only connect

I’m trying to wrap my head around the idea of loneliness. Perhaps this is an impossible task. Mainly, I wonder how much loneliness is a product of circumstances, and how much it is a condition of the spirit. Do I feel lonely because I lack a particular kind of friendship in my life, or because I am dissatisfied in some way with the friendships that I do possess? Maybe ‘possess’ is too strong a word here, for a true friendship is something that coexists between two people, both contributing their part but neither capable of encompassing the whole.

Anyway, I wonder if too often we are striving after an ideal, seeking something that does not—cannot—exist in this imperfect world. Over the years, I have been fortunate to have known so many wonderful people, some of them briefly and others for longer periods of time. I have had more friends than many people, and I have also seen many of those friendships fade; this is the greatest blessing and curse of mobility. Yet despite knowing such wonderful people, I have never been able to shake a quiet, persistent sense of separation, of separateness. If you were to ask me, “When was the last time you didn’t feel lonely?”; I’m not sure I could give you an answer. Like I said, I suspect this has little to do with the quantity or quality of my friendships, and more likely reveals something about my own soul.

But perhaps I am not so alone in my loneliness as I might suppose. Surely there are others who feel this way. Maybe—is this too grand a claim to make?—this thing I am describing here is actually just the human condition. It could be that we are lonely because we expect too much, and we would have better luck if we were to look at things the other way around. If I wish to cultivate a meaningful friendship with you, perhaps I ought to start with the assumption that you are ultimately unknowable to me in your entirety. (Can I even fully know myself?) I cannot know you completely, but I can know you at least in part. And we procede from there.

 

 

Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.

–E.M. Forster, Howard’s End

that old refrain

What I really need is to get clear about what I must do, not what I must know, except insofar as knowledge must precede every act. … [T]he crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me, and to find the idea for which I am willing to live and die. Of what use would it be to me to discover a so-called objective truth, to work through the philosophical systems… to be able to formulate the meaning of Christianity… if it had no deeper meaning for me and for my life?

I first encountered this quotation from Søren Kierkegaard’s Journals as a freshman in college. At the time, I was deeply troubled about a number of things, particularly my faith in God, or rather what I perceived as my lack of faith. I did not know how to reconcile an intellectual knowledge of Christianity with the reality of life as I had experienced it; I did not know how—or if—I could translate the concept of ‘belief’ from thought into action. But I found great comfort in Kierkegaard’s words, not because they provided the answer I was seeking, but because I recognized that Kierkegaard himself had been a seeker, a person who devoted himself completely to the working out of his salvation with fear and trembling.

Both Kierkegaard’s ideas and the way in which he expressed them resonated deeply with me then, and, nearly a decade later, I still find myself returning to them. I have traveled great distances—geographically, intellectually and spiritually—but for me, the essential question remains unchanged: How then shall I live? More to the point, how do I live my life such that it may be worthy of the gospel of Christ? In one respect, I believe the answer is complex, something that must be discovered bit by bit through a lifetime of reasoning, questioning and prayer. Yet as Kierkegaard points out, there comes a point when we must stop thinking and start doing. Doing what? That part Jesus made quite clear: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength; and your neighbor as yourself.”

talents in a napkin

Everyone to whom much was given, of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand much more. (Luke 12:48b, ESV)

I realize that I may be pulling this verse out of context—that is, its context within Luke chapter 12 and the story sometimes referred to as the Parable of the Faithful Servant. But for purposes of this post, I’m not too worried about it, because the sentence conveys the heart of the thing is weighing so heavily on my mind at present.

I suppose there are two strains to it, actually. The first is that people who are blessed with talents—and all of us are blessed in one way or another—are expected to find ways of putting those talents to good use. The second is something along the lines of: if you have been given talents or strengths of a particular sort, expect to find yourself in situations where you will be expected to make use of what you have been given; that is, you will be put to the test, but you will be able to pass the test because you do, in fact, have what you need to endure it, even if it doesn’t seem so at the time.

Both of these ideas frighten me, at a deep level. (I was going to go for the hyperbole and say ‘terrify’, except that I’m not actually sure whether it is hyperbole, or something closer to the truth.) Let me see if I can explain.

