Flying

Last night I dreamed I was flying. I didn't know how to at first, but once I started flapping my arms I was able to stay afloat. [I at first didn't believe that flapping my arms would work, but given that there were predatory animals below me, I was willing to try anything.] What I also specifically noticed about flapping my arms was that it would cause me to "turn" upward, and I consequently learned that if I wanted to turn left or right, I had to "turn" my body in that direction, and then the new "upward" turn would coincide with that direction. In a sense, it felt a lot like flying a military plane, except that I was that plane, and using my own body.

It was really cool. I've never had a flying dream before in my life that I know of, and I went to dreammoods.com ["http://dreammoods.com/"] to inquire about a possible interpretation. It says here ["http://dreammoods.com/cgibin/flyingdreams.pl?method=exact&header=dreamid&search=flyingintro"] that I have a sense of being on top of my situation. Given that I am now newly unemployed, that's a good thing. I'm going to need it.

I believe that the whole prophecy of God catching and holding me securely is still very much in force. It's not about location, relationships, career, or timeline. It's not about these little things. It's about what God's seeing in the next chapter or so of my life. Let's get to it!

Reflections on Jared Fisher*, pt 2: sticking to my guns

[*pseudonym; name changed for the purpose of protection]

During my year with AmeriCorps, the school where I served worked furiously to change Jared's behavior. They tried several tactics and program changes to get through to him, with each new plan more aggressive than the previous. One change that sticks out to me to this day was designed to get around his method of negotiation with adults as a way of doing what he wanted and not doing what he was told. While he was negotiating, his behavior wasn't too bad, and he seemed to get along with the other kids reasonably well (for him). I say "reasonably well" because after they made a change to focus on his negotiations, his level of outbursts skyrocketed. Instead of negotiating, he fought. He had a worse time trying -- and failing -- to get along with others, and as a result he was often secluded in another room and put on his own schedule, separate from everyone else. That was his life the rest of the school year.

I could never have shared Jared's story three years ago. I certainly could never do so using his real name. I don't think I could talk about this were my blog not set on "invite-only." And, I wouldn't be writing about it at all unless it served a specific purpose. This year I have essentially been going through a similar series of changes, and I am at a point where I have to pick a program for my next step in healing, my version of getting rid of the "negotiating" that my Shadow tries to do with my Adult (and with other people).

Months ago I decided that, at the risk of taking a step backward, I need to go through a complete, down-to-the-core healing approach. Joining the Evanston Vineyard and returning to the Christian faith was a good first step. Going to the Baldwin Center on a regular basis has been a great second step. But I constantly have to gauge whether (and when) I am ready to try and do things on my own, to decide how my life is going to go. Am I ready to move out on my own, in this case to the middle of nowhere, and "grow up" by trying to figure things out myself?

Not yet.

I'm not ready to move out on my own. I'm not ready to date or experience intimacy. I'm not ready to decide my destiny.

I still have the strongholds that I set up long ago. I remember when I set off on my big trip ["http://confessionbyainsertidentityhere.blogspot.com/2010/09/credits-and-emotions.html"] at the end of the 2010 summer season, I had a lot of confidence in approaching strangers and having discussions with people who triggered me, but it was all on my own strength, from that Shadow place, if you will. The events that happened in my life that week exposed all of the fakery in me.

My primary motivation for moving to Batavia this year was to get away from the crap (small as it is) at my church. What "crap," you ask? My struggles with wanting to connect with various people in certain ways, and this sometimes-hopeless feeling of perceived or expected rejection of the such. And in realizing all this, the only real answer has been to just sit with it and let God take care of it. Running away means more of the same problems with new people in new places. A change of scenery alone won't alter the fabric of my life, nor will it shape how I "do" life differently.

I sat down and did the math to figure out what kind of monetary compensation it would take to get me to commit to a move. It was substantially higher than what I did earn, and, not surprisingly, my company wouldn't meet my asking price. I decided I wasn't going to accept anything less than my request, and I wasn't going to feel guilty for it. So I am grow-ing up.

There was no wrong decision regarding the choice to move or to stay put. It was never about that particular decision. It was more about me finding where my guns were and sticking to them. I did it with my employer, I'm doing it with my healing, and I know I will be called to do it again in different situations.

[Edit: Besides, their "final" offer didn't even come close. I'm sure God had a hand in making my decision easy.]

On story-writing

 “What kind of stories am I writing?!?” Bart yelled.

“What do you mean?” Sam inquired.

“Basketball… running away… desires… rejected love… armageddon… I’m in a rut!”

“They say to write what you know…”

“Yeah, and ‘what I know’ says a lot about my life… it’s crap. I have these dreams and desires and either they get fulfilled or they don’t. I’m sick of writing about my life.”

“Well, Bart, what would you do if you weren’t writing about your life?”

Bart paused. He hadn’t thought of that before. Every story he’d written had deep elements of his life embedded all over: a story about an imaginary cat who became anthropomorphic and joined a secret club with his best friend, a story about World War III descending on the United States and many a daring soul fleeing the border, a story about a basketball player having tensions in his professional life and his personal life, a story series about distance, unsaid words, said words, and unhappy and lacking resolutions… each story managed to escape reality just enough to be technically different, but still tethered to this world. Each story was about relationship with other people. That’s all Bart ever really knew, or desired to know.

