Life in the Middle Lane

AKA Guidance from an unexpected place

Last Thursday, I ran into my homeless lady friend as I was leaving work. I had a few bags of chips in my lunch bag, so I figured I’d stop and say hi, and give her some food.  As I approached her, I smiled and asked her how she was doing.  She looked back at me funny. I could tell she was thinking about how to answer that question. Usually she just answers fine, but this time I sensed that she had something else to say. Finally she smiled, and told me she was doing well.  Then she smiled brighter, stood up excitedly and said that she had something to show me.

Needless to say, I was surprised and curious and a little bit scared. I had NO IDEA where this was going. This is not the way our normal conversations go.

She pulled a flyer out of her bag, turned to a page, jabbed her finger on the page and thrust it under my nose. I could tell it was an order of service for a church, and I had a good idea where she got it.   I decided to be quiet and let her tell me what she wanted me to know.

She told me that she was on the worship committee, and was pointing to her name. I allowed my eyes to focus on the words that were floating very close to my face and I saw that her name is Angela.  I spoke her whole name out loud and she smiled even brighter. She went on to tell me what she does at the church and where the church was located. She pointed away in a direction several times.  She wanted to make sure I knew it was across the street from the Capitol.

Angela attends a downtown church that also has a homelessness advocacy and support center.  I knew about her church because I’ve often passed it on my way to the Capitol; at first I was surprised and curious by all the homeless people lounging on the church steps until I discovered the community center in the back.

Most recently I found out that Angela’s church is one of the ministerial sites that I could work at this fall as an MDIV. Her church was one of my top picks until I found out that the work hours would be 8am-noon. I am not a morning person, and couldn’t see myself being there in the right frame of mind that early in the morning.

Talking to Angela has led me to reconsider my placement. She felt strongly enough about it that she needed to tell me where she goes to church.  She need to share with me how, she, who lives under the overpass, is active, involved, and excited about her church.  It is clear that this church MEANS something to her, and probably lots of other homeless people downtown.  I almost passed up an opportunity to work with a very vulnerable population because the work hours weren’t ideal

And the universe smacked my upside my head. Thanks God, for the sign.

Signs are everywhere. Keep your head up.

AKA: In which I come clean about something very important.

In January, I wrote a very vague post about something that I was doing but wasn’t ready to talk about. Later I tweeted about having really great news but not being able to talk about it until I told the GF and my mom.

At this point, I’ve told everyone (and I do mean everyone) IRL that truly needed to know. I mean, there are some things that some people just should not learn from reading this blog.

So now I’m ready to tell you.

In January (with 2 weeks to application deadline) I decided to apply to Divinity School. Yeah, I know I said I was done with school for a while, yeah I know I JUST finished MPA school. Yeah, I know I curse like a sailor and talk crap about the church. Yes, I know, I know, I know. And I’m sure in the lead up before I leave the cube and return to the academy, you’ll know all the answers to these questions and more.

But now, the beginning.

Completing the seminary application form was a life changing experience. I went through about 20 iterations of my application essay. I struggled over which aspects of my personality and experiences where most important for the Candler admissions committee. I contemplated telling them how I really felt about the church and how I hoped to change it. I added and deleted and added again, sections about blending the MPA and MDiv, my undergraduate experience, and my work experience. I even wrote a section about Gen Y. I had 4 friends (graduates and current divinity students) read my essay. The GF and I LIVED and BREATHED my Candler essay for weeks. I went back and forth over my purpose in attending Divinity School, and second guessed whether it was the right thing to do.

In the end, I decided to put my best foot forward, tell them as much about myself and my personal spirituality as possible (even linking to my blogs), push the submit button, and leave it in the hands of the Divine.  I decided that if I got in, it was meant to be. And if I didn’t get it, so be it.  Then I tried (unsuccessfully) not to obsess about it.

If you happen to read my bio on Brazen, you’ll see that years ago [it desperately needs to be updated], I said that I would study Religion if I didn’t have to work for a living. Well, I’ve been working for a living for almost a year now, and I hate every minute of it.  I decided to screw what I’m supposed to do, and concentrate of creating a life that would make me happy to live it.

I’ve been an amateur theologian and wisdom dispenser my entire life.  My childhood was spent memorizing bible verses, attending revivals and getting my PK friends into trouble. I was THE CHURCH GIRL.  And back then I hated it because I wanted to be like everyone else. 