For much of my life, I have struggled with feelings of worthlessness and the tendency to self-deprecate. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know. Actually, now that I have begun to break the pattern, I think maybe I do know why, at least at a certain level. I have been blessed with many talents, more blessed than many. Believe me, I don’t say that to be arrogant or prideful. In fact, that’s probably part of why I didn’t say it for so long, because I was afraid that admitting that I have been blessed would lead me to pride or arrogance or pretention: things that I saw in others and detested, possibly because I recognized and was fearful of by my own innate tendencies toward them. (Didn’t someone famous make a similar observation, that often the things we hate most about others are in fact the things we hate most about ourselves?)

But when I am perfectly honest with myself, I know good and well that I am not worthless. In perfect honesty, not only do I know that I am not worthless, but I like who I am. I don’t like everything about myself, and I am not satisfied to remain where I am right now, forever. But there is something in my essence that I can find contentment in, that I am who I am because God created me that way, because I have been created in His image and, by His infinite grace and love, I am being formed into the person who He wants me to become: that is, the image of Christ. That in itself is a huge blessing. I mean, when asked the question, ‘Do you like you who you are?’, how many people can truthfully answer ‘Yes’? There is much work yet to be done in me, and yet it is being done, little by little, day by day. And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion [A few versions say ‘will perfect it’, which I also like] at the day of Jesus Christ. (Philippians 1:6, ESV)

And you know, at some level I think I have always known this: that I am okay with being who I am. Now that I think about it, maybe the self-deprecation was me trying to take the easy way out. What I mean is, if I refuse to acknowledge what is good about me and the many ways in which I have been blessed, then I am excused from having to do anything about it. Perhaps it was a way of saying, ‘If I refuse to admit that I have certain strengths or talents, then I will be excused from not making good or proper use of them.’ Which, of course, is nonsense.

But now that, at last, I am beginning to be willing to recognize the strengths and talents I have been given, I am faced with that very issue: what am I to do about it? No longer do I look at myself and think, ‘I have nothing to offer’; but, ‘I have so much to offer, and no idea what or how.’ The truth is, I feel very, very strongly that I am called to do something, and for the life of me I cannot figure out what it is. And here my perfectionism comes into play. Whatever it is that I am supposed to do, I want to do it to my utmost. I want to pour my very heart and soul into life as God has called me to live it. There is such a passion here, I hardly know how to describe it—and that frightens me, because I have always taken such great care to be cautious and restrained, to emphasize all that is according to logic and reason. And now, not only am I forced to recognize that such a passion exists, but I am entertaining the idea that perhaps this passion is (or should be) the very force that drives my life?

I’m not entirely sure what I mean by this. It’s all so unformed (maybe uninformed?)—and yet, I believe, also formative. To what end, precisely, I cannot say. It is so frustrating, to feel so keenly that one is on the brink of something important, but to be able to go no further. At the same time, part of me is glad that I have not gotten further, because what I have already is more than enough to deal with.

This is where the second strain that I mentioned comes in. Every time I think that I have reached the limit of what I think I can carry, another weight is added. I guess must be stronger than I think, for I do bear it. But while I do believe that God does not give us anything that is more than we can bear, I also find it hard to find much comfort in that belief. Sometimes I cannot tell the difference between what is weakness and what is strength. That is when I feel most tired. More than tired: weary. That is when I say, ‘If this is what is expected of me, if this is what my strengths and talents are for, to be able to endure this, then I don’t want them any more.’ But, of course, it is not my choice. What I wonder is, if I find frustration and resignation in knowing that it is not my choice, does that mean that my strength has given way to weakness. Is my faith too little?

Even youths grow tired and weary, young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. (Isaiah 40:31, NIV)

And still the question is: how am I to do it? Where do I go from here?

Springfield stopover

The train stopped in Springfield at 11:52 AM. I disembarked and made my way into the station.  It was not what I expected: a single, empty room, not at all large, with three ticket windows and rows of chair-benches upholstered in red and blue vinyl. I looked at the row of vending machines along the wall, and thought about the peanut butter and celery sticks and tangerines in my backpack, and decided that I could not sit there for the next two hours and twenty three minutes. The only other passenger in the place, a twentysomething guy in a plaid paperboy hat, was asking the man behind the counter where he could find something to eat that wasn’t fast food. I eavesdropped for directions—“Down the stairs, turn right, then take a left when you get to Fort Street”—and set out in search of some lunch.

I knew nothing about Springfield except that it was in Massachusetts. Seen at street level, it seemed about as common as its name. This part of the city, which I assume was pretty close to the center, was a collection of brick buildings, two- and three-stories high, that probably dated from the turn of last century. I passed a series of quiet shops selling nothing in particular. Perhaps business is poor because of the economy, or maybe it was just the Christmas-to-New-Year’s lull keeping customers away.  A general malaise hung in the air, that dank mixture of decay and discontent that seems to be afflicting so much of the urban Northeast. I felt badly to see such a city, clearly in decline, without having any ideas as to its former prosperity.

