Crazy Poets

I have come to appreciate poetry in the past six months. I always liked writing it to some degree, but it has never been my strength. Trying to read poetry was even more difficult for me. After being introduced to poetry on the college level in my Intro to lit class last April, I am now learning about it on a deeper level in my Literary analysis classes. It is strange, because I am using the same book as my last literature class and reading many of the same poems, but they continue to get better with every read, because they are so complex. We can easily spend one class period on one poem (We have done it once or twice), but due to time restrictions we try to dabble in two to three poems per class. I am preparing to do a short paper on a poem and after rereading Sylvia Plath's mirror and hearing her friend, Anne Sexton mentioned in the movie I just watched, Running With Scissors, I decided to look up some information about both poets. I plan to pick one of their poems to do my paper on. I found this heartbreaking article from our on-line library. It totally changed my high-school ideas about these "boring poets" we had to learn about and try to write papers about. I am amazed at how all of the famous poets seem to be connected with other poets and were inspired by many of the same poets.

In high school we had to pick a modern poet to do a paper on. I chose James Wright. Lisa still makes fun of me, because I told her I didn't like nature poetry. I thought it was boring. I asked her to help me analyze some of Wright's poems that I liked, and she laughed and told me they were all about nature. I remember her telling me that her son chose to do his on Sylvia Plath, which concerned her because he was depressed. I asked why the concern and she explained Plath's dark poetry and eventual suicide. The name stuck with me. In my report I learned James Wright had an affair with Anne Sexton. Anne Sexton and Plath were close competitors and friends.

This article is focusing on a particular mental hospital in Boston. The hospital has inspired many forms of literature. The author of the book "Girl, Interrupted" gained her experiences at this hospital. Plath first entered the hospital in her senior year in college due to severe suicidal depression. She had struggled with depression on and off all through college, and after a couple attempts to kill herself they sent her for help. They gave Plath isulin shock treatment. It has a quote from her doctor talking about her depression in retrospect that says, "She was totally depressed, and she wasn't getting any better." They eventually decided on electroshock therapy, despite Plath already having some bad experiences with it that had caused one suicide attempt. After three shock treatments she was well enough to be released. Then the poor mental health of Robert Lowell and Ezra Pound. I remember Ezra Pound from my freshman year poetry anthlology. I can still recite the poem by memory, although I don't remember the title.

The article gets more and more heartbreaking as they begin to talk about Anne Sexton's depression, suicide attempts, and recovery that sounds so promising. She was teaching poetry at the mental hospital inspiring many mentally ill patients to write. One of the former patients said she was, "very pretty and very nervous." A former patient, Eleanor Morris', account of her suicide is painful even to read,

"Morris still remember being awakend by her clock radio on Saturday, October 5th, 1974. A newsreader announced that the poet Anne Sexton had died. 'It just said she had died, but I knew she had committed suicide, and I spent the whole moring crying[...] Morris still has an autographed book of hers called, "Live or Die," and Sexton signed it-- 'My derective is LIVE--to Ellie'."

When the article describes their friendship it mentions how competitive and similar they were. They both would drink martinis in Boston and reminisce about suicide attempts, and they saw themselves as "future suicides." Plath ended her life in 1963, inspiring Sexton's poem above, Sylvia's Death. Reading this poem and understanding that Sexton then committed suicide 11 years later, I can't believe I thought these were just boring poets at one point. The idea that they had to live with suicidal depression for the majority of their lives makes them heart-felt tragedies.

It just goes to show me that getting published and being so great as to be in a high-school English book does not make a life worth living. Nothng can do that for anyone. You have to do it yourself.

Happy Wheatland

I attended Wheatland music festival (my first overnight festival) this weekend. It was a fantastic experience. Everyone was so happy and with all of the great weather and music, the joy was contagious. The group I went with was wonderful. It was like a cute little family with a broad age range. I was the youngest of the group at nineteen and then the oldest in our group was in his fifties. The whole festival is amazing, because it unites people of so many different generations. There are kids activities with lots of free-spirited kids, and there are many free-spirited souls well over sixty. Then there are the people in between who are free spirits for the weekend, because they are allowed to be, but it is clear they are getting ready to go home to stress and be drained of their joy when everyone packs up sadly on Sunday, saying goodbye and “Happy Wheatland” for one last time. It was all a fun, but my favorite memory is from Friday night. It had just down poured for a moment so we were all wet and a little chilly, but the sky was perfectly clear with the exception of a few light clouds that looked like smoke making interesting designs in the sky. An African drum group was playing and it was moving. Lisa and Rebecca hollered for me to join them on the dance floor. I have no idea how to dance to African drumbeats, but no one cares at Wheatland. I joined them on the dance floor where we jumped and danced freely. I warmed up to the point where I was sweating and I would take moments to look up and catch my breath. It was one of those rare moments where I think to myself, “This is life at its finest. I’m happy to be alive.” I had several of those this summer and I am truly thankful for that, because I went without those split seconds for far too long. I think that is why we live, for those split seconds of perfection and joy. They are so energizing and it gives us the hope to keep going until the next one. That’s what life’s about.

At Wheatland I talked with Rebecca about how she likes Michigan (She moved here from Connecticut in January). She talked about struggling with meeting new people and finding happiness. When she was telling me this, I felt like she was describing my exact struggle with moving away to college. It just reminded me what a hard time I have understanding loneliness, because if everyone feels it, even when they are so loved, then how can we feel alone? It is so strange, because we are all so similar. I think it’s easy to forget that with all of the fronts and masks people have.

Today it’s raining and I feel melancholy. I think it is because I didn’t sleep much this weekend and I came back to a lot of homework today. I also have this theory that things always balance themselves out. Whenever I have a great day I have this fear of a bad day coming up. I need to change my thought process; because when I have a bad day I am much less apt to think, “I bet I’m going to have a great day tomorrow.” It seems one-sided of me. I also noticed today how judgmental I am of myself. Some of the people from the group involved with the South Dakota project pointed that out to me and I thought they were being too gentle with me, but it’s true I am so hard on myself. I still have that need to be a Saint that was burned in my head somewhere along the line, which only leads to disappointment on a regular basis. It’s really self-centered of me. No one thinks about me that much to be judging everything I say. The people who do have plenty of issues of their own, but yet I still let their negative judgments dictate how I judge myself. It’s all about guilt. Guilt. GUILT. It’s such a useless emotion that seems to represent everything wrong with my life. I suppose it is good that I can pinpoint the root of my struggles. That might be better than many, but I feel like I should be able to control it now that I am so aware of it, but awareness does not make it easier. I feel like I matured so much in my ability to stop and say, “Okay, I am feeling guilty. Is this a valid reason for feeling bad about myself? Did I do anything harmful or hurtful to anyone? “ I would say 90% of the time the answer is no. I am not saying that I don’t do things to feel guilty about, but I know I feel far too much guilt for trivial things. It just reminds me of my immaturity when I can’t control it. I talked with lisa about this frustration with not being able to control problems I am aware of. I commented on how I could see flaws in people older than me and know what they needed to change, but that didn’t stop me from going through the same struggles. Knowing about them didn’t help me avoid them or make them any easier. She claimed that’s what compassion is: hearing other people’s struggles and understanding it could or will be you if it hasn’t already been you. I thought that was a very insightful statement. I don’t know that my summary of it does it justice, but it was probably the best definition of compassion I have heard, and it is also a reminder of compassion I need to show myself.

I am glad it has cooled off so I am no longer sweating in minimal clothing in my dorm room avoiding my hot laptop at all costs. I hope to blog a little more regularly now, but it does get busy up here. I have my first meeting for the Amnesty International club branch here at school tonight. I think I will be meeting more socially aware people, maybe even making

Agh Kittens

This picture was taken at 7am Saturday morning (So I'm not looking my best) after this trouble maker decided to wake me up by walking on my face, gnawing on my ears, and snapping my bracelet. I would have been angry had she not been so cute.






P.S. My computer gets hot when I am on it too long and it has been far too hot to blog. I will get better when it cools off.

Objectivity

In my Literary Analysis class my professor asked in his cute British accent, “What are some of the stereotypes about English majors?” No one raised their hands. He then asked, “Who is not an English major in here?” and three people raised their hands. He asked them the stereotypes, and their answers were things like, “pompous, nerdy, bookworms, slackers.” This made me laugh, because when he first asked the question my initial thought was, “English majors don’t have stereotypes. That’s just the engineering and Bio students.”

In my Religion and Psychology class, my professor was giving theories for the existence of religion and its origin. He gave many educated theories and then gave a fourth one, “religion exists because it’s true.” My first reaction was anger. I felt like adding that to our notes discredited everything we just learned. Sure, there were holes in each theory, but this didn’t explain anything. He then explained, “This theory is not treated as a valid theory, but a majority of people believe this. 97.5% of the world believes in some sort of divinity. Does that make 97.5% of the population crazy and the other small percentage sane?” He wants the course to be all about objectivity, which I suppose means hearing things that I don’t want to about close-minded ideas of religion. He also said a lot of religious people think he is the antichrist so he gets hell from both sides. I like that about him.

