For many, 2020 has become like “that class” or “that student”—the one you endure as you count the days till graduation or summer break. Yet, until recently, I would have smiled and sheepishly admitted that I was enjoying much that this year had brought into my life.
Trying to remember those positive moments, I’ve been rereading my own writing from this year and found this letter I wrote on the day I traded one uncertain “in-between” for an even more uncertain one: “Today marks one hundred days for me since life was ‘normal.’ One hundred days since I left the house without thinking ‘Where’s my mask? What will security measures be today? Will the guards let me into the store? Will the walk to the store raise my temperature too much? Will the guards let me back into the apartment complex?’ “One hundred days since I could visit a friend. “One hundred days since I could go to work and see my students. “One hundred days since I started having mini praise fests every time the grocery store restocked the staple Western luxuries like cheese, salami, yogurt, and cream. “One hundred days since I began to see one of my biggest prayers—that the disconnecting, numbing power of technology would loosen its grip on my students’ generation—being answered as He glutted us all on our craving until we turned away from the semblance of ‘connection’ and began to look forward to seeing each other in person again. “Through all of this, I have seen what I call ‘glimmers of light.’ Students who were marginalized or underachieving in the classroom have suddenly become motivated and are making up for slacking in the first semester. I had a professional development opportunity almost no other teacher has ever had—daily feedback from a teacher friend who was an unobserved fly-on-the-wall in my video class. I had a wonderful friend just ‘happen’ to need a place to crash at my place for fifty-five wonderful days of healing fellowship during the height of the quarantine. “And this week, these glimmers gave way to a sunburst: I lost my job. This fall, I was rereading Paul Miller’s A Praying Life. In it, he mentions praying about his hopes and dreams. I started doing that. And He brought to mind dreams I had put away in a mental drawer, thinking they were just happy daydreams. And He kept bringing them up, as people would mention this or that opportunity in the States that match those dreams. But I was locked into a two-year contract. Yet, I kept Asking about these dreams even while accepting that I would stay overseas for another year. And then, Monday morning, I was called into a meeting and quite suddenly, found out that they were cancelling my contract for next year. “I walked home alternately laughing and singing ‘Blessed be the Name of the Lord.’ ‘He gives and takes away. He gives and takes away. My heart will choose to say, Lord, blessed be Your name.’ And, oh, how He gives. In the most unexpected way, He gave me what I had lacked the faith to ask for. “So, I’m coming home. I don’t know where that home will be. But I know when. I’ll be moving Stateside in July to start another adventure.” It has been four months since I penned that letter. Four months filled with change and uncertainty and countless decisions made on too little sleep. And although the sunburst has been crowded out by some ominously dark clouds, I still see glimmers of light.
0 Comments
As a writer, I am easily distracted. As this year has removed any sense of normal and structure from my life, finding a “writing spot” has been challenging. One of my goals this fall was to enjoy the ease of using Western internet again by resuming regular blogging (it’s hard to stay motivated when posting a blog requires several tries to load the webpage and a half a dozen refreshes to get the edit button to work). And yet, now that this fall has arrived, I still am in an “in-between” with no routines beyond go to work and go to sleep.
I find myself looking to the past for perspective and reminders of truth. Today, determined to resume a writing life, I reviewed my unpublished writing from this year and stumbled on this post I wrote for Easter: At first, when I tucked myself away inside for a presumably brief isolation, I secretly relished having unlimited, guilt-free alone time. Time to reflect, write, feel, think, grow, heal. Eighty days later, I still appreciate this time in the in-between, but I am aware of the consequence of passing time. A few weeks ago, a friend asked me whether we were going to have to go through culture shock again when we re-emerge from isolation. A disheartening thought. But she’s right. Reintegrating with society, rebuilding routines—we will have to remember parts of the foreign culture we have forgotten; we will have to adjust to parts of that culture that have changed. As with most experiences in the in-between, a new normal awaits on the other side. And a new normal, of course, means change. I’ve experienced many transitions in life, but this prolonged in-between is unique; I’m not in the process of changing locations or jobs with clearly defined parameters. At times, I feel like I’m paused mid-scene and waiting for the viewer to press Play again. But we aren’t really paused, so when He presses Play, we’ll jump to new scenes without finishing the old ones. Usually, I view change with antipathy, odd considering how often I see the flaws in the normal and try to fix it. But during this in-between, I have been musing on two ideas: the comfort of His immutability and the mercy of my mutability. In the midst of constant change—moving to new homes, gaining and losing friends, colleagues, and students, switching jobs—He remains steadfast, a sure anchor for my soul. That comfort of His unchanging nature often deludes me into wanting everything else to stay in the familiar safety of a broken normal. As I stare out the window at a world slowly unpausing, wondering what it will look like when this interlude is over, part of me fears the changes that will be. But today, Easter Sunday, we are not just celebrating God’s immutable love, justice, and grace. We are celebrating the new normal He brought us—the gift of change. Now, as we wait in the in-between, we are made new, changed from glory to glory. Those changes, though difficult and gradual, are possible because we are mercifully mutable. No matter what life looks like next, I can and will change with it while He remains the same. Even better, we look forward to a far more blessed new normal that awaits us. When I first started teaching, well-meaning colleagues or students’ parents would ask whether I were going “home” for the summer, meaning my parents’ house, a place I’ve never lived since they moved when I was in college. Because I’m single, the other adults in my life do not view me as “home” even after living in the same city for nearly a decade.