The walk to the restaurant took me less than ten minutes. A sign in the window informed me that the deli counter was closed for renovations, but the dining room (just around the corner!) was still open. I hesitated a moment, not really wanting to spend the extra money on a tip. But time was short and I didn’t see any better options, so I figured I might as well go in.

I’m not sure what I had been expecting, but what I found certainly was not it. It was called the Student Prince Café, but it was actually a full-service restaurant. My first impression was of an old Scottish pub: dark wood paneling, tall booths, narrow walkways, and a beautiful antique bar that ran the length of the right wall. The hundreds of beer steins and decorative plates made it apparent that the theme was German. It struck me as the kind of place that my grandmother would like, and actually, I think I was the only customer under 50. Everyone was well-dressed: the women in blazers or cardigan sets, the men in jackets and striped ties and horn-rimmed glasses. I wondered whether they were member’s of Springfield’s aging upper set (if it had an upper set?), or if their fashion was just a quirk of New England culture.

The room buzzed with the noontime rush, but I was seated immediately. Noticing the host’s starched shirt and sharply-creased trousers, I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming in. To my relief, there were several reasonably-priced entrees on the menu. I opted for Lunch Special #2, fried white fish fillets and two vegetables, served with a cup of soup or glass of juice (which struck me as odd alternatives) and choice of dessert and hot beverage. That’s quite a lot of food for $7.50!

I decided to read while waiting for my soup (clam chowder, of course, since it was Friday.) As usual, I had several books going, but I decided to start another one that a friend had lent me ages ago and I should return soon. Its English title is Invisible Cities, and it was written by a twentieth-century Italian author named Italo Calvino, whom I hadn’t heard of but apparently is quite famous. The book’s basic premise is that Marco Polo has come to the court of Kublai Khan and is describing the wondrous cities he has visited in the course of his travels. I’m not very far at all, but I can already tell that I like it very much. Here’s one brief passage that stood out to me:

As this wave from memories flows in, the city soaks it up like a sponge and expands. A description of Zaira as it is today should contain all Zaira’s past. The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.

 

The waitress brought my meal out promptly, and I put the book away. A lot of people don’t like eating alone in restaurants, but I don’t mind, especially when the food is good. Actually, as I was working on a generous piece of gingerbread with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, I realized that I felt happier than I’d been in ages. No, that’s not quite right. I was happy in a different way: because I was traveling, because I was alone, because I was traveling alone.

I’ve spent a lot of time alone in the past few years, and so I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what ‘being alone’ means. (Classic Aleithia!) In my experience, it covers a spectrum of experiences, with solitude at one end and isolation at the other. By ‘solitude’, I mean a positive state: when I am most able to take genuine pleasure in my own company. (Sometimes solitude includes a wish to avoid other people, but not always. Actually, I would suppose that in solitude’s purist form, this would not be the case: I would be too content to bother thinking about it one way or the other.) ‘Isolation’, of course, is the converse: when I am aware of being alone in an acutely negative way. When I am isolated, I strongly desire to be in the company of another person (or other people), so much so that the thought of continuing to be alone causes me pain. (This pain is generally called ‘loneliness’, though there are different forms.) Of course, solitude and isolation are extremes. Most of the time I fall somewhere in between. But when I travel alone, I’m more likely to find solitude.

The way I see it, I can find solitude when I travel alone because of my lack of expectations about it. Travel is by nature transitory, and so the places and people I encounter while I am traveling are also transitory, with regard to my experience of them. I’m a curious person, and so I like to explore new places, to see what there is to see. If I find something beautiful or exciting or thought-provoking, that’s great. Now I have a story to share, and I might even try to come back someday. On the other hand, if I don’t discover anything wonderful, it doesn’t really matter, ‘cos I was just passing through. Why should I fear feeling lonely or out of place somewhere if I never belonged there to begin with? If I am afraid of anything, it is not loneliness in traveling, but loneliness at home. For ‘home’ is supposed to be the antithesis of travel: representative of security, stability and permanence. We find our home in familiarity of place and routine, and, above all, in our connections with family and friends and the community as a whole. It is when we seek those things and do not find them—or worse, when we find what we do have to be lacking or inadequate—that there is the greatest danger of loneliness.