These two scenarios got me thinking about how no one is ever objective. I think people are close-minded who do not listen to my ideas, but what about when I don’t listen to theirs? It takes a great deal of patience and comfort with ones beliefs to truly listen without anger to other people’s beliefs. I have had a lot of anger at belief systems in the past year. The more I learn about religion in general the more I realize I don’t believe in one religion. They are just different forms of expressing the same spirituality that exists in everyone. I also am beginning to realize I can’t discredit people’s spiritual experiences as much as I want to. I almost want to delete this paragraph, because it is so hard to do this stuff that I don’t even want to acknowledge that I have to do it let alone that I am not good at it. When I had to listen to the crazy, shouting, Christian outside the academic buildings today, and he was calling everyone fools and using the Bible to support him, I so desperately wanted to flip him off or roll my eyes. Then I realized that he feeds off of that kind of thing. The best thing to do is let those people say what they want to, because they will do it anyway. Let them pray for you or condemn you (whatever it is they do) because it makes them feel better and in reality it doesn’t do shit to me. I just let my pride get hurt by that kind of thing, but if I were stronger in my beliefs I wouldn’t be phased by it. I think I am slowly acquiring that strength. I attribute that to the healing and maturing that took place this summer as a result of having such a variety of loving people in my life.

We also talked about a theory that gods are just idealized versions of an actual human being, especially in Greek mythology. Then he said, but it happens in every religion. The Buddha was just a man, Siddhārtha Gautama, but many Buddhist believe he was more than an ordinary man, even somewhat divine. Then as all of the self-righteous Christians thought they were free from ridicule, he brought up the Virgin Mary. He was like, “Mary was just a woman, but the church decided one day that they had a problem and Jesus’ birth needed to be “sinless” so they decided he was immaculately concepted. Many people are very offended by the thought of that, but does that discredit any of the peaceful things Jesus did because his Mom had sex to conceive him?

I was especially interested in this idealizing people, because Adam (The Atheist) and I were recently discussing his post that claimed Mother Theresa was using the poor for her own personal gain. I talked about how Mother Theresa was human. Humans do bad things sometimes. It sucks. I wish I didn’t. I wish the people I love didn’t, but everyone does. Regardless of her motives she did great things. I think she is just as worthy as any of the other Saints. Saints were all human at one point, but their lives have been idealized to make them seem unreachable for anyone. Mother Theresa’s flaws will soon be forgotten and she will be another Saint that we will never be able to be like. I blame a lot of my self-hate on the Saints. I loved learning about the Saints and it was my dream to be like them, but it is impossible because as Saints they are not human. The more I realize that I don’t really know the saints, the more I understand that I could be like them if I really knew them, but now there is nothing real to be like. Trying to be a Saint is like trying to be Jesus or some idea of God. The Saints all did good things and stood up against the church or people that had power, and that is commendable. It takes guts and not everyone can do it, but it is possible for anyone unlike the church teaches. I think exposing Mother Theresa’s flaws is a great reminder for the world to reevaluate the image of a Saint. We should all admire their courage, but not deny their faults. Let’s celebrate their life not some made-up fantasy.

blah.

This year is going to be better. I can tell for many reasons. I am not depressed, I know more people, I know my way around, and I am used to being away from home. I am still feeling lonely though, because I was so fortunate this summer. I had so many friends old and new around every day. It’s not a depressing loneliness, because it is more of me sitting alone and reflecting on what great memories I have from this summer. I miss everyone tremendously. I really got used to being in a group after my week with the people from Pine Ridge and here. It’s strange not being in an environment where I am surrounded by people. I have actually had a lot of great reflection time alone, which I was in need of with it being so hard to come by at home.

Classes started up today and I am especially looking forward to my Religion and Psychology class. My professor has written a book called, “Minds and Gods,” he studies cognitive science and from what I have read thus far he is brilliant. I knew he was a great professor, because I had him last semester, but this book is fantastic and I am excited to learn about it from him in person. In his book he talks about how religion is taken as some “special form of thinking” that is different from any other thought processes. He makes it clear that the mind is amazing in every sense and that religion is no different than any of the other amazing things the minds does, so in that case he asks why can’t we study why our minds think about religion and deities. He warned it is a secular view, but that even if one disagrees he says you will learn so much about yourself, because it is all about our minds and how they work. I think it will be a fantastic class that I can apply to my everyday life.

I don’t have a particular topic to blog about, but I do want to let everyone from the Omega group who has started reading this (or been reading it in Ryan’s case) how much I miss our group and the feeling of love from everyone. I knew it was special when I was in the moment, but the whole overused expression of “you don’t know what you got until it’s gone,” has once again proved itself true, because I didn’t realize just how special and amazing it was until I have had all of this time to myself to realize how much I miss everyone.

I am hoping to bring all of the ways I grew over the summer up to school with me, which is pretty hard considering the few friends I do have up here are not very interested in my growth. I am excited to meet with a couple of different people up here that I know will appreciate my growth and encourage it. They are both older though so I guess they aren’t threatened by change and can encourage me to keep evolving, while it might scare people who rely on me for security if I am not so sturdy and rocking the boat a bit myself.

I feel like this is a boring blog entry, so I guess I will stop and try to do a better one soon. I should put more thought into it, but I am tired and my computer is hot, which is making me sweat.

Miracles Happen.

I almost don’t want to blog honestly about what I experienced the past five days, because I worry people will discredit or not understand such a powerful experience. I have to share the goodness though, even if it hurts for people to put it down. Twelve people from Pine Ridge (The reservation I have traveled to three times to do service work) came to Michigan to learn what it is like off of the reservation. The reservation is like a third-world country right in the middle of the U.S. There are homes without running water. The water is not always safe to drink. Unemployment AND alcoholism are both above a crazy 80% of the population there. Two of the poorest counties in the nation are on the reservation. Gang violence is a serious problem and domestic violence is most prevalent there. I have been touched every time I went and met more kids there. Each time I met innocent kids thrown into terrible circumstances. This week was a totally new experience that was more powerful than any of my trips there (which is saying a lot!).

I met the kids Thursday evening at a barbeque. I had no idea that I would love these kids just as much as anyone else I love in my life before they left, just five days later. We did and experienced far too many things to write about, but I will write some of the most important ones. Sunday night we spent the night all sleeping on a gym floor in a church. We stayed up until 2:30 (at least) having one of the most powerful spiritual experiences of my life. I don’t even know if I believe in prayer to a deity, but this prayer turned into such an intense experience of human connection. Jon said he felt there was someone in the group that really needed us to “lift them up in prayer.” We all seemed pretty collected, because we do that so often. Then Jon said, “I mean we are going to literally, physically lift them up in prayer.” I honestly thought Jon was being ridiculous, because there were some people much bigger than most of us. I also was thinking, “who is going to admit so desperately needing help?” I thought there would be all of this awkward standing until someone came forward, but instantly JoDon, one of the 17-year-old guys from the reservation stepped forward and laid on his stomach with his face in his arm, clearly upset about something. Jon asked him if he wanted to talk about it or just be lifted, and he said lifted. We lifted him over our heads as a group. Enoch whispered a prayer aloud in his native tongue, which seemed much more powerful than any prayer I have ever heard. The rest of us thought or prayed positive things for this boy. JoDon became shaken up and began crying and praying in his native tongue from above us. When we set him down slowly, he lay on the ground sobbing and the rest of us lent him a hand or gave him a hug. One of the group members held him in her arms. Jon asked if there was anyone else…and then anyone else… and eventually almost everyone was lifted up above the group, despite our arms shaking from exhaustion, and every single person wept in the arms of people from the group. I will never forget the chills I got when one of the boys, Chris, was up there. He is thirteen and victim of abuse, self-destructive, and done many drugs. He has no one to really take care of him. He has such a “hard” protective image. Up above us he kept fighting himself and tears, but Jon told him we were there for him and we didn’t want him to have to hurt anymore. He sobbed up above us until we set him gently on the ground. He rolled over to his stomach and sobbed in his arms. The group extended hands and kisses. It was the most incredible bonding experience I have ever had with people, and the weird thing is that we didn’t tell each other at all what we were crying about or what we were struggling with. It was just the connection of pain and healing together.

The next day at the dunes and Lake MI, I had a great bonding time with my friend Drew and a woman I just met, named Jenn. We climbed the sand dune together and talked honestly about beliefs. J.J (one of the smaller boys) came to the top with Chris, because Chris had been hiding food up there for himself. Jenn invited Chris over and began to talk with him about his life on the Reservation. She asked him about his recent move to escape his abusive grandfather and how good his new school was. She asked him about gangs and drugs. He said he tried every drug once, but didn’t want to do that anymore. He said he used to drink a lot, but was sick of seeing so many drunks around. He said now he just smokes cigarettes. He then told us about the scars two of the other boys had, and how they were from their gangs. One of them had a cross-type symbol burned into his arm for his gang and the other one had a strange “A” looking thing cut onto his back as well as a circular scar on his arm that I cannot describe. This boy then told us that everyone is in a gang. Jenn asked him how he stays away from it, and he said he stays inside all of the time. She asked, “Don’t you get lonely?” and he answered, “Yeah, it’s real lonely, but I don’t wanna be in no gang.” Drew and I sat in complete silence burying things in the sand. Chris randomly left us and walked down the dune without saying goodbye. After he left Drew, Jenn, and I sat in silence for over a minute until Jen said while throwing a twig, “What are you supposed to do with that?” Drew and I shrugged silently and Jenn had tears in her eyes. J.J. was still up there digging away insanely like a dog. Drew and I got out our cameras to take a picture of him and Jenn said, “That is pure innocence,” because the kid was oblivious to what has just gone on. We all laughed. The picture I took of that moment has Elise (who walked up in the middle of Jenn and Chris’ conversation) crying off to the side and J.J. looking like Tarzan digging away crazily. It is such a beautiful picture.