By high school and college, I was the person people came to with their problems. I was still Church Girl but I was slowly learning to filter out all the church BS and help people in a practical way.

Today, my religious background is an undeniable part of who I am.  Biblical literature and religious trivia is one of the few things that I get truly geeky about. I could write a book (and I just might) on everything that I think is wrong with Christianity and all that I think the western world could learn from other world religions.  Sitting in a Systemic Theology class at Candler almost had me wet my pants in excitement. Reading Candler’s course catalog nearly had me in a dead faint.

I’ve spent the past 10 years trying to figure out who I am and how I want to spend my time. I found my purpose for helping people while working with citizens in local government, MPA school introduced me to urban problems like housing and community development and gave me the technical background to be effective in those areas, and seminary will nurture the caring and compassionate part of my personality that I will need to tackle the “people-side” some of those and other large social problems.  Each step I make gets me just a little bit closer, like I’m making increasingly smaller concentric circles. 

Each experience, even my current job, adds something to my professional toolbox and gives me the opportunity to learn something about myself, the world I live in, and my place in the mix.

I’m excited to say that Candler decided that my love of social justice and my decidedly untraditional brand of spirituality is a good fit for their program. Last week I sent them my deposit.

It’s official. I’ll be attending Emory University’s Candler School of Theology in the Fall.

I had a therapist the entire time I was in graduate school. Therapy, for me, consisted of once or twice a month meetings where my therapist and I would discuss whatever current crisis was happening in my life.  And it really felt like my life was a series of crises. Every month, poor Doc had to talk me off the ledge.

She had a saying that I still repeat to myself.

“Unless you get hit by a bus, you are going to be ok.  No matter what.”

For two and a half years, all the time I worked with her, no matter what the crisis, the Doc never wavered.

No matter that I broke off my engagement.

No matter that I quit my job to go back to school.

No matter that I have to make friends (or at least TRY to be nice to people).

No matter that I started a new relationship.

No matter that I came out to my mother as a lesbian.

No matter that I wasn’t the smartest and most active in school

No matter that I constantly worried about stuff that probably won’t happen.

No matter what.

Every month she reminded me that as long as I didn’t get hit by a bus, I would survive.

Whenever I get overwhelmed, or frustrated or afraid I try to remember that I haven’t been hit by a bus, so I must be ok.

AKA Things I have to leave in my 20’s

I can’t remember when I fell in love with Long Island Iced Tea (LIT). Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that my late teens and early twenties are such a blur, but it seems that I quickly graduated from sipping my mother’s strawberry daiquiris, to having someone order my rum and Cokes or Margaritas, to buying my own cheap boxed Merlot for the dorm room and ordering LIT out in public.

I’ve decided to blame the drugged environment of the fine dining restaurant where I worked in college. We had a couple of amazing bartenders that loved nothing more than push alcoholic beverages in my face and watch my face light up with their yumminess.  I remember my 21st birthday, and the dismay on the general manager’s face when he heard my age because I’d been drinking there for years.

Aside: I experienced a number of firsts in that restaurant- my first scotch and water, my first sashimi, my first rare steak, my first cigar, my first LEGAL drink, the first job I loved, probably my first LIT. It’s likely that working in that restaurant from age 19-22 years laid the foundation for debaucherous decade that has become my twenties.

The LIT has certainly played a starring role during this decade. For whatever reason, in spite of all the other drinks that I’ve come to love: the Grey Goose Gimlet, the Tangeray Gin and Tonic, Jack and Ginger or Coke, or if I’m feeling sophisticated, a nice spicy Cabernet, or girly; a sweet Riesling….. I most often order a LIT.  You just CAN’T go wrong with an LIT.

As I approach the twilight years of the decade, I’m blessed to have a guide. The GF is a few years older and infinitely wise in the ways of making it successfully past the big 2-9.  As my twenties disappear she tells me how this body part stops working and that one starts to creak, and you can’t do that like you used to and, so on and so on. Because I’m hardheaded, I’m slow to listen to her advice.