I enjoyed my stopover in Springfield. Maybe that’s because I knew it was just that—a stopover. The whole time I was there, all two hours and twenty three minutes, I knew that I would get back on the train. Soon I would resume the journey toward my real destination, Syracuse, where my college friend and his wife would be waiting for me. And other times when I’ve taken trips by myself, even moving halfway across the country or the world, it has never seemed too tremendously intimidating because I remember that eventually I will return to places I know and people I love and who love me.

lux et veritas

“We live in the description of a place and not in the place itself.”
–Wallace Stevens

When you commit to a year of service, something you hear again and again is that you will be challenged to step out of your ‘comfort zone’, something that sounds very noble and worthy, especially to young people. But it is impossible to know how this idea will manifest itself in your own experience until you actually engage it in daily life. For me, my current struggle stems from an unexpected source.

 

When I first heard about the Saint Hilda’s House program, I knew nothing about the city of New Haven, except that it was home to Yale. Saint Hilda’s itself is not a part of Yale, but there are definite associations. I live in the rectory of Christ Church, located just across the street from the edge of campus; we interns attend the mid-week worship service and dinner at Berkeley (the Episcopal seminary at Yale Divinity School); we participate in spiritual direction groups sponsored by YDS; and many of the Christ Church parishioners are Yale students, professors or alumni. There were a number of factors that influenced my decision to come here, but I must admit that I found the idea of living in proximity to such a vibrant center of intellect and culture immensely appealing.

 

My first evening here, several of us were sitting and chatting around the dining table. In the course of our discussion, it came up that I had done a masters degree in Scotland. Someone asked what I had studied.

“Early Modern history of the British Isles,” I admitted with the sheepish expression of an academic who knows how little interest ‘normal’ people take in her subject. “My thesis compared political ideologies in England and Scotland before the Union of 1707. But I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“It wouldn’t bore me,” said the guy sitting next to me. I learned later he was a Yale College graduate who had taken several classes on political theory.

“You’ll love that about Christ Church,” Fr. Robert chimed in. “There’s no shortage of parishioners who are happy to spend hours discussing the most obscure topics!”

 

Then, to my delight, I learned that my daily work commute would cut right through the heart of the Yale campus. Its sprawling stone structures, many of them Neo-Gothic in style, are among the most impressive examples of American architecture that I have seen. (Though it’s a bit of a let down to find out that many of them weren’t constructed until the 1930s.) I also found out that the intern who was interested in my thesis was going to be my coworker. As a Yale grad, he would be full of facts and stories that would make the idealized institution become a ‘real’ place. It seemed like a dream come true.

It was, at first. But soon I began to realize that beyond an initial sense of wonder and delight, there were other emotions: discontent, resentment and, above all, insecurity. The truth was, I didn’t want merely to be close to Yale. I wanted to be a part of Yale itself.

 

For a number of years, I had one clear goal in life: to earn a PhD, preferably from an elite university, and become a college professor. One of my most favorite professors had done his PhD at Yale, and I wanted so much to be like him. Naturally, when I applied to graduate schools, Yale was one of my choices. I didn’t get in. In my mind, I know that my rejection shouldn’t reflect on me personally. Graduate programs in the humanities are brutally competitive: for the 20 students that Yale accepts every year for the PhD in history, upwards of 400 apply. I always knew it was a long shot.

Even so, it is one thing to receive a rejection e-mail (they don’t send real letters anymore) from an ivory tower that one has never actually seen; and something else entirely to walk past that tower every day and know that I cannot enter. Sometimes I am jealous of the students I see, because they appear to be enjoying the life that was denied to me. Sometimes I am resentful of my coworker, because I have a self-imposed (and unnecessary) compulsion to prove myself as an intellectual equal. Sometimes— often— I am frustrated with myself for not being ‘good enough’ (whatever that means).

 

And then I think how self-centered I am!  I have become so entangled in personal reflection—‘refraction’ is probably a better word—that I fail to perceive the place where I actually am and the things I am supposed to do.  I did not come to New Haven to prove how smart I am, or to have others stroke my ego. No, I came for precisely the opposite reason: that by giving of my time and talent to others, I might better understand what it is to be a very member of the Body of Christ. I am reminded of John the Baptist’s statement, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30, ESV). My identity does not lie in how others see me, or how I want them to see me, or even in how I see myself; but in how God sees me, and so in living my life in a way that brings honor and glory to Him.