That night we got home and were all so exhausted so we were supposed to have a short night reflection. It started at 10:45 and we wanted to be done by 11:30. We didn’t get done until 1:30, because we did an activity where we rotated around and held hands with each person and looked into their eyes for a minute before saying something deep and nice about them. It meant that each person said something nice to everyone. Everyone was crying, because we realized how much we loved each other. We all said, “I love you” to each other, which may sound cheesy or overdone, but it was real. I have never loved anyone more than I love these kids. I love them like family and it was mutual. We also did a talking circle where we passed an object around and when a person was passed the object they spoke to the group. The confessions and thanks that everyone said were life changing.

I loved everyone and was touched by everyone, but three of the boys, Chris, Enoch, and JoDon really broke my heart when they left. JoDon is the one that especially got to me. He is returning only to leave his home to escape the gang he is in. He told me I was now his big sister and he loved me. He is such a beautiful person. He is so strong and smart. He has sun danced more than once, which is dancing while connected to a tree by something that is pierced through him. They dance for four days without food or water until the pierced object is ripped out. He stayed up until 5am the last night writing a poem that he showed Elise and me before he left. It was about how he had found love for the first time in his life with our group and had to leave it. That last morning at breakfast, he and I sat next to each other drinking tea in silence. We were both clearly upset, but unable to say much besides small talk. I finally said, “I feel like there is so much I want to say, but I can’t say anything.” He smiled with sad eyes in agreement. I then said, “Maybe saying nothing can mean just as much as words sometimes.” He said, “Exactly, but I wish I knew how to say it all.” We smiled and then looked down and sipped our tea. It was one of the most bittersweet moments of my life. Enoch is returning to go to court and most likely-jail for a DUI that he didn’t pull over very quickly for. He is the sweetest kid. He just doesn’t have a support system. Jenn told him if he couldn’t stay out of trouble he could come live with her. He seemed so relieved to know he had a way to get away from it all. Saying goodbye to them in the airport was like the end of some sad Disney movie. We all waved and waved until we couldn’t see each other anymore. JoDon pointed to his heart and then to me while walking away. I returned the gesture. Jenn, Drew, and I blew kisses at Kimmy before she walked through the metal detector. Chris prepared to walk through the metal detector when Jenn shouted, “Iron Hawk!” he turned, and she pointed to him and said, “Don’t forget!” He laughed and then walked through security away from our sight. Jenn, Drew, and Elise were crying while I stood with that depressing rock feeling in my stomach. Drew then laughed and said, “Jenn, that sounded like the ending to a movie. ‘IronHawk, don’t forget!” We all giggled and agreed it was one of the coolest quotes ever and that we had to write a movie that had that for an ending.

Today Drew, Elise, and I went together to develop pictures. We scrap booked while listening to depressing songs that reminded us of all of this past week. Elise told us that Jon told her when the kids arrived back in S. Dakota only one of the girl’s dad’s was there. No one came to pick up the rest of the kids. What a terrible slap in the face of a cold-world. I mourn for them, but am so thankful that these kids know they are loved. I will do whatever it takes to go back to S. Dakota to see them. It is like Jon told me, “These kids do not trust, and they trust us! They do not know love like this, and they love us! We cannot let them down. We must do everything in our power to make sure we keep this love, because we owe that to them.” He is so right. These kids are so beautiful and bright. They can change the world if given the tools and support. I will never forget my love for them. Many people will argue that it will fade and this was some crazy love high, but they are wrong. I was not lying when I told JoDon that he will be in my heart until I die. I was not lying when I told Enoch I love him just as much as any of my friends or family that has been with me my whole life, and I was not lying when I told any of them that I love them and will do anything I have to in order to see them again. In Lakota there is no word for goodbye, because they always say, “Until I see you again.” I will see them again. That night we spent at the church we did a “get to know each other activity” that had us ask our partners if we believed in miracles. I said no and so did many others, but we all agreed before we left that this experience was nothing but a miracle. Miracles do happen. I don’t care what anyone says. It’s not even an argument about the existence of divinity, but it is the miracle of love. Take from that whatever you want. Mitakuye Oyasin (All my relations, meaning we are all related).

Seeking Truth in Writing

This morning I went to lisa’s to get some help on writing. I have some great ideas for poems and stories, but I am having trouble writing much lately. She said I am telling how I feel instead of making the readers feel what I want them to. We agreed that my problem is that I am afraid to write what I see as truth. She explained the truth is not some flattering poem about how perfect everything is, but instead it is messy and it can hurt me or other people. I expressed my concern of hurting people I love or feeling like I am not appreciating people. We discussed what loving someone means. I have many friends and family that I love, but that does not mean they are perfect. I can’t write about all of the people I love and make them like saints. Real writers have to get beyond the idea that someone will read what they say and be hurt. The truth hurts, but it is always only one writers truth, and what else is there besides truth? Today I walked with my friend Adam on some woodsy trails. We sat in a clearing and talked for hours. He was concerned of offending me, but said, “I think you are a good writer, but I worry that you are too nice to be a great one.” I respect that kind of truth. I agreed he was right in the sense that I care too much what people think, and instead of writing what I want to I sugar-coat things. All of the authors that I love are incredibly blunt and spare no one, especially not themselves. That is what makes them so brilliant. Anne Lamott does not allow for anyone to think she is some Saintly prophet for even a minute. I will never forget my reaction to the first book of hers that I read. There was a part where she said something about how she loses her cool. She talked about getting frustrated with her son when he was younger for not listening to her over the TV after several times of her repeating himself. She then says, “I told him to turn that TV off, as in ‘turn that goddamn fucking tv off’.” She then talks about feeling bad about her loss of control and then taking a walk to really think things through. When I was talking to a friend about Anne Lamott we talked about her amazing ability to write about all of the messy truth that is out there. We joked that she would have nothing to write about soon, because she has already revealed so much of herself and the people she loves. Humans are so complex, yet similar that there will always be new truth and stories to be written.

I thought that I had reached a point of honesty in my writing as I began writing about things that I considered to be personal, but it was always at my own risk. I still have not conquered the ability to write truth about loved ones. I was able to write stories about my roommates, because although I cared about them as people, I never loved them. It is hard to write all of the truth about people I love, because I don’t want other people to judge them. I have to leave it up to my readers on how to judge them. A good writer can make the reader feel a particular way about everyone, even after they include all of their good and bad truths.

In order to finish this short poem I am working on, lisa suggested I do all of this journaling and writing about what exact events I am trying to capture, instead of just telling people how to feel. It blows my mind how people do not realize the work that is involved in all types of writing. For one short poem, I will probably have to write pages and pages to get to the truth and underlying point I want to make. When I went to coffee with a friend that writes songs yesterday, we talked about how writing is similar to meditation. Both take a tremendous amount of discipline and are spiritual things that involve trying to focus and control the mind.

Reflection: Balance, Moderation, and Centeredness

Today I listened to a Speaking of Faith Episode that was played a few weeks ago, which is a replay from last year. It is titled “Stress and Balance Within.” I hadn’t thought much about balance on the spiritual level until this year. This summer it has been one of my main topics to reflect on along with being centered and moderation. I had never even heard of balance on a spiritual level or thought about being centered and using moderation with everything, but this year it seems everyone that I talk about spirituality with brought these essential topics up at some point, if not multiple times. When I was doing a career counseling activity with someone I know who is trying to get a masters in counseling, he picked up on my lack of balance. When he suggested I think about teaching, because of my love for kids I responded with two reasons why I didn’t want to teach. My first reason was that I thought the track to teaching was much too straight forward for my indecisive ways. Secondly I told him that I did not want to lose my love for kids by getting burned out. I enjoy the six-week program I work in every summer, because right around the time I feel drained from the kids it’s already the last week or two of school and then I appreciate them again, because I realize I won’t see them for a long time.

His response was that he understood from the forms and questionnaires I filled out that one of my “career anchors” (Something that is necessary in a career for me to be happy) was “lifestyle.” He explained that means that I will have to have a career that goes with my lifestyle and not lifestyle based on my career, but he also questioned me about having commitment issues (if he only knew). He also expressed concern at my second reason. He asked if I get burned out, because I do not have the proper training to teach. I responded with how busy my mom always is and he decided that I have balance issues. I began reflecting on my current lifestyle and I realized my entire family has issues with balance. My mom has problems balancing work and her life so I feel that while the students benefit from this, her health suffers either physically or mentally. My dad has problems balancing money…not in the literal sense. He balances a checkbook fabulously. I mean that he saves and complains about how tight money is, but then splurges…only to stay up all night worrying about it and growing angry at the way the rest of us spend money. I am not blaming my balance issues on my parents, but the aspiring counselor thought that I had never properly learned balance. I also think about my siblings’ lifestyles in contrast with my own, and although we are all very different I do not see much balance from any of us.