As a child, it’s obvious what home is. It’s equally obvious who will share life with you. I knew my siblings would celebrate my eighth birthday with me. I knew they would be there for Christmas and Fourth of July. But, as the youngest child, I watched in confusion as my nuclear family shifted into an extended family. My siblings moved away and celebrated more and more life events with their own growing nuclear families, as it should be. I was left behind wondering how I fit into this picture of family. Eventually, I realized that I was my now own family. I wonder if I should write a parody of the old song “I’m My Own Grandpa.” As a single adult, I celebrate most mile-markers alone or with an ever-changing circle of available friends. I have wonderful friendships, many of which have lasted since childhood or college. But even those have shifted as well as my friends have moved away, married, and had children. I woke up this morning homesick, not for a place or even a time, but for an idea: I miss having built-in people to celebrate milestones with. In the nuclear family or younger single friendships, invitations and planning are not necessary; attendance is a given. I wasn’t sent an invitation to my brother’s graduation or my sister’s wedding. It was a given that I’d be there. My friend Joy didn’t need a specific invitation to my high school graduation or even any of my high school plays or recitals. It was a given that she’d be there. Now, their lives are no longer closely tied to mine; it takes more planning and travel to do life together. Certainly, if I had invited people to join me for my thirtieth birthday, people would have come. If I had invited people to attend graduation when I finished my masters, people would have come. But it wasn’t a given. And I had invitations to join other families for major holidays, but those were pity invites, not a given. Here I am on the cusp of another one of those big milestones, and I wonder who will share in this moment with me. I don’t doubt my friend’s and family’s love. But I know their availability is limited. I know they will be happy for me and wish me well even though they can’t celebrate with me. So, I’m homesick for a future time and place in which my relationships will no longer shift and change, when I will be forever with my Family, and when we will be done with life’s milestones and simply enjoy eternity together. I started growing up this week. Just like that. After years of thinking that I was an adult because I paid my own bills, took my car to the mechanic when it was sick—er, broken, and made my own holiday meals, I crossed a threshold into maturity that I didn’t even know was there.
I am an honest person, but I struggle telling the truth. Perhaps that sounds like an oxymoron. But I view it more as a paradox. The words I speak are true, so I am honest. But there are many words I do not speak. I can be completely honest chatting with friends while never admitting the hidden fear that I think I’m not welcome. I am completely honest when I end a long-distance phone call with “I miss you” without adding the secret desire that I want to come for a visit. And I can have a truthful conversation about my latest news without admitting that I was hurt by a thoughtless comment. These hidden fears and secret desires have colored all but my closest relationships. I’ve held them inside. After all, I can’t be rejected if I never ask. Part of me fears direct questions because I will answer them honestly. And part of me longs for someone to ask them, to open the door let those hidden fears escape. Yet, I’ve developed skill in answering questions without answer questions, which means these insecurities continue to fester. Some questions I would rather avoid. My mom has a talent in asking about the very things I don’t want her to worry about. This week I am going on vacation; I coached myself to volunteer the information that while on vacation I would see a guy that I was Talking to. But I got as far as announcing my upcoming trip before Mom asked where I was staying. Yep, a direct question. I froze and said the truth, “A hostel.” Thirty minutes later, while we were still discussing the hostel, I decided not to volunteer information about the guy. That would probably spark an even longer worry for Mom, and I felt nervous enough about the visit without borrowing her worries, too. If our Talking becomes anything more, I can volunteer the information then. So, that was a lot of rambling to get around to my step into growing up this week. I actually acknowledged a desire to visit some people (without getting an invitation from them) that would inconvenience them. I put the idea out there with no strings attached, no ridiculous idealized expectations. Just the truth: I miss you and want to see you. And my happiness and security in the relationship does not matter on whether or not they accept the idea. I know they love me, and I also know that they are human and life is crazy. They can say, “No, that won’t work,” and I’m okay with that. I think taking my car to the mechanic when it’s sick is easier than this part of adulthood. But I’m already thirty. If I just started growing up this week, I’ve got a lot of ground to make up. I love the in-between. Don’t mistake me: I hate transition. Irregular, unexpected Change is persona non grata in my book. But I love the in-between seasons. When I look at my nature poems (most of which were involuntarily written for writing exercises), they are about autumn or spring. Occasionally, a poem about early winter, arguably still a part of the in-between, works its way into my writing. But those are really praising Snow and not the wonders of the season itself.