 

I could approach this from another angle entirely. Rather than wonder about what I have missed by not attending Yale, I could consider what I may have been spared. Would being in this environment have cultivated my pride, pretension and arrogance? Not because I think that Yale inherently fosters such negative characteristics (indeed, I have little evidence to suppose so), but because I know myself and my own tendencies. Perhaps I would have learned to rely on my own strength, rather than to fall upon the mercy of God. But enough speculation. I must be mindful of where and what is, now.

This year is going to be an exercise in humility. For that, I am grateful.

 

“…whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.”—John 3:21 (ESV)

elm street

Beginnings can be as overwhelming as endings, though in a different sort of way.

People have been asking me for an update, they want to know all about what’s been happening and how I’m liking my new situation. And I want to oblige, really I do. I don’t know how many times in the past couple of weeks I’ve sat down with my notebook or at the keyboard to tell all about it. But the change is so drastic, and so overwhelming, that I still don’t know where to begin. I think of five good ways to spin the story, but my brain jumps from one to the next and back again so quickly, I can’t seem to put together a coherent strain of thought.

I am now living in New Haven, Connecticut. Despite having seen so much of the country, I continue to be surprised at just how different the various regions are. This is the first time I’ve been to the East Coast proper (I don’t think DC counts, does it?). I can’t speak for the rest of New England, but I find New Haven to be a city of dramatic contrasts. It is the home of Yale, an intellectual Mecca in all its splendor or affectation, depending on who you talk to; but it is also a place of inequality, poverty and hard-luck stories.

Take a walk along the street where I live. Go out the front door and to the left and you will see a string of colorful window displays: a sports bar and a noodle restaurant and shops selling the kinds of products you’re likely to see lampooned on the ‘stuff white people like’ blog. Within a block or so, the shops give way to sprawling stone structures: some of Yale’s academic buildings and residential colleges, which are among the most impressive examples of American architecture that I have seen. (Though I have to confess, it’s a bit of a let down to find out that many of Yale’s grand buildings weren’t constructed until the 1930s. After all, I studied a university that’s twice as old as America is a country. (You don’t need to be an Ivy Leaguer to be disgustingly smug.))

On the other hand, if you turn right when leaving my house, the scene is very different. The houses are older and some need a coat of paint. The stores are older, too, and offer diverse services to a diverse community. Some, like a particular hair salon I passed yesterday on my way to the supermarket, would be of little use to me. I have lived in many different environments, but this neighborhood is something different yet. It doesn’t make me feel ‘unsafe’, but neither does it make me ‘comfortable’.

In truth, I could say the same thing about Yale. I may look more like the people on that side of the street, but looks can be deceiving. No, I live between two very different worlds, and I do not belong to either one. On the other hand, I always seem to end up on the edge of things, so maybe this is not so unfamiliar after all.

peace be the journey

Four hours until my plane leaves. (In case you missed the announcement, I’m going to Connecticut for ten months to participate in an internship program. More on that next time.) I wish I were driving rather than flying. I love to watch the landscape change, to observe the continuity. When you fly, it’s over too quickly.

We talked about this once in a class I took on immigration and diasporas. In past centuries, when people made any kind of significant relocation, they traveled by boat or train or covered wagon or on foot. (I think we were talking in particular about the British who went to Australia and New Zealand. To journey from the British Isles to the Antipodes took upwards of three months by clipper ship, or four to five months by steamer. People were going by boat up until the late 1950s, when commercial airliners came into their own.) Despite its numerous difficulties, slow travel offered one advantage: it allowed the emigrants time to mentally and emotionally process the significant changes they were undergoing.

Today, by contrast, we want to get wherever we’re going as fast as possible. When I went to Arizona a few weeks ago, I got bent out of shape when I found out my flight was going to be an hour late. (Never mind the fifteen hour delay it turned into….) But a weekend getaway and permanent (or even semi-permanent) relocation are two very different things.

It still hasn’t hit me that I’m really moving. I don’t know why—it’s not like I haven’t done this before.  Maybe it’s because I have no idea what to expect.

People have been asking me, “So are you excited?” My response: “Not yet, but I will be.” Once I get going, things will be fine. Once the bags are checked and I’m through security and into that mystical no-man’s land called the airport terminal, I’ll start gathering the momentum I’ll need to get through the settling-in process. Once I get started, traveling is fun.

It’s this part right now that I hate, the eve (or in this case the morning) before the departure. I hate it because I have too much time to think—and by think, I mean to second guess myself. (And I wish my body would learn to deal with stress more effectively. I haven’t felt like eating in about two weeks.) But it will pass. It always does.