Dr. Esther Sternberg spoke on this podcast of Speaking of Faith. She works on the mind-body connection from a molecular level by looking at genes, hormones, and neurotransmitters. She is using science to show the connection between emotions and health. She talks about how vacations are not a luxury, but a necessity. As a society we do not encourage balance. Cell phones are almost a necessity and weekends are rarely times of rest these days, to name a few examples of our off-centered lifestyles. Not to mention the way people look at me like I am crazy when I mention taking a night to reflect alone. It’s like Adam (the atheist) said when we were talking about the way people do not understand introverts. When you tell someone you want to spend some time alone they take it personally and are confused like, “So do you just wanna take a shit or what more do you need to do alone?”

I learned the hard way what ignoring myself for the sake of others does to a person and this podcast only confirmed the need for balance in my life. The fact that my imbalance was just illuminated by someone else this week makes me feel confident about all of the time I have been spending as a hermit. I think everyone should take some time to really think things through.

Piercing Apathy

I walk in broken streets with broken souls and tourists
wearing happy faces and college sweatshirts. I hate this place.
New Orleans is too damn cold. I close my eyes, but can’t ignore
the memory of tortured screaming souls crying atop floating houses.
It slaps me in the face with undeserved suffering.
I see her crying alone. She wipes Her tears on Her
sleeves and avoids My eyes. She walks fast and determined,
like Me. Her sandy hair is like Mine too. It could hide traces of the
sun if she saw it, if we saw it. We prefer the moon. It does not burn.

She disappears in a crowd of meaningless faces. I hope for her safety, even though
I don’t remember what hope is. The hours escape without letting me grasp them.
I find her in a t-shirt shop. Her gray sweater hangs off her shoulders like Mine.
At home, My despair paralyzes my mother. Here, Her despair paralyzes Me. I want to
die and she is dead. Empathy forces a smile at her. She walks toward me. Her request is small,
but the alcohol she breathes makes my burning stomach turn. I hand her my cell phone.
My fear distracts me from the moment when Her hand and My hand Connect. She
hangs up after no Connection. Vulnerability floods out her pores the way floods
poured out her soul into the ocean. She looks around desperate and scared like Me.

She asks for the time, but looks to her watch. She looks at her left wrist.
I look at her left hand. It’s swollen like an inflated rubber glove, but there is
no doctor to bring her back to life. My heart races in fear for Her, for Me.
My blood turns cold as hatred flows through it. Hatred for the cold world,
hatred for what she has done, but mostly hate for myself, because I know that
immobilizing darkness she lives in. It is blacker than the blood that has broken
inside of her hand. She is hopeless like Me. We are no longer Beautiful.
I am naïve. I do not know heroin like Her and she does not know
heroines like Me. She might have in brighter days, before depression killed her soul.

I try not to imagine her first shot, but see a young girl unable to
cope with a broken heart and broken dreams. Her arm shakes from fear;
she pierces the needle into her skin. She is anxious to fly, even with broken wings.
My mind hurls dark images at me, darker than the blood broken inside her hand.
The blood that hurts for it’s fix, it’s relief. I try not to see her lying lifeless in a
dirty room. When Her weak arm betrays her, she jabs the relief into her thigh. I hate this
place. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see this. I close my eyes, but can’t help
but see her shaking, sweating, moaning cries of death in a dark alley. It is darker than
the blood that has broken inside her hand from when her veins refused to take that
poison. She stabs relief between each finger. I stare at Her hands. The
hand she pierces with is small, like Mine. I need to vomit like she did last night.
Tangled, sticky hair reminds her of the suffering and tears she does not remember.

I am scared. I Disconnect, Detest, Dehumanize, like People who live in fear.
“I hope it all works out for you,” I say. She smiles a hopeless smile
like the one I have forced too many times. She is genuine, thankful,
and human. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to act. I swallow vomit.
It hurts, but I will not let it out. I will not let it out. She is broken and
dead; I am broken and living. How can I pretend not to know her? We are related by
blood; we both bleed red. I know everything, but love her like family.

I pretend not to notice the connection. I laugh when my friend says, “crazy druggie.”
I laugh until I cry, since I can’t cry any other way. I wipe My tears with My sleeves.

The Gray Area of Faith (Adam the atheist and Adam the priest)

Recently I was talking to lisa about attending Peace Day in the Park. I told her I would be attending with Adam. She responded with, “Adam the atheist or Adam the priest?” which of course made me giggle considering how black and white that made it sound. While talking to Adam (the atheist) this evening we were discussing the spiritual views of Karen Armstrong the ex-nun who is now a religious scholar and no longer religious. He asked if she was an atheist, but I responded with “Well, I don’t know that she believes in God per se, but I think she is still spiritual. I can’t really tell, because once you leave organized religion it all gets to be a gray area.” I began thinking about religion and spirituality as a whole after this conversation. My initial response was that the religious spectrum could be similar to the scale used in psychology about sexual orientation, where very few are entirely gay or straight or exactly in the middle. Most of us lean one way from somewhere in the middle. I thought about my brother who is atheist and believes that everyone should be and compared him with the regular attending “church people” who believe that everyone should be like them. I realized that beliefs are all a gray area, because it is so complex. I feel like everyone judges faith and people in general on one question, “Do you or don’t you believe in God.” Everyone has different ideas of God. Some individuals' God hates other people who believe in the “same God.” I don’t think this praising of a higher power can be summed up in one three-letter word.

My friend, Adam (the [aspiring] priest) once told me a story that I believe came from Buddhism. The story was something about how 3 blind men come across an elephant. One man has a hold of the leg; another has a hold of the trunk, while the other has a hold of the tail. Each man describes what he feels. Each man’s description is different and missing the big picture of the elephant, but that does not mean he is not describing the elephant. He claims that is what religions do. They each describe pieces of truth that they can cling on to, but no one will ever see the whole elephant, because we are all blindfolded.

I feel so restricted spiritually. I feel like I could just fly if someone would unchain me, but everyone is afraid of where I might fly. I once talked with April about how despite everyone’s fronts of having strong faiths, we are all so vulnerable and feel better to know we have support. That is why everyone pretends to care about your belief system and feels offended when you disagree with his or hers. There are very few people in the world who will accept you for your beliefs alone when you do not adhere to a particular label. They all want you to see their truth, which isn’t necessarily the truth you are seeking. Everyone can talk religion and their beliefs, but I know very few people who live it. The people who seem to live it the most are usually the ones who are open with the fact that they can’t live their faith at all times. The people who I feel most spiritual with are the ones who are exceptionally self-aware by realizing their weaknesses and accepting them (whether they believe in God or not). That is an incredibly difficult task, and while everyone (myself included) can claim to be accepting of his or her faults I find that not to be the case. That kind of acceptance takes a lot of meditation, mindfulness, and maturity, which is scorned upon in our technological society. My friends get upset when I want to spend a night to myself, just sitting outside. I feel self-conscious when people see me sitting alone outside, doing nothing. I always have the protection of my ipod, computer, or phone around just like everyone else to let people know "I have stuff to do. I am important." I find the more I sit outside alone the more at peace I feel, but the more isolated I feel when I am with my friends and other people my age.

I believe the reason that I am feeling spiritually dead is because I am undergoing a big transformation that will be beneficial in the long run. I find that I feel a lot less instances of paranoia that someone is watching me or judging my thoughts, but a lot more moments of peace and self-acceptance. I read a lot of spiritual books still, so I know that there has to be something in me that seeks more than anything I have ever come across spiritually. I have many mentors on every aspect of the belief system and as helpful as they all are, I don’t like the way most of them don’t entirely support my beliefs if they are different than their own.. I feel frustrated, because I feel that I am supportive of most people’s belief systems, but very few are supportive of mine. I have many people that “tolerate” my beliefs, but I think that should be a given. I am okay where I am at, which could be a first. I don’t feel like I need to change anything about where I am at, and that makes me feel good. Maybe maturity is not so far away.

Breathing

I am very spiritually frustrated lately. I require more time and effort to attempt to center myself, but I am proud of the way that I am making time to do so. Instead of doing what other people want me to do I am taking care of my mental health. I learned the hard way what happens when you ignore it too much. I have found solace from just sitting outside and breathing mindfully. Attempts to pray are not helping, writing is not helping me as much as it used to, and I just don’t feel present and observant to my surroundings like I would like to be. The strange thing is, that everything else is going fine, if not good. I feel like even though the depression was most likely Biological, losing my faith may have sparked it. I had been fighting for years to believe and I grew exhausted and frustrated to the point where I stopped trying. Now that I am doing better I am looking for a type of spirituality/faith that works for me.

I don’t think I will ever be able to join one organized religion again, but I will always need people to talk about spirituality with. I need people that are open minded and confident enough in their beliefs to be open-minded and not push their beliefs on me. I love talking with my friend Adam. We have very different ideas of faith, but at the same time we have so much passion and common ground that we both feel more understood with one another than with many of the people who might claim our same religious “label.” I have many mentor figures in my life that I like to talk spirituality with. They come from many different denominations and belief systems. I really do not care what religious beliefs someone holds, but instead I judge them based on their actions and love. I can sense someone with a genuine sense of faith or spirituality from a mile away. They just glow with a love for life and every thing in it. Some may argue, “If someone believes racism is acceptable, but is nice to different races, then that is still wrong.” I agree. I think if they really believed that racism was okay, it would be clear that their friendliness was not genuine and/or they would probably talk about it even if only in the privacy of their own home. By them admitting to being racist, that would be an action that would be worth judging someone over. When it comes to belief in different religious views I think actions speak louder than anything else. The people that are preaching to everyone usually have a lot of their own issues they are denying, where someone who is doing good works out of love whether it be for a god or not are the people that really inspire me.