One of my favorite fictional characters, A Separate Peace’s Finny, believed that if you love someone then they love you back. To him, it was the only logical, natural conclusion. I have a little of Finny’s logic when it comes to seasons. Fall mornings and evenings should have a nip in the wind, a bite that makes hot cocoa and pumpkin stew the most logical conclusion to the day. And, naturally, those cooler temperatures require fall clothes—sweaters should be deep orange and red; it’s their most natural state. Sweaters are most sweater-like when they are autumnal. Spring mornings and evenings, however, should have a playful breeze that swishes through our hair, making it wave back at the bobbing daffodils. And who would have soup in spring when the cool, fresh strawberries are available? And just as naturally, spring dresses should be bright, breezy, and floral. This week, I tried to get my spring clothes out. After all, Easter has long since passed, and Easter is in my ideal world the epitome of spring (in the same logical way that my birthday is the pinnacle of fall). But after a short jaunt to the corner store, I returned to my room to switch out my airy blue blouse for an autumnal orange turtleneck. That change of clothes shook my paradigm for seasons. It reminded me that last fall most of what I wore was my light-weight “spring” dresses, and most of what I wore this spring has been my warm “fall” clothes. After that epiphany, I looked back over the years. Usually, I roasted on my birthday because I wanted to wear my fallish clothes, and usually I froze on Easter because my springy Easter dress was several layers too thin. Although each year, I noted that my outfit wasn’t right for the weather, the next year I somehow expect it to be different. I will assume part of the responsibility for my disappointment, but I think that clothes manufacturers need a few mea culpas, too. After all, if they made light-weight dresses in fall colors and warm sweaters in spring colors, I might have something to wear that is actually seasonal instead of an idealized notion of seasonal. As is it, at some point today I will have to brave getting out of my fortress of blankets with my toes curled under the radiator for an additional boost of warmth, and instead of accessorizing with my new pale green bamboo patterned scarf, I will wrap up in my somber winter scarf. Not that it matters what I wear. No one has seen my fall or spring clothes in five months since it’s too cold to take my coat off. Hmm, I should have bought a cuter coat. While I knew that juggling work and a transcontinental move would be taxing, I did not think so much time would pass before I continued writing. Even once I settled into my new home and new job, technology proved to be illusive at best. So, here I am at my new coffee shop (because what writer can write without a local coffee shop to hang out in?) and finishing a post I started over four months ago. (Actually, I don’t remember where I was headed with that post, so I’ll table that one for a while longer.)
Although the busyness of moving was the main reason I stopped writing, another reason was that so much of my life had changed, but I wasn’t ready to let my writing change. Just as I knew that my new home would change me, I knew that if I wrote during this transition that my writing would change, too. And, well, I was sort of afraid that those changes would be permanent. In additional to the schedule change, I’ve had a huge change in my social life. For the first time in my adult life, more often than not, I have dinner plans with friends who love a long sobremesa as much as I do. As much as I enjoy blogging, having regular dinner conversation has been rejuvenating. In fact, as I sit here writing this, I’m juggling three different conversations on social media as we decide the who, what, when, and where for our dinner plans tonight (Korean bbq at 5:00, if anyone’s interested). After a four-month break from writing, I am relieved to return to it. Certainly, my mind is full of different topics and perspectives, but the act of writing is the same. Now that I am writing again, I feel more like I am home here. I feel more like me here. This post is a little shorter than usual, mostly because I’m not sure anyone is still reading my poor abandoned blog. Although I abandoned it for a while, it certainly never left my mind, and I am happy to be back. One of the philosophers (I think it was Nietzsche) noted changes in his writing style when he switched to a new medium (the writing ball). His message and manner started to match the forcefulness needed to use the medium, a forcefulness not needed in the more methodical pen and paper. Today, I'm adapting a new medium, hesitantly aware that it has the power to change my message or at very least my manner of communication. Another change.