In my mind, my body is ageless, timeless, immortal. The normal rules of aging do not apply to me. And I’ll kick anyone in the face that dares to disagree with me. And because normal aging rules do not *cough* apply to me, I have, on occasion, continued to behave as I did at 22.  And at the end of those nights, the GF makes sure I have a small hamburger, 4 Advil and a big glass of water. (Gosh, I love her.)  Still, more often than not, on those cursed hungover mornings after, the GF turns to me with a smirk and says, “How old are you again?”

This past weekend, after (MY LAST, I SWEAR) brutal hangover after drinking mostly Sangria, followed by one JUST one LIT, I finally started to understand. My 28 year old body does not metabolize (ugh, I hate that word) alcohol the way that 22, 25 or even 27 year old Monica did.

I hate to report that the LIT and I have broken up. I’ve resigned myself to stick with the occasional glass of wine, or the single liquor drink. (oh how it pains me to say this)

But, there are just some things I’m not willing to put my body through. Killing my feet in high heels is one of them, ridiculous all day hangovers is another one.

You know that feeling where you get sometimes that feels like butterflies in your tummy? The one where your body is a vibrating, waiting, tense wire. You’re so ready to MOVE that your head is either going to explode or you are going to pee in your pants.

When you get this feeling, this…. sensation… your spirit, your VERY SOUL is pulls you in 8 different directions, your toe is tapping and your web browser has, like, 35 tabs open. And if you’re anything like me, your computer just ISN’T fast enough to keep up with you.

You probably have not been sleeping well because as soon as your head hits the pillow, your mind starts thinking all these crazy ideas, and you have to get up and write them down because you’ll never remember them all in the morning. But if you get up now, you’re going to spend another hour writing, then another 30 minutes or so calming back down (warm milk or tequila helps).

And you probably have a dull headache because you’re sleepy, you’ve been sitting too close to the computer and you forgot to eat lunch.

Welcome to my week.

Maybe it’s excitement of 3 of my favorite “non-related to me” women having birthdays (go Aries!), maybe it’s the reverence in the air with Holy Week, Passover, and the Spring Equinox all converging, or maybe the tutonic plates which are my life are coming together in a way that is not unlike an earthquake.

I don’t know what the f*ck is going on, but I’m feeling a little crazy.

Have an AMAZING weekend! May you feel the excitement, the change, the expectancy that I feel at this moment.  May it play over your skin like musical notes. May it be in the very air you breathe. My it fill you like water. May it carry you forward towards your dreams.

Alternatively titled I love the Internets or I just wanted To Share

I have several half written blog posts that *one day* will make here for your reading pleasure, but today I’m just going to share a few posts that  resonated with me in a very special way. So without further ado.

Blogs that made my day.

Being by Doniree:  Found via (Genpink): I love this post so much that, not only do I want to print it and read it lots, I also want to copy it.  Not word for word, but I want to copy the style of it and create my own “I am” piece.

You Already Have Everything You Need by Jenny Blake: I’m not sure whether I have a humongous girl crush on Jenny or if this is just hero worship but I love her.  This post is the answer to all of my angst filled “why can’t I just get over myself and do something” posts.

How To Be Creative At Work by Penelope Trunk: She kind of lost me in the middle with all the high brow vs low brow commentary, but the last paragraph sums up the trouble that I think I have finding work in organizations and how I feel today about the work I’m not allowed to do at work. Sometimes our pre-conceived idea of what is acceptable or what we need causes us to miss out on the gems that are amazing but don’t quite fit what we’re looking for.

Empty Spaces (and Moving Past Loneliness by Jenny Blake: (Told you that I love her!) I love this post because I can relate. Moving to Atlanta was incredibly hard. I left a lot of my “I’ll be at your door in 15 minutes” friends in NC, and haven’t really filled that space yet. So now when the GF and I are involved with different things, and I can’t get someone on the phone, I find myself really alone for the first time ever. It’s f’ing scary and I hate it but those times teach me to be comfortable with and by myself.

Rescued by a Social Justice Christian by KT_Writes: As I struggle to reconcile my spirituality with the other parts of my personality, I crave wisdom from other people who succeed in that endeavor. Kristin is a great example of Christian done right. And this post exemplifies points about Christianity that many Christians fail to remember. Jesus is about service and helping others and feeding the poor. And that’s all social justice is.