Now it’s three hours ‘til takeoff. I need to check the dryer and pack a sack lunch. I’ll leave off with an excerpt from the book I was reading last night when I couldn’t fall asleep: A Sense of Place, A Sense of Time, by John Brinckerhoff Jackson.

 

 

The European metaphorical use of the words road or way or path emphasized the difficulties encountered by the average wayfarer in the course of his or her journey through life. The most celebrated use in that new sense was in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. Christian, the protagonist, sets out on a special kind of journey, not in order to satisfy daily needs or to conform to local tradition, but in order to reach a distant, highly desirable goal: salvation. As a metaphor of man’s struggle to achieve redemption, the pilgrim’s progress is a comprehensive analysis of Protestant theology: as an account of a lengthy journey through what was in effect seventeenth-century, it vividly describes the obstacles, legal as well as topographical, which made every pedestrian journey a wearisome undertaking.

As long as those conditions persisted, as long as the average man or woman had to confront the indignities and complicates of traveling on foot, the metaphorical message of Bunyan’s work remained most important. But over the last century and a half, two developments have taken place: we have produced a new kind of road and a new metaphor, a vast network of smooth, efficient highways leading to every conceivable destination. At the same time we have largely ceased to believe in one universally accepted religious goal, usually identified with Christianity and the notion of spiritual redemption and of an afterlife. Heaven is no longer our destination. A third interpretation is taking shape: a multitude of roads, each with its own destination, obliges us to choose, to make decisions of our own; and the discourse of planning, of policy in the public realm, increasingly resorts to such road-associated phrases as crossroads, dead ends, avenues of agreement, gridlock, collision course, impasse, and bypass.

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood / And sorry I could not travel both / And be one traveler….” Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken” has implications transcending the individual experience. It tells us of the dilemma of living in a world where there is no longer the one right way, the royal road to happiness and success, a path to the Heavenly City. Whichever road we take ultimately leads us to the agonizing moment of private decision. As with Saul of Tarsus the road to Damascus may lie straight ahead, but it is only in the course of the journey that we discover our true destination.

hello, goodbye

When I was in Arizona last week, I didn’t make much of an effort to see childhood friends. At this stage of life, ten years is practically an eternity. Most people I knew then have moved on, literally and/or figuratively.

I did manage to catch up with one person, though: a girl I went to high school with. We had biology and choir together. But I was only at UHS for one semester, so I didn’t get to know her very well, certainly not as well as I would’ve liked. We sent letters and the odd postcard for awhile, but didn’t keep in close touch— as so often is the case, we were both very busy.

It was great to see her. We were able, more or less, to pick up where we left off, aside from one or two awkward moments:

M: “Do you remember when everybody from creative writing club dressed up and went to the midnight showing of The Fellowship of the Ring?”
Me: “No, I’d moved to Colorado by the time came out.”
M: “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you weren’t there.”

Anyway, we had coffee and then walked around Borders to see if we could spot any great going-out-of-business deals. (Incidentally, I felt like a traitor going in there, seeing as how it’s Amazon Marketplace shopping habits like mine that are largely responsible for Border’s demise.) Before we parted, she insisted on buying a book for me to read on the plane home. The book is The Shadow of Wind, a lush, sprawling Gothic tale by Spanish author Carlos Ruis Zafón. My friend chose that book for me because she just knew I’d love it; and she was right.

It’s amazing to me: someone I hadn’t seen in a decade still knew exactly the kind of book I’d like to read. That kind of friend is precious, indeed.

 

 

I realize I’m really too young to talk about ‘feeling old’, but sometimes I feel old anyway, and the reason why is because I’m so tired of losing friends. Not losing, really—saying goodbye. Tired of saying goodbye, and tired of missing people who are anywhere and everywhere but where I happen to be. With all the moving around I’ve done, I think I can say that I’ve gotten used to it, but it never gets any easier. I’m tired of it because it makes me tired: water wearing down a stone.

Madeline L’Engle said it well, I think, in A Ring of Endless Light: “To leave a friend is like a death and calls for grieving.” It’s as much a part of the human experience as death or any kind of loss. It does no good to dwell too long on ‘what ifs’ and ‘might-have-beens’. But I think it’s also wrong to ignore the passing of something as significant as a friendship. Trying to act like it doesn’t matter when it does, does a disservice to the memory.