I don’t blog as frequently, because I spend all of my writing time working on pieces to take to the writers group I am in. We meet once a week and with work, friends, and trying to relax, I have to spend all of my writing time with a purpose. It is a great challenge and it keeps me motivated. I wish I always had something encouraging me to write so often for fun. I want to blog about a chapter of a book I just read. I wrote some quotes down, but I do not have time to really reflect on anything, because I have to find or write something to take to writers group tomorrow. I just keep breathing.

Writers Block

Jane Bowles was a writer that was influential to the beat movement. John Ashbery was a critic for the NY Times Book Review, and he claimed she was “one of the greatest writers of fiction in any language.” Jane and her husband wrote together, but when Jane’s husband’s career took off without her she struggled with writing. She was frustrated with the way he wrote with ease, when she always had to work diligently on hers. She claimed she was “dying of writers block.” She used her creativity for other things and only wrote a few short stories throughout the rest of her life.

Natalie Goldberg is a talented writer of today. She is acclaimed for writing books about writing, and is an influential writing teacher to many. She claims that writers block does not exist, but is when we let our own critical voice stop us from sharing our ideas. She suggests writing everyday to practice, even if that means writing, “This is such crap. I can’t write anything.” Supposedly, this will get old and the good stuff will come out.

I understand where both are coming from, because lately I have been doing as Natalie Goldberg says and writing a bunch of random crap that is more like brainstorming, but it doesn’t lead to anything. I can see how Jane would claim she is “dying of writers block,” if this lasted for the rest of her life. Jane grew depressed as she approached death and died alone at a hospital in Spain in 1974. I think she grew depressed, because she stopped writing. I believe that everyone should write, even if it’s just a journal or list of random thoughts. I think it is a healthy way to deal with things, but I also think there are particular people that just have to write. I think I will always have to write, which is why it would be so nice to have it be a part of my career, but no matter where I end up I will be writing. I also realize there are events that will come in my life that will make me feel that I am unable to write. I have already faced some of those events, but I know I will always go back to typing like crazy at early hours of the morning or scribbling down random thoughts that don’t follow the lines in my notebook and are almost illegible.

I think my problem is that I am being too critical of my ideas, because I have less time to write these days, which means I feel pressure to write something good when I do have time. I used to write all of the time and would eventually come up with something. I want to do more poetry, but feel inexperienced and intimidated as a result of my lack of training in it. I love my writers group, because I feel like that is helping me improve and push myself, but part of me feels like I can’t grow as a writer until I start more English classes again. I realize with the two academic writing classes I have in the fall that I will probably not do much writing for fun, but I think academic writing helps me grow as a creative writer too. It gives me confidence and forces me to articulate ideas more clearly. I am blogging, because I have writers block, but am trying to follow Natalie Goldberg’s suggestions and just write. I used to have to do this for independent study a lot. Write on everyone.

Growth

Today I found all three of my journals from trips to South Dakota. They are always short, because we stay so busy on the reservation. I am glad Jon makes us keep a journal while we are there, because I don’t know that I would have made time to write my first trip. It is so fascinating to see how I grew from trip to trip. The South Dakota trips were a huge part of my coming into my own identity. I don’t think that I would have been a different person if I had not gone, but I do think they helped me realize who I was at a faster rate. I am not claiming to know entirely who I am, and I don’t know that I ever will. I had a conversation with a friend of mine in her mid twenties up at school, and when I told her I still had a hard time understanding who I am she said, “I’m twenty-five and I still struggle with that.” We began reflecting on self-awareness, and I don’t know that there is ever a stopping point. It coexists with growth, because it never stops completely.

I think the South Dakota trips helped me push aside any feelings I felt of depression, because they would jump-start my spirit again. Even as I reflect on them now I can’t help but feel some of the power they made me feel. If it were not for the South Dakota trips, then I probably wouldn’t have became friends with Drew, which means I probably wouldn’t have ran cross country. I would have never met April, who has influenced my life in too many ways to mention. If I didn’t meet April, then I would not be friends with Adam. Adam is my first peer that understands and encourages my spirituality, and I have needed someone my own age to do that for so long. If I had not gone to South Dakota, then I would not have met Ryan who is extremely supportive of my writing and is always someone I can message about a new book or spiritual idea. If I would not have gone to South Dakota, then I don’t think I would like Jon or even think about keeping in touch with him. I am thankful for all of these relationships and my life would be very different without them.

I am going to include some excerpts from the three journals. A lot changed from journal to journal, but I also noticed I had many of the same struggles and feelings throughout them. I also noticed plenty of symptoms of depression that I didn’t recognize then.

August 12-18, 2004 (TRIP #1)
8-13: Night Prayer
“I noticed when I met individuals [on the reservation] they would look down as if to shake my hand, but they would not make the first move. It was almost like they didn’t want to be rejected. When they saw me extend my hand they would always smile. It made me feel honored to meet them.”

Here is a poem I wrote at Wounded Knee. I was only 16 (and it shows). I like the last two lines though and it is enough for me to remember what I felt and where I was.

I am sitting above people superior to me.
It’s not fair the way things happen.
They were so proud, strong, wise, and young.
The wind touches my cheek like it is comforting me.
I listen carefully, hoping for advice.
I can feel the presence of their spirits.
It makes me realize the lack of mine.
8-20-04
“It is hard to explain how I feel regarding this trip. I felt so uncomfortable and stepped so far out of my comfort zone. I think that helped me grow yet it separated me from my friends here. It makes me feel alone.”

March 29-April 3, 2005 (Trip #2)
3-30
“I have mixed emotions right now. I really don’t want to be pessimistic, but I do not feel like I am making a difference at all. I see so many teenagers that seem to be in defense mode against us. That is improving, but we are not here enough to help them face everything they struggle with or for them to relate to us…Everyone here has such different motives. I know we all want to help, but I can’t help but wonder, are we all selfish? I know we are not better than any of the people we are helping yet they suffer so much. It makes me feel very guilty.”
4-1
“Experiencing nature by hearing the wind on the rocks, the birds all around, and just inhaling the pure, fresh air was nice. It felt very spiritually cleansing, although I still do not feel the spiritual strength I am hoping to accomplish. I pray that tomorrow will go well and I will become stronger in my faith.”

August 1-7, 2006 (Trip #3)
8-2
“I am once again struggling with my faith. I am sitting in the exact same room where I was writing about fighting for my faith two years ago. A tremendous amount has changed, but I am still struggling in the same way. This time I can communicate my struggles better, though.”
8-3 (At Wounded Knee)
“I am at the left foot of Lost Bird’s grave. The breeze is hitting my left cheek, as well as my back. I feel numb to all of this. I don’t feel happy, but I don’t really feel sad like I have in the past. Sue is playing her flute and it is calming. I am thinking about Mimi, and I don’t feel fully present in the moment. I feel like I need to breathe to take it all in. The wind is blowing dust in my eye and I keep getting lost in my selfishness. Life is tragic. When I look at someone’s gravesite I like to imagine what their life was like when they were happy. I often wonder what made them laugh. When I look out at the hills I feel unreal. It’s like I don’t exist. I think that is what death will feel like. It’s not a bad feeling. I kind of like it.”
8-6 (Closing Night Prayer)
“This week I was reminded what it feels like to be alive. I was so numb and almost in a state of weird depression. I came to understand that I can be articulate and strong. I was also reminded of my spiritual doubt and trust issues…I forgot what it feels like to be in an environment where people really do care about my spirituality…I was reminded that I do need people, but I can stand alone.”

The Truth About Lies

Depression is like handing a pair of bifocals to someone in need of them, but the top lens is so clouded with dirt that his or her vision for distances is worse than before. However, the ability to see objects that are close improves tremendously. Depression causes one to be extraordinarily perceptive to people’s weaknesses and vulnerabilities. My new glasses allowed me to expose how often everyone lies. White lies are chocolate, because they can make almost anyone feel better, but cause sickness when eaten at the wrong time or too often. With my clouded top lens, I felt revulsion at the frequency of lies I had been told all of my life, as well as the ones I regurgitated to others to keep the peace. Even after I have cleaned the first cloud of dirt off of the top lens, I still find myself feeling anger at some of the lies individuals told me that I kept quiet about. No one was safe from my sight. I caught everyone that meant anything to me lying; even those that I liked to believe would never do such a thing. I also feel anger when I think of the lies I have told to people, because it’s what they wanted to hear instead of what they needed to hear.

I have friends that swear they are completely honest even when it hurts, but that is a lie. It would be foolish to be so honest at all times, not to mention rude. If honesty is the best policy, then why does everyone lie so much? People lie to cover up their fragile little egos. I know so many people that claim they are confident in their identity and strong enough to be honest and take responsibility for their mistakes; I am one of them. After seeing the truth from all the lies I do believe people can tell the truth in the most difficult of situations, but only when given proper time to think and prepare themselves. When anyone is put on the spot for something they did wrong, a lie is almost always involved. The lie could be as big as completely denying the mistake or as little as exaggerating the excuse behind it. I have also found that when someone has a lot to lose, then even the noblest people will rationalize a lie to help rest his or her conscious. It is amazing the effort an individual can put into rationalizing mistakes, which is just a way of disguising the fact that they are lying to their selves.

