What I've Been Doing the Past Couple of Weeks Instead of Blogging

1. Baking pumpkin spice muffins.  I've given a couple of dozen away.  One dozen given just because, and another as a belated birthday present.  And you bet your sweet self I kept some for moi, gourmande.

2. Pitching my dissertation topic idea to my major professor.  She was excited about it.  Which made me excited about it.  Which made me feel like God is good.  I came into this program not having the foggiest.  And now I know.

3. Grading midterms.  Ay, caramba.  How can I love teaching with the same passion that I hate grading?

4. Reading, reading, reading.

5. Editing my former professor's manuscript.  And getting a check in the mail from a famous Ivy League (now her place of employment) as the fruit of my labor.  The money's nice, but getting an envelope in the mail  with anything in it from that place is kind of awesome.

6. Writing an article soon to be featured in a Pentecostal publication near you.

7. Eating all kinds of Caribbean delights at this new Puerto Rican restaurant that at opened up downtown.  Tostones, maduros, arroz con habichuelas, yuca frita . . . yezzir.  Or rather, sí, señor.

8. Rocking my boots.  When I start rocking my boots . . . see, y'all don't know nothin' 'bout that.

9. Volunteering once a week at my church's preschool to teach the little ones Spanish mini-lessons.

10. Remembering how much Anointed used to be my jam.  I've been humming this one all day today:

Post-Text Sending Stress Disorder (PTSSD)

Post-text sending stress disorder (PTSSD) is an anxiety disorder.  It can occur after one has sent a (usu. impulsive) text message which is then followed by a prolonged wait for a (possible) response.

Symptoms include excessive self-berating for not being "strong enough" to not have sent the text, even if the content of the text in question is utterly innocuous, restlessness, fidgetiness, heightened adrenaline flow, elevated heart rate, and hypersensitivity to text message receipt-like sounds in the subject's vicinity.

Successful treatment varies, but most symptoms abate if a satisfactory text response is received within minutes of initial onset.  Pavlovian thumb training has also been known to decrease incidence.

Conversations with God

Me: Hey, what's up?

God: As an omnipresent being, I've never quite figured out the correct way to respond to that one.

Me: Oh.  I didn't think about that.  I usually say "nothing much," but . . . yeah, totally doesn't apply to You.

God: So, what's on your mind?

Me: Ha.  Like You don't already know.  I know, I know, You want to hear it from me.  Well . . . You know, I'm just kind of wondering about this whole comps thing.  At first I was determined to take them in November and now it looks more like January . . . I just feel like I'm not disciplined enough.  I'm not taking the initiative.  I have to constantly fight this feeling that I'm not capable, like I'm not cut out for this.

God: I wouldn't have brought you here if you weren't capable of doing it.  And you are cut out for it, you just haven't realized it yet.

Me: Is that so?  How many other things haven't I realized yet?

God: Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to.

Me: True.  Very true.  Okay, so . . . about this other thing . . . 

God: Really?  I thought we agreed that you were going to leave it to Me.

Me: I am leaving it to You.  It's just that I'd like to have a sign or something, you know?  So that I could know for sure one way or the other so that I could—

God: Again, I thought we agreed that you were going to leave it to Me.

Me: I am!  I just want to know one way or the other.

God: Um, that's not leaving it to Me.

Me: (exasperated sigh) God, this is so frustrating.

God: Tell Me about it.  Look, you already have all the answer you need.  Just keep doing what you're already doing.  I'll let you know if you get off track.   You need to relax.  For real.  How many ways can I communicate "I got this" to you before you'll believe Me?

Me: I guess you're right.

God: (laughs) You guess? Girl, you better know.  Just know this.  It's already handled.  If I could ever get you to see that, it would make your life so much easier.  You don't need a "sign," and you don't need to beg Me to take care of it.  I already have.  Just sit tight.

A Reminder

Just as there are times when I'm feeling badly "right now," I have to remember that there are also times I feel great right now.  Which is now.