Bart sighed. “I don’t know, Sam. I just don’t know.”

_____________________________________________________________

“Woo-hoo!” six-year-old Calvin screamed with excitement as he hopped off the school bus outside his house at the end of a school. “I’m free! Free to do whatever I want! No responsibilities! Just the rest of the day to myself! Wheeeeee….”

Hobbes leapt onto Calvin as soon as he opened the door. Calvin’s excitement turned to shock and anger as his best friend grabbed him, knocked all the books out of his hand, and plunged him into the dirt in the front yard as they began tussling and turning.

“Get OFF me, you lunatic!” Calvin yelled while punching Hobbes in the back.

“Why don’t you MAKE me?!” Hobbes retorted while he flipped Calvin to his front side.

Calvin managed to get a hit on Hobbes’ jaw. Hobbes, of course, hit him back in the chest in return. By this point, the two friends and momentary enemies were exhausted from fighting and grabbing each other that they’d let go and rested on the ground.

“Calvin!” his mom came out the front door. “Why do you do this every day? I’m sick and tired of having your clothes getting dirty, day after day after day!”

“It’s not me, mom! It’s Hobbes’ fault!” Calvin tried to argue.

“I’m not taking this anymore! You need to take responsibility for your clothes! Get in the house, put your clothes in the wash, and you can stay in your room until dinnertime, mister!”

“But, mommmmm!”

“No ‘buts’! Get going!”

Calvin groaned in frustration as he picked up Hobbes, his stuffed tiger, and stomped into the house.

_____________________________________________________________

“No,” Sam cut in.

“What?!?” Bart responded.

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“Actually, no, I don’t…”

“You can’t just write a story with someone else’s characters. They’re copyrighted. And besides, Bill Watterson has used that storyline many, many times. You gotta think of something else.”

Bart slumped in his chair.

“Try again,” Sam ordered. “I know you can do it. Think of something that’s never happened, or is not likely to happen, and write about that.”

_____________________________________________________________

The count was 0-and-2. Anthony Rizzo stepped back in to the batter’s box against Neftali Feliz. It was the bottom of the eighth inning, with the Chicago Cubs down by a run, and a runner on third base. The date was Saturday, October 22nd, 2016. The time was 9:41 PM. The place was Cubs Stadium, just completed earlier in the year in its new location, the Near Northwest Side in Chicago. Cubs president Theo Epstein was proudly observing what was expected to be the crowning moment of his overhaul project that was five years in the making. He looked over to owner Tom Ricketts and General Manager Jed Hoyer and said, “This is it. We’re gonna win this tonight.”

Rizzo hit a double into left-center field, scoring Darwin Barney, the baserunner on third. After him was Albert Almora, the number 5 hitter and the young outfield phenom who’d been called up to the big leagues just that year, in late-July. Almora worked the count full, and smacked a single into right field. Rizzo was waved around third and beat the throw home. The Cubs Stadium crowd went wild. Their team now led by a score of 4 runs to 3.

The crowd became louder as the game went to the top of the ninth. Cubs pitcher James Russell finished his warmup tosses and anticipated the heart of the Tampa Bay Rays’ order. With each pitch, the crowd continued to increase in volume in excitement. With each decisive pitch, the anticipation of such an elusive victory increased, as well as the competitive tension that always comes along for the ride. Will a hero or a goat emerge? Who will it be?

It was two out, and two runners on. Evan Longoria came up to the plate. Russell fired the first pitch. Longoria looked. It was a ball. The second pitch, a hanging curve, met Longoria’s bat on the way to a sharp line drive – into the stands a few feet outside the foul pole. The crowd was getting nervous. Were we going to choke? Was this to be the culmination of Epstein’s five-year reconstruction project: a last-second collapse? Wrigley Field was dead. It had collapsed, two offseasons prior, on a windy day that set wind-speed and destruction records for the city of Chicago. The upper deck on the third base side had fallen into an irrecoverable heap, made largely possible by the mayor’s and governor’s steadfast refusal to rehabilitate the old park. Would Wrigley’s ghosts continue anew at the new Cubs Stadium?

No. James Russell snared a sharp line-drive by Longoria for the final out. Final score: Cubs 4, Rays 3. The rest of the team came out of the dugout and formed a pile near the mound. The fans celebrated wildly. The long wait was over. They’d done it: the Chicago Cubs had finally…

_____________________________________________________________

“No,” Sam interrupted.

“Come on! Seriously!?” Bart interjected.

“If you’re going to talk about things from real life, make it realistic.”

“You told me to think of something that’s never happened!”

“I’m not talking about the Cubs winning the World Series. I’m talking about the Cubs moving out of Wrigley Field. ‘Cubs Stadium’? Really?!?”

Bart groaned.

“If you want to talk about real life, make it realistic. Don’t… like, talk about Secretariat and put him in a world with Charlie and the other unicorns. That’s just lazy writing.”