There are times when I know someone is lying to me, but I pretend to believe him or her to avoid conflict and protect their ego. Then there have been times when the person knows that I am aware that they are lying to me, but pretends he or she is oblivious, because it sounds better to say than the truth. I tell a lot of those little white lies where I can tell the person doesn’t believe me, but I say it anyway, because I feel like it’s the right thing to say. I have tried to be more mindful of the way things come out of my mouth only because I feel like it will make the person feel better. I am always more concerned with making the other person happy, even if it leaves me feeling lousy. That is not a good way to go about life.

When I was walking with Kristin down town Ann Arbor we were discussing how we finally have had to stop trying to please everyone so much with our studies and decisions. We came to the conclusion that no one really cares about our happiness. That doesn’t mean people don’t care, because they do want us to be happy. The problem is that they can only imagine what would make them happy so they try to convince you to study things that will guarantee jobs with money or behave in ways that everyone “likes” you since they believe that is the way to happiness. Those things do not usually lead to happiness. Gilda Radner had a quote in Rolling Stones something along the line of how important it is to have one or two real friends, because you can get the world to love you, but you don’t have the world’s phone number to call when you are upset late at night. I lied to myself and everyone else for so long to make other people like me. I was finally convinced people actually liked me from the several awards my senior class awarded me, but I still didn’t feel like I had many people that really knew and loved me. I was okay with that kind of life in high school, but it is too much work to continue on without a support system that I don’t have to lie to in order to keep them around. I am currently developing a sturdier support system. I have found the people that mean the most to me are all people that I don’t have to lie to, but can confess when I tell them one anyway.

I am surrounded by so many lies, but now that I have clearer vision on both of my bifocals I try to honor both perspectives to see the whole picture. When I am hurt by someone I admire lying to me, then I try to reflect on “why would they tell me this lie?” “What are they trying to protect me or their self from?” and "Is this lie appropriate to bring up with them?" When I find myself lying I try not to feel guilty about it until after I dissect the reason behind the lie. I used to try so hard to pretend I didn’t lie, but that just left me telling more lies. I think acknowledging my lies is one of the most honest things I can do. I wish more people could begin to dissect their lies. Maybe if everyone told the truth about lying, then more truth could be told.

Reason for Hope

I am reading Jane Goodall's "Reason for Hope." It is the story of her spiritual journey. My grad assisstant reccommended it, because during the twelve hours we spent together on our wolf-tracking adventure, we discovered we shared a love for reading spiritual books. We also discovered that we both were in a phase of our lives where we felt disconnected from spirituality resulting in the both of us no longer reading spiritual books. She told me about “Reason for Hope,” because it is her favorite book. I, of course, told her about Anne Lamott. I checked out Goodall’s book after I had rediscovered my love for spiritual books thanks to Anne Lamott’s latest book “Grace (Eventually).” I didn’t think I liked Goodall's bookk that much at first, because I found it hard to relate to. She was raised Catholic, which helped me relate to her, but I have never been much of a scientist. All of her obsessions with animals seemed foreign to me. I can see why my grad. asst. would like it so much, considering she was also raised Catholic and is a Bio major that studies animals. The further I get into, the more I like. It is real. Her life is not something I can relate to, but I am seeing another spiritual journey that doesn’t follow the rules resulting from Catholicism. It is beneficial for me to see how other people find a spirituality that works for them after coming from a similar starting place as me.

My writers group is the best thing I could be a part of this summer. It gives me a purpose and goals to shoot for, it has reunited me with people I haven’t seen in forever, as well as helping me meet other cool writers in the community. I need to stop trying to hard to write something impressive, because each week it gets harder and harder for me to bring something I feel confident in. I love the challenge though! It has also helped me appreciate my relationship with lisa, because I do not feel like I fully appreciated it before…probably because the whole teacher/student thing was clouding my vision. I am glad that I no longer feel the need to impress her in anyway so I can just send her ridiculous drafts of writing that I know are not my best. The feedback strengthens my writing and I know I don’t have to get embarrassed at my errors. It was also fun at the first meeting I went to when April and Evan were there, because I have showed April some of my serious writing, but she had never seen my crazy stories that I am known for writing. Writing just helps me feel more understood, even when I am exaggerating things to make them funny. I just feel like my real personality comes out.

I am working Safety City this week. I have a really good group of kids. There is this one boy that is so sweet. Most of the kids don’t ever call me by my name, but this boy ALWAYS does. It’s always,
“Hi, Aimee,” “Thanks, Aimee,” or my personal favorite quote from today “Aimee, you’re beautiful!” Needless to say I want to keep that kid around at all times. He always asks if I can come over and play after Safety City, and I always respond that I need to go to my house. He always says, “Aww that’s boring!” He is such a sweet kid. I was worried how I would go back to working with kids, since I was not around kids much this year. I am exhausted from the whole depression thing, so I was worried the kids wouldn’t like me as much and I would be dull. Being with the kids gives me energy though, so I am still energetic (for the most part) with them. I am definitely not overly energetic, because I am too old to b running around at all times with the kids. They have much more energy than me, so the trick is learning balance of when to be energetic and when to just let them be energetic.

I have been writing so much crap it is awful. I know it is good practice just to write, even if it is meaningless crap that will never be used, but I have to write all of the time in order to have something acceptable for writers group. I wonder how my writing will change when I am working full time at the migrant schools. I start next Tuesday. It will be exhausting, but the kids are always so lovable!

I spent over an hour at the labyrinth at a local college since Safety City is located on campus. The time was wonderful, because it was a perfect day when I was sitting in the shade. There was a nice breeze rattling the trees and the sun was reflecting off of the rocks. A robin was crawling playfully on the statue of Mary’s head. It was the statue where she is holding a grown and deceased Jesus in her arms. I love days when the weather is perfect, because it is so rare! I love sitting outside and reflecting on these perfect days. It’s probably the best thing I can ever do for myself spiritually. Lisa is writing a paper she wants to submit to a journal to be published. It is about the benefits of sending high school kids outside. She uses a quote from my blog entry “Congratulations, you’ve turned into a hippie” to show how her former students are still enjoying the benefits of being outside. I wasn’t even explicitly getting at that, but now I am stating it plain and simple….going outside is probably one of the best things I can do for myself spiritually. You can’t live for happiness, because happiness is just a “side effect” of living, as Adam said this past weekend. I guess, that is a reason for hope and not dissapointment like I had once thought.

Climbing

I feel sick. I am not working yet and I am out of school. I think I must be the only person that can get stressed and wear myself out when I am not doing anything of importance. I think it is because I have been having so much time to think. Thinking is exhausting and I often wonder if I am masochistic with my thoughts in the sense that I like to let them go wherever they want compared with many people who try to ignore all of their bad feelings. I like to acknowledge my feelings and honor them for a minute. I can't always afford to do that during the school year, but whenever I have free time alone I love flirting with painful thoughts like a good girl that loves flirting with bad boys.

I've been feeling apathetic again and that worries me. I just don't care about anything really. I think I am just the kind of person that is never going to feel content. I think the people who tell me happiness is just a state of mind or a perspective are wrong, because I try so hard to put on that lens. Once in a while I am successful, but it is so hard for me. I don't think it is supposed to take as much energy as it does for me to feel happy.

I have been thinking about how everyone has their own story and the way people ignore that. It's like if we don't know a person's struggles then they don't exist. It makes me think of people that I have gotten to know after having seen them everyday for a while. I would think that I know them, but when I really get to know them and their struggles I would think back to when I would see them everyday. It would shock me that I never knew they were carrying all of this around with them. There's some quote about be understanding/nice to people, because they are fighting a battle you know nothing about. It might sound cheesy but it is so true.

I have been being an asshole a lot lately. I am so confused and vulnerable that I get hurt easily and I freak out when I feel hurt because I fear I am depressed again, so I lash out to the person that hurt me instead of letting them know they hurt me. I have been feeling discouraged with how hard everything has to be. Healing is ten times harder than I could have ever imagined. It is like I am climbing up a mountain, because I fell off the cliff. I get so tired sometimes that I am just tempted to fall again or just stop where I am forever. I am still climbing though

Flashback

I had a bad day. Nothing too major, but I just felt bad. I realize bad is such an undescriptive word, but I think the word depressed is parallel to it. My logic is that feeling bad can be sad, angry, lonely, guilty, insuperior or any other emotion that is not pleasurable. Depression feels like all of that at the same time. It is so overwhelming that there is not a clear-cut word to describe it. A vague word like bad seems to do the trick. I didn't have any major reasons to feel bad, but I did. I am now up trying to keep one of my friends company who is feeling depressed again so she can't sleep. Being alone while experiencing insomnia as a result of depression is never a good thing. She forgot to take her medicine for five days (I am not sure how that happened). She also has been having miscellaneous situations that leave her feeling down, so tonight she feels like she is back to where she started with the depression. It is frustrating to me to see this, because I know so many people that feel that way. It makes me wonder if one can ever completely heal from depression. I know that I am better. I feel like anyone can tell I am better who would have saw me when I was depressed. When I have bad days it makes me remember how bad I felt everyday, and the scary hopelessness comes back to the point where I feel like I never really got better and that I never will. My friend is having one of those nights, and it makes me feel bad again since I didn't have the best day either. We were wondering if that curse of jumping to the worst conclusion after a bad day goes away. Will we always have to remember what it feels like to be depressed? Will we ever have total relief or have we been cursed with sickness that never gets better? It can be controlled, but not cured. I am thankful for my progression, but I am also sad that one of my other close friends is still very depressed. He can't seem to get the help he needs, and I can not help it except for the fact that I can listen and empathize when most people can't. These flashbacks are killers, but I am glad they are merely flashbacks and not an everyday life that I have to fight to survive. I just want the best for my friends and family, and I hate seeing them want to give up. I hate even more that I know why they feel that way. I dream that my flashbacks will vanish and my friends and I will never have to think about depression again.