Kevin Powells “Open Letter to Black America” by Sista Toldja: I really like this letter.  It speaks to several issues: Spiritually, Health, Community Economic Development, and Urban land development issues that I care deeply about and that I worry don’t get the “air play” that they deserve. I also believe that while this letter was aimed specifically at Black folk, there are a lot of poor Asian, Hispanic, Latino and other folk who need to read/hear/see it as well.

Wyoming recently signed legislation adopting an official state code based on the Cowboy Code.

I didn’t have a TV much in my childhood, but when we had one in the house, my mother and grandfather made me watch western movies, Oprah, and the Andy Griffin show.  I never liked western movies; they were usually old, old movies, still in black and white.  I knew they were not the shows that my classmates talked about in school.

Despite my displeasure at having to watch those old movies and in my mind, “old people shows”, the cowboy movies always sucked me it.  Cowboys, to me, are exactly the way men are supposed to be. They are even better than the men from my favorite historical romances (which I LOVE).

Cowboys work quickly and quietly, they always do the right thing, even when it hurts, they are bound by honor, they always get the bad guys, they are good to the women around them, and they are kind to animals.  What more could one want in a man?

So when I listened to this podcast I was intrigued by the notion of a law created in the spirit of the cowboys from those old black and white movies. It only took a little digging to find this from Outdoor Life.

Although the historic Code of the West was unwritten, cowboys, trappers, hunters and others in the U.S. frontier knew it was about maintaining honesty, integrity and courage in a wide-open region where the affects of government barely reached and laws were not always enforced. Even though the bill is merely a symbolic gesture, carries no criminal penalties and is not meant to replace any civil codes, here at the Newshound, we think it reflects a pretty valuable ideology.

Ten Principles of Cowboy Ethics:

1. Live each day with courage

2. Take pride in your work

3. Always finish what you start

4. Do what has to be done

5. Be tough, but fair

6. When you make a promise, keep it

7. Ride for the brand

8. Talk less and say more

9. Remember that some things aren’t for sale

10. Know where to draw the line

Isn’t this cool, and so very true!? If only those in power (political, economic and social) believed and lived by these. But this list isn’t just for the rich or powerful.

What I love the most about this list is that it isn’t JUST about how to do more or better work. This is about how to live a better life. We all could live fuller, happier lives and make the world a better place if we keep this code in mind.

How different would the world be if everyone kept their promises (and we trusted them to keep their promises) or if everyone lived with the courage to do what needs to be done or our souls/environment/country couldn’t be sold to the highest bidder.

I’m adding this to my vision board. Who knew that the cowboys from my mama’s favorite movies were not only perfect men, but also good models of ethical behavior? Maybe THAT’S what made them perfect

A month or so ago, I reconnected with one of my first blog homies, Holly Hoffman, who has been doing BIG THANGS for herself lately.

We tweeting briefly and she asked me what’s been going on in my life lately. And I replied like a smart aleck,“I’m full of angst as usual. Trudging upstream. Surrounded by mediocrity”

I thought Holly would laugh it off, or commiserate before moving on to the next topic.  She didn’t.  Instead she asked me what I’m going to do to change it.

After I gasped in shock and horror, I scrambled for a reply. I wanted to reply in a way that didn’t make me look like the lame asses around me that I deplore but I wanted to be truthful and not say something that could come back later and bite me in the ass. So I replied with an only-slightly BS line about “working on some things and making some connections” when in reality I spend most of my time lamenting the fact that I’m not writing much, and watching TV on Fancast and Netflix.

But having been posed that question by Holly, I started to really think about the things that I dislike about my life and all the stuff I’m not doing to change it.  And I realized something. I’m incredibly lazy and beset by inertia.

Inertia, according to Wikipedia, is the resistance of an object to change its state of motion.

“The vis insita, or innate force of matter is a power of resisting, by which every body, as much as in it lies, endeavors to preserve in its present state, whether it be of rest, or of moving uniformly forward in a straight line.”

Before I get all over my head in science world, basically this means that as much as I think I’d like to change certain aspects of my life (or even myself) at least a part of me is comfortable here.

A less science-y example:  This past weekend in Atlanta was gorgeous. 74 degrees, sunny. It was an amazing glimpse of Spring and I loved every second of it. But over the past few months, I’ve gotten used to wearing a coat, gloves, scarf and hat and walking around outside in just my regular clothes and a small sweater made me feel exposed and incomplete.  And I HATE bulky winter outerwear.