There’s more I could say, but I should stop before I get all sappy. Indulge me just one more quote:

“What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.”

(T.S. Eliot)

window seat

I saw the first ghost before I even boarded the plane.

I was sitting in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, Terminal A, Gate 16. It was still early, 8:30 AM Texas time, and summer sunlight was streaming in the plate glass windows, so I’d taken a seat facing the opposite direction. I sipped pomegranate green tea from a paper cup, and wished the benches didn’t have armrests so I could lie down for a bit.

Pretty soon, a gate attendant arrived. There weren’t too many people around yet, so I left my backpack on the bench and walked over to the kiosk. I’d been rerouted due to delays and needed a seat assignment for this final leg of my journey.

“Good morning,” I greeted the woman and handed her my boarding pass. She nodded, fingers clacking on the antiquated keyboard.

“If it’s at all possible, I’d really like a window seat.”

“At the moment, I’ve got an aisle for you.” Her eyes scanned the screen. “Oh, there is a window, but it’s in the very last row.”

“It’s my hometown,” I explained, “and I haven’t been there in ten years.”

She looked up from the monitor. “I can wait to see if something opens up. You won’t get your seat ‘til the last minute, though.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

I returned to my seat and took out my iPod. After a few moments’ deliberation, I chose an old school acoustic mix I’d recently made for a friend: James Taylor, Jim Croce, Glen Campbell. It was that kind of morning.

Time passed uneventfully. I watched as passengers drifted into the waiting area and wondered whether their trips were ending or beginning in Tucson, or if they were just passing through. I thought about that for myself, too.

I noticed a young woman standing in line at the kiosk. She had beautiful hair: tight, shoulder-length curls the color of chocolate. My hair is curly, too, but not like hers, and rather than fight the humidity, I’d pulled mine up in an elastic. I felt a little bit jealous of her, even though I I’d have to be black to have that kind of hair. She reminded me of Jessie, I girl I’d known in middle school.

Then it occurred to me: what if this actually was Jessie? It was highly improbable, but not impossible. Since she was facing away from me, I figured I could study her for a few moments without her noticing. She was tall and slender, wearing a fitted black blazer, dark skinny jeans and brown flats with gold buckles. A white headphones cord dangled down into a handbag that wasn’t Coach but sort of looked like it, which was perched atop a classic black rollerboard.

Overall, this woman appeared put-together in a casually professional sort of way, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. For some reason, I felt sure that this is just how Jessie would look now. Self-consciously, I glanced down at my ‘quirky’ knee-length skirt, scuffed Converse sneakers and hiking backpack.

The Jessie I’d known was a classmate, not really a friend. I don’t think we’d interacted much before eighth grade. (As schools go, Booth-Fickett Math/Science Magnet K-8 was even bigger than its name: 432 students in my grade alone.) But that year we had lots of the same classes: Mr. Callesen for Algebra and MathCounts (the competitive math team—don’t judge me); Mr. McCarville for Honors English; Mr. Jones for band.  Jessie was smart, but she wasn’t a nerd like I’d been. She was tall, thin and athletic, reasonably popular, and always wore the cutesy graphic tees with monkeys and turtles that were so popular at the time.

Early in the year, I ate lunch with her and her group of friends (none of those names I remember now). Actually, I often skipped eating ‘cos I didn’t like the ‘food’ offered to those of us on the free-and-reduced lunch program. Jessie, like the rest of the cool kids, ordered from the snack bar instead of the hot line: a bagel without cream cheese and a Reese’s, or a Nutty Buddy ice cream cone if the weather was especially hot. How she, and so many of the other girls, stayed thin eating that kind of junk is beyond me. Weight had been a problem for me then.

“Passenger Burgess, please report to Gate 23.” A good number of people were milling about by now, so I quickly gathered my things and returned to the kiosk. Future-Jessie-Lookalike was now speaking with a second associate, but it was my turn before I could eavesdrop. I now had a seat: 7A, a window. I never got to sit that far up in the plane, and for a moment I wondered if I’d been put in first class. I flashed the woman a grateful smile, which she returned.

As I turned to walk away, I heard the mystery woman give her birthday: February 4, 1986. The year was right. It had to be her. For a moment, I seriously considered asking her name. But if it actually was her, what would I say? “So, Jessie, do you still think running shoes make your feet look like boats? Do you still rock out to Hansen and Savage Garden? Do you still get ‘stomachaches’ ”—air-quotes here—“when you’re stressed so that you can stay home and finish your creative writing project?” I didn’t see much potential in any of those.