Human Spirit = Alcohol

I feel thankful to be alive. It’s been a long swim, or shall I say more a journey of me thrashing for my life in order to get to this beautiful island where I am. I can rest, reflect, and heal. I know I will have to swim again, but I am thankful for this time period of solace. The warm sand feels good on my feet, but they are cut up from the rocks and coral I walked on to get here. The sun feels warm on my cold face. It begins to melt the ice that formed in the broken cracks of my heart. I was certain I would never find peace while I was thrashing in the cold black ocean. I could not distinguish where the dark ocean ended and where the black starless sky began in the horizon. I cursed the universe. I begged it to send a shark to save me from the constant nights of struggle by ending it all in seconds. My arms and legs were tired; my lips were blue from the cold, and my lungs were sick of inhaling saltwater that burned. I should probably mention the lifeboat, Welbutrin, that floated my way one morning like some sort of miracle. I jumped on apprehensively, because I had never rowed a boat alone. It was a little rocky, but my body was thankful to no longer be in the cold water. I could tell it was saving me right away. I tipped over once on it, but I was fortunate enough to be near a ship with many selfless people on it. They helped me flip my boat over and they gave me food, water, and dry clothes. I will be forever grateful to those sailors. They were not the first ship of sailors I passed. It is funny how few of people are willing to go out of their way to save a lonely soul that is nearly drowning. I survived the ocean once. I will survive it again, but this time I will be prepared with a boat. If I pass any drowning souls I will pick them up into my little boat. I will feed them, clothe them, and we will find peace together. If they say they don’t know how to repay me, then I will tell them about the kind sailors that saved me. Then I will ask of them only that they save any drowning souls they find throughout their lives and pass on the story. The ocean is cold, but the human spirit is like alcohol. It gets a little slushy sometimes, but it does not freeze.

I am Only Who I Choose to Be

I received some words of wisdom from a friend of mine recently. She told me not to take myself so seriously and that I am only who I choose to be. She reminded me I am not a product of my religion, my parents, or my hometown. I am only who I choose to be. I was so caught up in trying to figure out who I was that I forgot to laugh at myself from time to time. I walked around with a stone face attempting to have some sort of epiphany about who I was. That doesn’t happen. I don’t think anyone wakes up one day and says, “I’ve figured it out! I know exactly who I am.” Self-awareness is one of those tough categories we never stop growing in. With her comment I realized not only was I taking myself too seriously but I also was still defining myself by other people’s standards. I was not sexy enough, because I don’t like to wear high-heels like my friends. I was not feminine enough, because I love wearing jeans and a t-shirt practically every day. I was not smart enough, because I couldn’t get into U-M like all of the other smart kids. I was not a good enough writer because I had to retake the writing portion of the MEAP test and I scored ten points lower than most of my friends that don’t write on my ACT writing section. I was not a good enough person because I didn’t fit in with religious people anymore.

I realize how ridiculous that all is now. First of all I have a bit of a grudge against the MEAP and ACT scoring systems. They are boring, stuffy, and if you do not write an annoying predictable essay then they will not approve. Most of my friends didn’t have to retake the writing section of the MEAP. It is funny though, because even at the time they were like, “Aimee, you are a great writer. I don’t know how they grade those things.” Even my English teacher at the time was astounded I did not pass. She assured me I was a fine writer and that I just thought too outside of the box for the stuffy standardized test people. That didn’t help me feel any better. Standardized test are supposed to be a judge of how you compare with kids across the nation, and I was certain that I would never be able to write anything worth reading. I have never been confident in my writing until recently, and I still have a phobia of rejection when I turn in a piece for a class, especially if I worked really hard on it. I am getting more confident with the more papers I turn in, and with the more support I receive from professors. In addition to the standardized tests lowering my self-esteem, I was certain I was going to be less intelligent than my friends that were going to U-M. I am extremely pleased with my education at Central. I feel like I personally have learned more than I would have at U-M, because I am much more involved and I get to know many of my professors (although not in the few lecture classes I have had). I received such great feedback on my formal writing that I am beginning to realize just because the standardized test people didn’t see it, doesn’t mean I don’t have potential as a writer. I also realized that I am not a second-class student because I do not attend U-M. I still feel a little bit inferior to my friends that dress in their heels and low-cut shirts when we go to parties. I feel like such a plain and boring girl. I have found that I like the guys that seem interested in me when I am dressed in jeans and a t-shirt more than the guys that seem interested in me on the rare occasions when I am sporting heels and a low cut shirt. I am into simplicity. I like simple guys too. Guys that live simple, but have complex thoughts. That is getting harder and harder to find.

I recently doubted myself on something and while talking to my brother, I asked his opinion. I asked if something I did was too over the top. He responded, “It’s not too anything, because it’s you. It’s just you. Stop trying to be what other people want you to be.” He was right. I try so hard to have everyone like me that it is crazy. I thought I was rebelling against this problem this year by taking firmer stances on religion and morals. I was only trying to do so while keeping the support of everyone just as much. I am sick of feeling ashamed for how I feel, my beliefs, or who I am. I am not less of a person because I do not like religion. I am not the devils advocate, because I am happy with where I am at spiritually even if it does not coincide with Christianity. Why does society make me feel like I need to be ashamed to take a stand on something? Why does society make me feel like I need to fit in?

I don’t need to compare myself to girls in heels, standardized tests scores, politics of universities, or religious people who put me down. I can laugh at my errors this year, even though it sometimes leads to tears. I am satisfied with my personal progress this year, and I am looking forward to seeing how I will progress over the summer.

Mad to Live

I have fallen in love with the Beat Poets. The more I read them the more I want to be a writer. I find solace in their insane amount of passion. We read the Beat Poets for my Literature class, or shall I say were supposed to read about the Beat poets. It was during my depression when I wasn’t doing much homework. I didn’t really appreciate them like I should have, although I did love hearing my professor talking about them. I loved pretty much anything he had to say about literature. We did get to listen to Jack Kerouac reading the first chapter of his most famous book “On the Road,” and we read the ending as a class. I was intrigued, but not enough to really read about them. When I screwed up my take home exam I had to go back and look at the Beat poets for an essay question. I got caught up reading about them and before I knew it, it was 3:30 AM and I had yet to study for my Social Work exam the next morning. I couldn’t stop though. It was just so amazing and interesting, and in some weird way I related to it. It seems insane that I relate to the Beat poets, after all they were a bunch of college dropouts with drug addictions, no money, and some alcohol issues. They traveled the country from big city to big city living in horrible conditions in the 1940’s. How can I relate to that? I probably would have constant panic attacks if I traveled with them and experienced their adventures. I can’t help but feel a connection with their idealism and passion about writing to the point where it is considered unhealthy, and definitely not “cool.” I am somewhat jealous of their freedom. Jack Kerouac lived with his mom his whole life when he wasn’t traveling. He lived with her to avoid rent and just write all-day and everyday. It is so amazing that a bunch of college stoners all decided to dropout, and then devote their lives to writing. They had regular late night intellectual conversations while under the influence of god knows what. It’s not like I want to drop out of school and become a druggie, obsessed with literature and writing, but I would love to have such freedom to write. That type of lifestyle is not even feasible anymore. When I was talking about this with my brother he compared that type of rebellion to someone today just stopping after a bachelors degree and traveling and writing, because it seems a bachelors degree does not mean much these days, or at least not as much as it used to. They were mad writers. Allen Ginsburg wrote his famous poem “Howl” in a 40-hour straight sitting. He claimed to do this under the influence of “heroin, liquid Methedrine, and Dexedrine.” In a similar burst of insanity Kerouac wrote “On the Road” in the form of a completed manuscript in a 3-week period. His wife at the time claimed he would sweat through several t-shirts a day. He would take Benzedrine to stay awake. He refused to change the paper on the typewriter, because he was certain that it interrupted his flow. His final manuscript ended up being 120 ft long (single spaced). That is pure insanity.