But it just goes to show you how easily behaviors and mindsets can become ingrained and how things, even the things that we hate, can become the norm.

There are lots of things I want to do, but every time I make a little progress, something (usually my own negativity) pulls me back into inertia.

I don’t have a solution to my inertia problem; if I did I’d be 50 pounds lighter, have written a book or two and would be chilling in Costa Rica. I know you are probably thinking (like I often do) Why don’t you just get off your ass and DO something.

I only wish it were that easy. Inertia is a powerful thing. You see, not only does the power of inertia state that an object will remain in its current state of motion, it also states that only a greater force can cause the object to change.

Last summer I was hit by a greater force. I graduated from MPA school with no prospects for employment. I was given the chance to change my life and break away from the power of inertia. I was living with the GF in a stable environment that could have been a breeding ground for creativity, self-discovery and entrepreneurship. Mostly it wasn’t. I wasted my tine trying to get back to where I was most comfortable. Working for someone else.  I dabbled in starting my own business, but I don’t think I took it as seriously as I should have. I didn’t push as hard as I should have.  Now I find myself, basically in the same place that I was in before I went to graduate school, except now it’s worse.

When I look at some of my peers, I see them as these brilliant rockets blasting off into the outer spaces of life and success and I wonder what drives them so.  This reminds me of a quote I heard during one of my Philosophers’ Notes that says that

“the majority of fuel used by a rocket is  used during take-off when the rocket is trying to breech the Earth’s gravitational pull.”

Hmmm.

Physics (Gravity and Inertia) shows us that the hardest part is getting started. Maybe, if I can just start moving and build some momentum, I can shift my inertia from one of standing still to one of constant movement. Maybe it only takes a push to propel myself (figuratively) into the air. Maybe then getting to and staying at cruising altitude will be relatively easy.

I have 3 siblings.  You’ve heard me talk about my brother that’s in Afganistan, and my youngest sister, Kelly Belly, who is the smartest person I know.

I don’t often talk about my sister Maretta, so I’m going to tell you a story about her today.  Maretta (Retta Feta) is only 18 months younger than me.  Apparently, my mother didn’t realize that she could get pregnant so quickly after birthing me.  For all intents and purposes, I cannot remember my life without Retta being a part of it. We went to the same elementary, middle and high schools. I used to hang out with her class and go with her on field trips. (I don’t know how I got out of my classes to attend all her events.) Maretta and I were never in the same class because Maretta has Down’s Syndrome.

Maretta’s Down’s Syndrome was never a issue in our family. Often when friends meet her for the first time they are surprised by it because we don’t think it’s something that needs to be explained in some way.  She was never treated any differently. Mama expected her to go to school and do well, the same as the rest of us.  Specialness was not a hot commodity in our family. Everyone is special. I’m special because I was the oldest, Maretta’s special because of Down’s Syndrome, Matthew’s special because he’s the only boy, and Michaele’s special because she’s the youngest. See how that works? No one was ever jealous and no one had “middle child syndrome”.

I’ll be the first to admit that my siblings and I don’t have a traditional sibling relationship. We just love each other too much, and we’ve always gotten along way too well.  That doesn’t mean that there haven’t been times when I’ve wanted to bang their heads together.  With Retta, I rarely wanted to bang her head against something; I was more likely to want to bang my head against something. She has never liked it when I’ve told her what to do, and she is WAY more stubborn than I am. And quite honestly, she’s stronger than I am, so I never could bang her head into anything the few times I’ve tried.

Maretta is very caring and loving but, like all of us, she has her flaws. Maretta had a couple of years between her birth and our brother’s.  She was none too pleased to have Matt in the family.  She didn’t want to touch him, she didn’t want to play with him, she didn’t want him around and she had HELLA tantrums when he was a baby.  I, on the other hand, treated him like a new toy.

And when Kell was born a few years later, things weren’t much better. Maretta was indifferent to her at best.  Kell was is an attention whore, and I don’t think Maretta liked having this little screaming meanie monopolizing Mom’s and Dad’s and my attention. Maretta ignored her when she could and tolerated her when she had to. (Now they have a great relationship, and their closeness makes me proud and a little jealous).

Maretta’s disdain for children extends to all babies and toddlers. Under the best circumstances she ignores them and pretends that they don’t exist.