It's not that anything spectacular has gone down, but for the past few days I've felt good about connecting with and reaching out to other people.  There's such a rewarding feeling that comes when you see that somehow, some small thing you do can make a positive impact upon someone else.

My Brain's Account of Time Spent

One of the Cuban coordinators I worked with when I went to Cuba came to my institution here to give a talk about collaboration between the US and Cuba regarding research and higher education.  It was weird to see him outside of a Cuban context, but it was great.  A lot of the kids who were also in the program as well as the Cuba program director and I got to spend time with him this week.  It felt like a family reunion.  The coordinator told me that I was the most popular girl at the research center we were paired with in Havana and everyone asked about me and if he were going to see me.  I couldn't send him back to Cuba empty-handed. Before I left for Cuba this summer, a friend of mine who had previously studied there gave me a little package to give to one of his friends in Havana.  And now I'm sending stuff to friends in Cuba via another friend, too.  It's the Cuban way.  Yolanda, la nieta de Yolanda, Daysi, Rogelio, Héctor y Rodrigo, tengo regalitos para Uds. que Henry les trae.

One of my colleagues created this FB group for everyone in the Romance Languages program.  It's useful and hilarious, because sometimes you want to post something that is only relevant to people in the program or something that would only make sense or be funny to people in the program.  We had a departmental potluck last night, but beforehand, I was trying to decide which one of my tried and trues I should bring—quiche or zucchini bread—when the solution suddenly came to me.  So, like a dork I posted: "I was having an existential crisis over whether to bring a quiche or zucchini bread to the potluck tomorrow when the solution flashed into my mind like a lightning bolt: A zucchini quiche!"  Thank God it turned out okay because then at the potluck people were like, "I read about your zucchini quiche, so I wanted to make sure to try some.  It was great!"  What if it had been revolting?  Then everyone would have known who made the nasty zucchini quiche.

Sometimes I do quiet, weird little things for my own entertainment.  I'm reading for comps and one of the things I was reading I know is related to what a colleague is interested in as well.  So, I made another copy of a related article I found and just put it in his box with no note or explanation.  An anonymous benefactor.  I wasn't going to give myself away, either.  No coyly asking, "Hey, did you get something in your box?"  I wanted him to wonder.  I mean, I knew he would probably suspect me, but the fact is, he didn't know for sure.  And for some reason, that idea was so amusing to me.  I ran into him yesterday and he finally brought it up.  When I finally admitted it was me, and he was like, "Of course it was you!  Who else?"  it made me smile even more because it was obvious to me that he really wasn't sure.  I'd like to think that maybe he thought it was me, or maybe even wanted it to be me, but was afraid to be wrong.

So, I've found myself as a part of a group christened Saturday Ladies.  I don't know why or how, exactly, but sometimes personalities sort of seek each other out and something clicks.  Our inaugural meeting was at a new French bakery in town.  I actually don't have a whole lot in common with the other Saturday Ladies, but I guess we jibe as a group because we're accepting and are interested by the fact that each of us are interested in specific, interesting things.  Our second unofficial meeting is today at a popular vegetarian spot.

I'm following God down this path that can be pretty lonely, but it doesn't have to be.  He's always there, and He's leading me somewhere.

Three-Year Wanderer

I realized something about my life recently: Ever since I graduated from undergrad, I have not been in the same place doing the same thing for longer than 3 years.

1. I worked at my first job for three years.  The third year, I started a Master's program part-time while I still worked.

2. I resigned and moved to another city for a year to finish my Master's full-time.

3. I graduated and moved back home for six months while I worked as an instructor at the same institution I had just graduated from.

4. I moved to France for six months.

5. I moved back home and worked for a year.  I started at a public high school and ended up at a learning center.

6. I moved to where I am now to pursue a PhD.

So, three years doing the same thing in the same place has been the closest thing to stability I've had since 2005.  Wow.

I have just entered the third year of my most recent sojourn.  And I'm starting to get antsy.  Don't get me wrong, not finishing is not an option.  I've never considered quitting this program.  But I am starting to crave a change of scene.