I relate to their search of self and spiritual values. It was said that they were “young people coming of age into a Cold War without spiritual values they could honor.” I feel like my generation has a major dilemma with spirituality as well. I feel like spirituality has been replaced by doctrines and religious rules for so many, and those who try to combine them are outsiders to church people and non-church people alike. It was quoted that the Beat poets had a “will to believe, even in the face of an inability to do so in conventional terms.” I know I have that. I also am mad to live, like Kerouac quotes in “On the Road”,
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'"
I am mad for all of those things (It is clear I am finally healing, because I am feeling passion again). If I can find a semi-good looking guy that is mad to live like that, then I will beg him to marry me instantly. Unfortunately, I don’t think I could have ever married a Beat poet, even with all of their passion. Drug-addict/alcoholic/promiscuous guys do not make very good husbands. That’s just my opinion though. I sure admire their romantic idealism, though. It makes me want to be a writer even more than before. It makes me want to be able to read literature and write all-day and everyday. Add some traveling to that, and I think they were on to something. I have come close to their freedom this summer (Which only started this week). I spend my days reading and writing, and I love it. I have been doing a lot of thinking lately at how much I have grown this year, even in the past few months. Writing really helps me think clearly. I still struggle to meditate, because my thoughts are still racing a little abnormally fast with all of drugs and stuff. When I write I can keep more control over my thoughts and even follow them to wherever they may take me, and isn’t that the idea of meditation? There are so many people from my past I have been thinking about lately. People I feel wronged me, or that I was “too nice” to. I feel like I have grown into a much stronger person, and I need to accept that I was not confident in myself in high school. I guess, on the positive side I didn’t make any enemies, even if I did put up with a lot of crap, and not let people really know me. There are also people from this year that I think of that I let walk all over me as well. Retrospect is always 20/20 though. My friend Beth always tells me “Aimee, you are not as much of a badass as you think.” That is entirely true. I still cry when people reject me or yell at me. I still get angry at things beyond my control, and I still get giddy when I am excited about something. I still freeze-up in the moment and often don’t stand up for myself like I should, even though I believe I am a stronger person. I can think of stuff even in the past week where I did not stand up for myself, and it turns my stomach when I think about it. Life is so weird. I am glad to be taking a break from my life for a while to evaluate, which emotions are worth bringing up with people, and which ones I need to let go. Maturity is tough, in the sense that I have to learn how to forgive and stand up for myself. Those two things are much harder than I had expected.

Personality Quizes

We have all taken personality quizzes in magazines, "Are you the kind of girl Brad Pitt dates" or "How flirty are you?" Okay maybe that is just any girl that made it through sixth grade. The Myers-Briggs personality quiz is not like that. It is actually very accurate. Many business professionals use it when looking at employees. I can't say that I have taken the whole thing, because that generally costs money, but whether it was a shortened version for my Residential College class, a written version for my friend's psych class, the personality quiz on myspace, or the one I just took...I have consistantly been identified as an INFP. I love reading about INFP's because it is so strange to me that people can be lumped into categories by personality types. The facts behind INFP's are always very accurate to my personality. I was inspired from Groove Adam's blog, so I wanted to retake the test to see if would get different results (I didn't). I also wanted to read up more on INFP's. They were long articles so I highlighted the things I thought I could relate to.

"Healer Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in striving for their ends, and investigative and attentive in their interpersonal relations. Healer present a seemingly tranquil, and noticiably pleasant face to the world, and though to all appearances they might seem reserved, and even shy, on the inside they are anything but reserved, having a capacity for caring not always found in other types. They care deeply-indeed, passionately-about a few special persons or a favorite cause, and their fervent aim is to bring peace and integrity to their loved ones and the world.

Healers have a profound sense of idealism derived from a strong personal morality, and they conceive of the world as an ethical, honorable place. Indeed, to understand Healers, we must understand their idealism as almost boundless and selfless, inspiring them to make extraordinary sacrifices for someone or something they believe in. The Healer is the Prince or Princess of fairytale, the King's Champion or Defender of the Faith, like Sir Galahad or Joan of Arc. Healers are found in only 1 percent of the general population, although, at times, their idealism leaves them feeling even more isolated from the rest of humanity."

"Their extreme depth of feeling is often hidden, even from themselves..."

"As INTPs tend to have a sense of failed competence, INFPs struggle with the issue of their own ethical perfection, e.g., perfo rmance of duty for the greater cause. "

"Sensing is introverted and often invisible. This stealth function in the third position gives INFPs a natural inclination toward absent- mindedness and other-worldliness, however, Feeling's strong people awareness provides a balancing, mitigating effect."

Look at the List of Famous INFP's

Famous INFPs:

Homer
Virgil
Mary, mother of Jesus
St. John, the beloved disciple
St. Luke; physician, disciple, author
William Shakespeare, bard of Avon
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Evangeline)
A. A. Milne (Winnie the Pooh)
Laura Ingalls Wilder (Little House on the Prairie)
Helen Keller, deaf and blind author
Carl Rogers, reflective psychologist, counselor
Fred Rogers (Mister Rogers' Neighborhood)
Dick Clark (American Bandstand)
Donna Reed, actor (It's a Wonderful Life)
Jacqueline Kennedy Onasis
Neil Diamond, vocalist
Tom Brokaw, news anchor
James Herriot (All Creatures Great and Small)
Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)
James Taylor, vocalist
Julia Roberts, actor (Conspiracy Theory, Pretty Woman)
Scott Bakula (Quantum Leap)
Terri Gross (PBS's "Fresh Air")
Amy Tan (author of The Joy-Luck Club, The Kitchen God's Wife)
John F. Kennedy, Jr.
Lisa Kudrow ("Phoebe" of Friends)
Fred Savage ("The Wonder Years")

Mary mother of Jesus was an INFP? How do they know this? I was getting better at realizing that I physically cannot be like the Saints...now this is really going to set me back. I supposedly have the same personality type as Jesus's mom...that's not going to get to my head or anything (sarcasm) haha. In all seriousness, I couldn't help but notice all of the writers and creative people on there. Now instead of being a saint I can strive to be a legendary literature person like Homer or Virgil...okay that last part was a joke. I do want to at least get published though!

What type of legends are in your personality type? Check it out: http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp

Loneliness

"l(a"
by ee. cummings

l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness



"Loneliness"

e.e. cummings
said it all with 3 short words
inside of that one dreaded word.
That one word that I could write
about forever, because I
know it so abnormally well.
He said it all with 4 words.

It’s all been said-
better than me. I’m just
another depressed writer
who sees the truth of life.
I know the forbidden truth-
We are all alone, but can’t deal
with such agonizing thoughts
so we lie. Life is lies.

I don’t want to lie anymore.

Maturity and Wisdom

Maturity (N)
1. The state or condition of being fully grown or developed
The condition of being ripe, fully aged, or fully grown, especially mentally or emotionally

Wisdom (N)
1.The knowledge and experience needed to make sensible decisions and judgments, or the good sense shown by the decisions and judgments made
2.Accumulated knowledge of life or in a particular sphere of activity that has been gained through experience

Is it possible to become less mature for a while in order to become more mature? I have been reflecting on wisdom and maturity and I realized I have become less mature lately and a lot less wise. I think it has the potential to help me grow more mature and wise in the future, but I am stuck living in this slap in the face of how young and clueless I really am. It is funny, because I like to pretend like I am so mature compared to a lot of people, but I think I am misusing the word "maturity." I have used the word immaturity for people in my life that I believe do not question things as much as I do or who are content with simplicity. Maybe they decided on simplicity after questioning, because after I am struggling so much with all of this questioning stuff, I can see why a person would choose simplicity. I also realized that I have already been developing a "college-educated arrogance". I noticed this when a friend of mine took me to a simple restaurant in town and we stayed there from seven to when it closed at midnight. He knows the waitresses and all of the regulars. They are all your average blue-collar workers. My friend sits there and chain smokes with many of them and takes the time to get to know them. I realized I have lost touch with that. It is funny, because I do not consider my family intellectual at all. We have come along way, where many people might consider us a family who has our lives together. My brother is eventually getting a PhD and my mom is getting ready to begin work on her masters. My dad has worked his way up as an electrician. Despite where we are now, I will never forget when my grandma watched my brother and me while my mom worked at the hospital with no college degree and my brother and I shared a small room before my sister was around...not to mention the old family escort. How did I turn into someone that thinks intellectual people are the only "wise" or "mature" people? I have always admired humility, and growing up I think I confused humility with self-hate. I got to be very good at putting myself down whenever I felt good about myself. I was even rewarded for my self-hate by being called humble as a "compliment" multiple times. I can see my little sister putting her self down all of the time now too. I think to rebel against that self-hate I turned into someone who is arrogant this year. I think it is okay, because I will/am learning how to balance it out. It is about moderation. Self-confidence is necessary and often looked down upon, but self-hate ends up turning you into a needy charity case or depressed (both in my case).

Maturity is impossible if it means "fully emotionally developed," because no one is ever fully developed. Every day changes you, and I will strive to become more mature and wise every day. I will never become perfectly wise and mature. I will always have my days where I regress to being 13 and yell when I don't get my way or cry when someone yells at me. I learned that from volunteering in a nursing home for over a year and a half. Even in their nineties, people have bad days and forget every ounce of wisdom and maturity they have acquired, but on good days they can blow your mind with beauty and wisdom. I often wanted to cry when I would leave the nursing home. One of the women I visited was depressed and cried a lot. I always wished I could help her more. The other one was so physically lifeless and naïve to the current world, but so beautiful and wise. I can't believe that I could recognize wisdom and maturity and the way they are not some ticket out of human flaws when I was in high school, and then totally lose sight of all of that this year.

This summer is going to be a big lesson in maturity and wisdom for me. My friendships have all changed, a few of my friends aren't coming home, and the relationship with the family is different too. I am not used to being surrounded by people all of the time. I have no therapist, which means I will have to rely on the old-fashioned way (Well, I still have my drugs which is not old-fashioned). I will have to find strength in myself and relearn to rely on my friends and family. It will be good for me, but I don't know if it is going to be easy or fun. I think it will probably be hard as hell, but I guess that is how all of the best lessons are learned…or at least that is what I am telling myself.