_____________________________________________________________

It was Friday night, and that meant dinner and guitar night at Thomas and Jim’s. Nathan and Dan had made a trip to the store to pick up some ingredients, and they brought their guitars over for later. It all started in the kitchen, as the four brothers, plus Phil and Tim, banded together to make a simple dinner over a deep, spiritual conversation.

_____________________________________________________________

“I’m sorry. I just don’t have the energy for this,” Bart moaned.

“OK. Just remember, you don’t have to force yourself,” Sam reassured. “Even the greatest authors didn’t write their whole stories in one day.”

“It’s just tough. I don’t think I have the ability to focus on adventure or an actual moral for a long enough time. I can be creative, but without boundaries – and the only boundaries I know are whatever is true in my life – I can’t make something out of nothing. I just can’t.”

Sam paused. “Maybe, Bart, you’re just not cut out for writing. … I mean, I’m not saying your stories or your writing is bad. But I think your creativity is in a different place. To be an effective writer, an effective storyteller, yes you need creativity, but it needs to be focused enough in such a monochromatic space. Words are just one dimension. Pictures are another, and music another. And so on. … I’ve seen your other work. I think you work better when you combine multiple media.”

“Maybe…” Bart pondered, “but there’s so much unresolved in the stories I have… what’s going to happen to Nick once he picks his new team? Is the rest of his life going to magically come together? … What about Thomas? Does he ever figure it out, or is he going to be stuck in his crap forever? … What about Kristen, for that matter? … And Maggie? ... And what happens with Bosendorfer? Does he ever come back?”

“That’s the problem with stories that follow real life, Bart,” Sam interjected. “They don’t have endings. There’s a new chapter being written each and every day, whether you like it or not…”

“…There are days that people remember for the rest of their lives, and…” Bart interrupted.

“…There are days like today,” Sam interrupted back. “I know we’re not gonna remember this day. And we don’t need to.”

A stone from memory lane: beginning of college

I came across a comic strip called “Jim’s Journal” ["http://www.gocomics.com/jimsjournal"] on comics.com today. It’s not all that funny (there were a few strips that made me chuckle); it’s more of a non-sequitur story that is better appreciated over the long run. It’s essentially what the title says: a daily journal of a young schmoe who finishes high school, enters college, and is seemingly content with doing nothing.

This strip reminds me of two topics in my life: firstly, it reminds me of back when I was transitioning from high school to college. There are movies, TV shows, books, and other forms of media that hype this transition. "Going to college is such a big thing! You’re done with childhood, and you’re finally an adult!" …well, sort of. Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure what all the fanfare goes into this “rite of passage:” packing, loading the car, saying goodbye to your folks, moving into your dorm room, and then settling with a whole host of brand-new people in your community.

The so-called “rite of passage” didn’t feel like anything when I made the transition. I’m in college. Big whoop. The biggest thing for me was re-living what I’d already gone through when I moved to New York to start the fifth grade. I still remember the first day after Mom and Kate moved my stuff into my room in Kittelsby Hall and then left. It was sort of like St. Thomas but sort of not. I was on my own again, but this time the schedule was a lot more relaxed (I actually got to decide how to spend my time!), and the school was co-ed (St. Thomas is not).

That’s about it, though. The entire first semester had a true sense of a fresh start. It would be wrong for me to say I tired of everyone back in Chicago, but I had long been ready to turn the page on that chapter. I wasn’t going to get closer or deeper with anyone than I already was. I wasn’t going to break out of my shell, and certain things weren’t going to happen the way I wanted them to. I had maxxed out whatever potential I was going to max out. Going to college, while fresh, exciting, and scary, gave me that chance to not have to think about anything, or deal with anything. I could enjoy the fact that for a short while, no one knew me, and therefore not think of me as low as I was sure everyone else from the previous chapter had. It truly was a clean slate.

Secondly, the strip took me back to the days when I was content to just do nothing and be nothing. Because of all the negative experiences in school growing up (there were a lot of positive experiences, too, but I’d shut them out, thanks to the “throwing out the baby with the bathwater” mentality), my happiest place was at home, alone, inside my own head (OK, check that: hanging out with Chris). I didn’t have to deal with trying to protect myself on a constant basis from both things that were indeed bad for me as well as things I’d wrongly perceived as bad. I loved weekends, breaks, and summer vacations because it meant I didn’t have to do anything. I had all the time in the world to myself, and doggone it, I owned it!

Sometime during college, that changed. Even though I didn’t – couldn’t – fully understand what it was, there was a deep desire for something greater than what I was experiencing. I wanted to hang out, be social, get to really know people. And with a plethora of folks my age (give or take 2-3 years), college was a prime example. All my peers were the most mature of that I’d seen to date.

It’s been a slow and painstaking climb out of that place of wanting absolutely nothing with the world. I currently have a busy life, and in spite of the fatigue I battle more often than not, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’m living! But every time I see a strip like “Jim’s Journal,” I am reminded of where I came from. It’s so easy to slip right back, if the right trigger (or series thereof) came along.