Whether I'll be able to consider that possibility is entirely predicated on whether I do everything I'm supposed to do this year, which is 1. Successfully taking and defending comps. 2. Submitting my prospectus and getting it approved.

If I can do those two things by May, I'll be right on track, an official PhD candidate by the end of my 3rd year.  ABD.  All But Dissertation, baby.  All I'll have left to do is write that monster.  Something that facilitates writing the monster is being awarded a dissertation fellowship.  What that means is that I'll get money to support myself for a year so that I can totally focus on writing and not have to worry about teaching.  The department here offers one, but I'm also going to apply for a couple of  other dissertation fellowship programs whose host institutions are in the Northeast.

They're super competitive, so it may be a long shot.  But I'm kind of feeling the idea of moving to get a change of scene to wrap this puppy up.

I won't be in a position to consider something like that for next year if I don't do what I need to do this year, though.  I must get myself together.

Interlibrary Loan or Whose Type Am I?

Interlibrary Loan is a wonderful thing for grad students.  Does your university library not have some obscure book that you need to read for your comprehensive exams?  Never fear.  Some other university library will send it to you.  For free.  As long as you give it back by the due date.  Oh, and by the way, there are no renewals.  So let's say you're halfway done with an Interlibrary Loan book.  Let's say today is September 10.  Let's say the due date is September 11.  Better read like the dickens!  Fie! The conundrums I createth for mineself.

Anyway, I've been musing over the fact that I've been surprised a couple of times about the idea of who's my "type," or rather, whose "type" I would be.  I'm coming to realize that maybe the whole idea of "type" is made up.

I believe that my type is someone tall (need this be elaborated upon?), someone with dark features (not necessarily black, but at least some kind of ethnic flavor in the mix), bespectacled (because I think it makes guys look mild-mannered and smart, which, to me, strikes just the right balance between adorable and hot), a Colgate smile (messed up grills need not apply), and you know the rest: funny, godly, intelligent, linguistically and/or artistically talented, etc. 

However, I have nevertheless found myself attracted to a fair share of short and/or pasty and/or otherwise-not-who-I-imagined-myself-being-attracted-to guys. 

Interestingly, the very few who have made an appearance who actually fit the contours of the physical bill (but not the spiritual) have weighed in on a scale of slightly inappropriate to potentially disastrous.  So, tall exotic men with perfect teeth need to stay home if they don't have the Holy Ghost for real.  Actually, any man who doesn't have the Holy Ghost for real needs to stay home, honestly.  But especially the tall exotic ones with perfect teeth.  Ahem.

Anyway, what I'm puzzled by is the opposite.  Like, the kind of guy I think would be attracted to me.  Not that I think only tall, ethnic guys with nice smiles should notice me. (I mean, not that I would terribly mind.) But I'm saying, people I didn't think would think I was attractive have come out of the blue.  Like, really?  Why would he be interested in me?

I guess that goes to show me that as much as I despise people trying to put me in a box or what have you, I do the same thing to other people.  And maybe it's also a nice reminder that perhaps people you don't know are thinking about you actually are.

Patience

Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hath great recompence of reward. For ye have need of patience, that, after ye have done the will of God, ye might receive the promise. For yet a little while, and he that shall come will come, and will not tarry. (Hebrews 10:35-37, KJV)

So do not throw away this confident trust in the Lord. Remember the great reward it brings you! Patient endurance is what you need now, so that you will continue to do God’s will. Then you will receive all that he has promised. “For in just a little while, the Coming One will come and not delay." (Hebrews 10:35-37, NLT)

My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing. (James 1:2-4, KJV)

Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing. (James 1:2-4, NLT)

On the Bus

Me: (Sitting with two empty seats between me and some other guy, wondering whether I should bring anything to dinner at a friend's house tonight even though she said not to worry about it.)

Guy gets on. He has large, light brown eyes.  Equal parts Nutella and honey. Framed with smoky lashes.

Me: Wow, that guy has beautiful eyes.

Guy decides to sit by me.  I feign uninterest.

Guy: (After a few moments of silence) Hey, how's it going today?