Anyway, now that I was down memory lane, I vaguely recalled some kind of disagreement between us. Maybe it’d had something to do with All-City Honor Band, when she made fourteen chair flute and I made second—which became first chair flute when the first chair player doubled on piccolo. That’d been a big deal for me, especially since I wasn’t the one who’d ordered a brand new, open-hole Gemeinhardt with solid silver headjoint from The Woodwind & Brasswind company. Or maybe it was about something else entirely.

Whatever the issue was, it must have seemed serious at the time, because I spent most of the year eating lunch not with Jessie, but with Carrie Chan. Carrie’s family had left Hong Kong after the political changeover in ’97, and while she understood English well enough, she was very embarrassed by her accent. In the whole time I knew her, I don’t think I heard her say more than two or three words. We communicated with body language and by passing notes, a few of which I still have. I’m not sure what that says about me, that in middle school, my best friend and I literally were not on speaking terms.

Back in the airport, someone had taken the seat I’d vacated not two minutes before. I opted to look for the restrooms, not out of necessity but because I needed to stop staring at strangers, even if the stranger was someone I thought I’d known once.  When I returned, the gate attendant was calling my group to board the plane. Before leaving the terminal, I took one last glance back at Faux-Jessie. She was standing along the far wall, bags at her side, earbuds in place.

Row 7 wasn’t first class, but it was in the bulkhead, which meant I’d have a few extra inches of legroom, a luxury on airplanes these days. I pulled out paper and pen and started to put down this story. I got so involved in my writing that I forgot to look for Jessie in the stream of boarding passengers. I have no idea whether or not she was on that plane. But maybe that’s for the best.

I lifted the shade on the window beside me. The Plexiglas was remarkably clear, without the usual smudges and scratches, and no wing or engine obstructed the view from below. I’d really lucked out, getting this seat. Then it was time for takeoff, and I settled in for the flight.

amateur astronomy

Everywhere I look, I see patterns.

Maybe it’s just human nature. The ancient Greeks looked up into a sky emblazoned with an unfathomable number of stars, and what did they do? They didn’t just create the myths to explain the existence of constellations; they identified what the constellations were by grouping the stars according to logical patterns perceived by the brain. Cosmic connect-the-dots. I wish we could still see the stars. Maybe it would make things easier.

Or maybe it’s because I read too many books.  You are what you eat, mentally as well as physically. Consume enough literature preoccupied with ‘themes’ and ‘symbols’ and ‘overarching structure’, and you start expecting devices to pop up in ‘real life’ (whatever that means). Things don’t just happen anymore—they can’t just happen—they have to be endued with layers of meaning: sometimes symbolic, sometimes poetic, sometimes bearing the weight of existence itself. Talk about cosmic.

Now, analyzing life as a literary puzzle can captivate and infuriate and drive you mad—often simultaneously—but whatever you do, for heaven’s sake, don’t tell anybody about it! Your revelation about how [insert run-of-the-mill detail] was actually a crucial turning point in your [insert era of life] may seem revolutionary, but that’s only because you see it in self-context. The truth is, most people think they’re the most interesting person they know, and they view their lives accordingly. Not that that’s necessarily bad, or even avoidable (we’re back to the whole human nature thing). But you have to realize that most people are probably too busy being self-absorbed to care what you think, especially about yourself.

 

Tomorrow I will travel to the city where I was born and raised. I haven’t been there in ten years, and it’s eleven years since I first left. I’m anxious to go because I’m not really returning. The place I was no longer exists, and the person I was when I was there no longer exists, either. People say time is relative; but time-space is a continuum. Place must be relative as well. This complicates geography: I don’t want to confuse what was with what is. Astronomers have that problem sometimes. The speed of light is far from infinite; it takes eight minutes for the sun’s light to reach us. Astronomers detect light from stars so distant that, by the time it reaches us, the stars themselves has long since stopped shining. When we look at the night sky (when we can see the stars), we see the past.

 

 

This is why I cannot write. I convince myself that I am full of pretentious nonsense. A fool to place myself at the center of the universe, to think that I could say anything that might be of interest or importance to anyone else.

This is why I cannot NOT write. The pretentious nonsense never goes away. Because it is not what I write, it is what I see. Blame it on Earth’s spherical geometry: look out far enough in one direction, and you will see yourself.

I wish I could talk about it. I wish I knew how to talk about it, without being so afraid of being a fool.

I wish we could still see the stars. Maybe it would make things easier.