m allergic to a certain brand of contact, and have experienced a mild resurgence of tachycardia (what my friend calls “hummingbird heart”).  The most uncomfortable issue was a cornea infection, but really, none of these things are all that serious.  And since they’ve been spread out over the course of the year, it hasn’t been nearly as dramatic as I’ve just made it sound.  But of course, my incessant English Major mind has attempted to find deep significance in these mild maladies, resonating with other aspects of my life.  For example: “Well, maybe, just maybe, you’re having trouble with your eyes because you’re in a place of uncertainty right now, and you’re having trouble seeing what’s ahead.”  Or “Perhaps your inability to walk without foot or leg discomfort indicates a concern about taking the next step in life.”  This is why they shouldn’t hire lit majors to write horoscopes.

The truth is that it’s been much harder to be the other kind of patient over this last year.  I used to think I was good at waiting.  I genuinely enjoy standing in (most) lines or looking forward to snail mail arriving.  But those experiences are enjoyable because I know a.) what I’m waiting for, and b.) more or less how long I have to wait.  Also, these are examples of waiting that I have chosen to participate in.  As I’ve been applying for jobs over the past 9 or so months, I have been forced to wait for whatever is coming up next without knowing what it will be, when it will come, or how exactly I’ll discover it.  

In Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Maria (as Olivia) writes to Malvolio, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”  I’m beginning to feel like I’m one of those people who needs to have virtues thrust upon me if I’m going to have them at all.  Perhaps real patience, like courage or endurance, can be achieved only by living through situations that require it.  Perhaps it’s not that we simply have patience, and then find occasions to use it, but rather that we encounter the situations, and then come through them equipped with patience.  Or maybe I’m focusing too much on the causal effect chickens have on eggs, when the opposite is equally true.  But the point is that right now, at least, I don’t feel as though I have a whole lot of choice about being patient.  I’m pretty sure that if I did, I would have chosen employment months ago.

Choice, though, is complicated.  Over the summer, I decided to move to Portland, OR, at the end of this month to live with my Hollins friend Lucy, and her sister Molly.  I’m really excited about living with them, and about living in what seems like an ideal city for my interests and stage of life.  But of course, with rent and other payments on the horizon, and no tangible job prospects, it’s feeling increasingly risky.

Over the past few months, it’s felt like I’ve been waiting in line to ride a roller coaster.  I’ve now gotten in the car, and the restraints have locked into place.  We’ve started and are chugging up the first hill.  The crest is getting closer and closer, and my adrenaline is beginning to kick in.  I’ve gone on roller coasters before, and I’ve seen people emerge from this one not only unscathed, but ecstatic.  And yet all the logic my brain can muster up does not translate to my worried tummy.  Where does choice come in at this point?  Not that I necessarily want to, but I can’t reasonably back out now.  And yet, I chose to get in the line and let the restraints lock me in the car.  Basically, it was my choice to surrender my choice.  

It’s the risk that is making patience so difficult.  It’s the possibility that even though I don’t think it will happen, even though I don’t believe it will happen, things could come crashing down in a disastrous heap.  But where the sticker helps out yet again: 

if the roller coaster does somehow come unhinged and we go tumbling through the air, I can always rely on my cape!

Have a good week!

Sarah/Mouse