Me: (Looking into those gorgeous eyes) I'm fine, and you?

Guy: Doing all right.  Look, I know you're probably thinking, Oh, my God, this guy doesn't smell too good. I know I don't smell great right now, I was--

Me: (Not noticing any smelliness) No, actually, I was thinking you had beautiful eyes.

Guy: (Obviously not expecting that response.  He smiles.) Oh, thank you very much.  I appreciate that.  And you have a beautiful smile.  You get that a lot, don't you?

Me: (Smiling even more, nervously laughing)

Guy: Oh, I know, you don't want to be conceited about it, but I know you get that a lot.  So, is this your first year in Athens?

Me: No, it's my third.

Guy: (Proceeds to tell me how he just moved here, he's started a Master's program in Counseling, hoping to eventually get into a PhD program) What about you?

Me: I'm in a PhD program in Hispanic Studies.

Guy: Oh, that's what's up.  Definitely out of my league, but that's great.

Me: No . . . it can be done.  (Nearing my stop)  What's your name?

Guy: I'm (same name as particular guy who's been the cause of emotional stress lately).

Me: (Shakes his hand) I'm Chantell.

Guy: Ooh, and you've got soft hands, too?

Me: (Laughs)

Bus pulls up to my stop. I get up to go.

Guy: Yeah, you've got to get away from me.

Me: (Laughs)

Guy: Okay, have a good one.

Me: You, too.

The Me I (Don't) Want to Be

Sometimes I'm the me I want to be, and sometimes I'm just not.

Ugh.  I am so not right now.  Right now I am sluggish.  I want to cry.  I want to sleep.  I do not want to do my hair.  I want to watch back-to-back episodes of Chopped online and I don't want to do anything else.  I want to eat more and more Haagen-Dazs pineapple coconut ice cream.  I want to sit on my couch, wrapped up in my fluffy pink robe and eat spoonful after spoonful of straight up Nutella.

I just want to go to bed and hope that I'll feel better when I wake up.

I do not like myself right now.  I feel silly and powerless and hurt and afraid.  I do not want to admit these things because admitting that I'm not in a good spot makes me feel vulnerable, but there it is, being typed from the fingers of the me I don't want to be but am right now.

On the other hand, note that I am tagging my negative feelings with the phrase "right now."  Because it's just right now.  I am quite open to the possibility of things changing for the better.  They often do.

But things are just sucky sometimes, and sometimes you want to cry and go live in a hole for a little while.  Sometimes you just have to feel the pain and the icky yucky feelings, and just slog through it for a little while.

I feel inadequate and like I'm not going to be ready to take my comps in November and heartbroken and like I'm not doing enough.  Yes, this is how I feel right now.

It's just right now, though.

Time and Tide Wait for No Woman

Back home is always bittersweet.

I went home to spend the long Labor Day weekend with the fam.  Being back home, or the closest thing to it, simultaneously reminds me of how things never change and how they never stay the same.

My mom and I were having breakfast at that same Chick-fil-a on the Boulevard when in walks a gaggle of girls in volleyball uniforms emblazoned with the logo of the school where I used to teach.  My first job.  Undoubtedly, those girls were my former students.

"Weren't you our Spanish teacher?"

"We still sing the song you taught us!"

When I first started teaching, those girls were in 3rd grade.  Now, they're in 10th.  You never forget a face.  And you never forget songs taught to you in Spanish in 3rd grade, apparently.

A parent chaperoning the girls' volleyball team who remembered me came up as well.  She said her daughter has continued with Spanish and is doing very well in it.  "And it's all because of you.  You're the reason she fell in love with Spanish.  I can't wait to tell everyone I saw you!"

It made me cry.  For several reasons.  That I made an impact on someone's life.  That they still sing that silly Spanish song.  That I'm old enough to have taught kids who used to be in 3rd grade but are now in 10th.  That I'm still in school myself.