Yet, I have been reassured in the past week as I visit my family that in spite of all of these changes, things remain the same, too. My siblings and cousins are grown and have their own families now. But in spite of that, some aspects of our time together will not change. I still heard my uncle call my cousin by his full name (this time as part of his wedding vows instead of a warning). I still saw someone taking forever to take one picture because the subjects in the pictures were perfectly posed (this time, the photographer was my aunt's grandson instead of my aunt). I still enjoyed wonderful sobremesa as our conversations meandered around family updates, theological discussions, good-natured teasing about someone particular tastes, and of course, the amazing bundt cakes and coffee (why is it so natural to discuss food while eating food?). And it was still a refreshing treat. I know that families can be messy and loud and stressful (especially if you are a quiet, opinionated pleaser), but I have an extraordinary gift in a family that is a joy to be with. I can come away from a weekend family get-together (which at this stage in our family is mostly for weddings or funerals) feeling encouraged and refreshed. When God saw man alone in the garden, He said it was not good. And His solution to that aloneness was one of His greatest gifts--family. Not a big fan of change. I like trying new things. Today, I went to an Indian buffet and tried delicious “pepper puffs of pain” (my friend’s name for them) and loved them. A few weeks ago, I tried Turkish coffee and namoura—love, love, love both of them. See, new things are okay, safe, delightful.
And change can be good, too. I used to be a crazy busy graduate student; I’m not anymore. I get to sleep sometimes now. That’s a good change. I used to not be able to tell when I played a wrong note on my guitar because all of the notes sounded bad. Now my three-year-old niece says, “Wow” in awe as I tune the guitar. Another good change. (I'm sure my neighbors agree with that.) But transitions just aren’t fun. And I’m stuck in a transition period. I knew what’s on the other side of the transition (a good change), but I’m not there now. I sort of feel like I’m stuck in a holding pattern circling Atlanta’s Hartfield airport for the fifth time. And all my friends are muddling through their own transitions, too, except they are stuck on different metaphorical flights. A few years ago, while I was in another transition period (one in which I didn’t know what was on the other side), I started a poem about that feeling of being stuck, except my metaphor was based on elevators instead of airplanes. I haven’t finished the poem yet, but here’s the second draft of it: There's not much to do in an elevator-- They aren’t meant for people to stay in. But I hopped in, excited, because it was time. The button pushed, the doors closed, I looked up. The lights changed--up, up, up, and stop-- The doors didn't open at my stop. I pushed the button again, but nothing happened. With I sigh, I leaned back to wait. Finally, I pushed a different floor-- The doors didn't open there either. Another stop--but still closed doors barred me. Another stop--no change. Up, down, push, wait-- I tried floor after floor Each floor multiple times-- Impatient, worried, eager, scared, and Finally just ready to accept any floor, But the elevator doors are still closed. I hear people enjoying the other side of the elevator doors, But I'm stuck in an elevator with nothing to do but wait. According to Lady Bracknell, an engagement “should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant.” I think that good-byes should come as a surprise, too. An impending End tends to overwhelm experience; even when we know that we still have X numbers of days until the End, we can’t completely ignore that it’s coming. So instead of actually savoring the normal moments, we pressure ourselves to create Special moments and miss the actual Lasts.
In one of my creative writing classes, we had to write a parody of a poem that starts with “On the last day of the world.” As I brainstormed for that poem, I started with grandiose plans for that final day. But in the end, my poem was a celebration of normal life, much in the spirit of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, a day that is special because it is. This has been a week of saying good-byes for me, starting with telling my students that I would not be their teacher next year and ending with my final concert with my choir. A large part of me pressured myself into sentimentality: “This is my last X,” “Aw, this is my last Z.” But most of me just wanted to let those good-byes go unsaid and slip away into the night. Beyond saying good-byes at Ends, routine good-byes should also come as a surprise. This May has been a long Bad-bye, a text-book case in my argument that the end of the school year should be a surprise for all students. Imagine a May with no “The year’s almost done; why are we still doing work?” The students and teachers would have to stay focused because we wouldn’t know when the last day would be. With the same delight as a snow day, everyone would get a call one morning: “Good morning School XXX parents and teachers. Today starts final exam week.” Yep, it would be amazing. Um, to clarify, this isn’t my subtle way of saying that I’m done blogging. After a week of Bad-byes, I doubt that I could blog good-bye today. |
AuthorWho is Eleanor Lane? Categories
All
Archives
October 2020
|