So when I, my Mom, Maretta and Michaele decided to visit Matthew’s wife and babies this Christmas we weren’t sure how Retta would react to the little ones.  Honestly, we weren’t sure how ANY of us would react.  We all were meeting Matt’s family (wife included) for the first time and it was a little scary for all of us.  Moreover, since Matt’s in Afghanistan, we could not even use him as a buffer.

Luckily, Christmas was AWESOME. My brother’s wife is really sweet and we had a lot of fun. We each made sure to get some one-on-one bonding time with Maria. And I, personally, think Matt did a good job of adding her to our family. And my boy has made some pretty babies.

The babies are the cutest creatures I have ever seen.  They are cuter than puppies, kittens, bunnies, and strawberry pie a la mode.  I am madly, dangerously, irreversibly in love.  And I’m not the only one.  Maretta couldn’t get enough of those children. Almost immediately she was curious about them, peeking over our shoulders so that she could get a good look at them while we held them, or showering them with kisses whenever they were close to her. And before long she wanted to hold them by herself and talk to them.  This was the ONLY time that Maretta has ever given two hoots about a kid, and now she’s cooing, and kissing and rocking this beautiful child. *shaking my head*

Life is grand. And I’m an auntie.

If we are Facebook friends, check out my “Christmas in Colorado photo album”. And if we aren’t facebook friends, check my photos out here.

Alternatively titled: Why I prefer nudity

I have to start this post by telling everyone that I’m not just getting fatter. I hope to GOD that I’m not getting fatter, since I pay 50 bucks a month for a gym membership and I spend 3+ hours several days a week working out and dealing with all the stuff that goes along with working out (travel, showering, etc)

Since starting to work out last year, I’ve toned up tremendously (I have thighs and buns of steel) but I haven’t seen the scale budge.  Honestly, I haven’t seen a difference in (most) of my clothes. It takes a huge weight gain before my clothes let me know that I’ve started gaining.  The latest weight gain took place during the two years that I was in MPA School drinking beer and exercising little (none in the first year, sporadically in the second year).  I’m just (in the past 6-8 months) starting to notice and, only recently, try to do something about it.

Because I’m something of a yo-yo weight loser I have about 3 different sizes of clothes.  The first (lowest sized) clothes are tight now, and I’ve moved on to the next largest size.  These clothes are supposed to fit.

So I was surprised last week, when, after only a few hours at work I realize how uncomfortable I am. I realize that my clothes are tight. And of course, as soon as I START to think about how the waistband of my pants is digging into my stomach, I can’t think of anything but my bloated stomach.

So after a couple more hours of labored breathing and hurting stomach, I vow that as soon as I get these clothes home, they are going into my “goodwill” pile.

Later, I get home; chuck the pants and the shirt (good riddance!) away, put on my favorite sweat pants and finally starts to breath normally.  When the GF get’s home, I, still sore from the day of poor circulation around my middle, tell her about giving the pants away.

And she asked me which pants I’m giving away because I’m not allowed to give any away until she made sure that they aren’t the pants she liked to see me in.

*Shrugging*.  What am I going to do with her?

The story continues….

It has been unseasonably cold in Atlanta this winter, so I’m learning how to layer (Don’t judge me, I’m southern.  I shouldn’t have to layer).  I was wearing a button-down shirt under a sweater.   Somehow two of the shirt’s buttons have come undone, it’s tight around the shoulders and the sweater is itchy on my skin.  And I think I shrunk this sweater last time I washed it because it is RIDING UP along my stomach.

Not happy times.

Guess what?  I have more items for my “goodwill” bag.  (Yay for somebody.)

I think I need to go on a diet.

I’m also going to think about fundamentally changing the way that I dress.  Three out of five days a week something I wear to work makes me uncomfortable. I hate pants, shirts, and boots. I can’t wait until summer when I can wear skirts, dresses and flip flops. I NEVER feel this uncomfortable in a skirt (unless I’m cold).  I felt more uncomfortable yesterday than I did in 4^th grade gym class when I had to turn flips in a shirt without showing my ass. I need flowy pieces, tunics, elastic, cotton, things that breathe (so that I can breathe).

I need to go shopping.

And on a semi-related note…

Dear Mother Nature, Can I get some sunshine and 78 degree weather so that I don’t have to wear all these clothes? Puh -Puh -Please?