Then, church.  The very same.  A child whose ultrasound video I bawled my eyes out to is now taller than me.  As in, I saw her when she was a fetus and I was old enough to have birthed her myself, I remember when she couldn't walk or talk and then when she was able to do those things, I remember when she would throw herself face down on the floor during her temper tantrums.  This same child is taller than me.  And not only that, she now attends the same middle school I attended.  "Who gave you permission to grow up?" I always jokingly ask her.  But part of me isn't joking.  It's such a sobering, bittersweet thing to consider.

My parents might be moving into a new house soon.  We took a little tour this weekend.  Of course, they deserve it.  They've worked hard and they're now in a position to have a nicer place.  I'm happy for them.  But there's a part of me that fears what that's going to mean.  The house I spent my adolescence in will no longer be "home."  It will no longer be my "permanent address."  And the panic:  Why don't I have my own "permanent address" yet?  I imagine the halls of my parents' future new home haunted by the souls of unconceived grandchildren.

I'm one of the lucky ones whose parents are not so old-fashioned that they would dare let any semblance of pressure to get married pass their lips.  Not once.  Not a single solitary time have they let such a thing slip. (I don't believe my father would terribly mind if I never found anyone "good enough.")  But I can see it in my mother's eyes every time she sees or holds a baby.  I want one.

There's something about going home that makes me see my relationship failures (okay, let's put a positive spin on it and say "lessons learned" instead) stacked up like a tower of multicolored Legos.  I dunno, it just didn't work out. Block.  Yeah, you should have known that wasn't going to work out. Block on top of block.  I thought this one might have worked out, but . . . Block on top of block on top of block.

What's maddening is that though being home gives me this feeling of nostalgic ambivalence, the prospect of returning to my present life is no comfort, either.  Once I get back into the swing, I'm okay, but it's the psyching myself up for the return trip, knowing that reminders of more recent "failures" linger that pulls at me.  Knowing that deadlines and responsibilities await and must be reckoned with.  Time and tide wait for no woman.

What if there were no hypothetical situations?

This is a question mi mejor amiga would pose back in the day and we'd both crack up laughing.  Partly because it's just funny, and partly because the question itself is a hypothetical situation.  I'm a sucker for meta humor.

My brain needs a reading break, so I need to stretch it by sussing out some things that may have been originally based on a hypothetical conversation, but now may be based on the aftermath of an actual one.

1. We're moving on, right?  That's what we agreed.  So, why does it seem to bother you that I'm doing what I need to do to carry that out?

2. I opened myself up to you.  That's not something I do often or easily.  Now that I've been put into the position of having to do a bit of scaling back, as it were, you're essentially asking me to open myself up to you again.  And I'm not eager to do that.

3. Why are you so concerned with "how I'm doing"?  I'm doing what I need to do to get my work done and to also stay connected to people during a more "isolating" part of the program.  I'm auditing a class (seeing/interacting with people, gaining useful knowledge of theory), I'm teaching (seeing/interacting with people), I go to the Spanish and French table (seeing/interacting with people, keeping my language skills sharp).  Don't worry about me.  I can and will take care of myself.

4. So, if you recently "met someone" (thanks for telling me), I'm even more perplexed as to why you're so worried about my not wanting to spend one-on-one time with you.

5. Before you told me about "meeting someone" because you wanted me to "hear it from you," you said you were "still trying to get past the situation" as well.  So . . . let's just say I wouldn't want to be her right now.

6. You're not a "stranger" to me.  We were, are, and to some extent probably always will be friends.  But there's no reset button, so stop expecting things to go back to the way they were.  It's not going to happen.

7. You feel like you've "lost something"?  Well, in a way, you have.

My Texting Thumbs

My texting thumbs are like little eager, panting puppies.

They get all excited and worked up.  They want to text because they have to know.  They want the gratification of an immediate response.

But I have to say, "No, no, no!  Down, girls!"  because what the texting thumbs don't always consider is that sending out that text does not guarantee an immediate response.  In fact, it can inaugurate an awkward, soul-crushing wait.  Or worse yet, no response at all!  Or, on the same level of unpleasantness, initiate something I really didn't intend to start.  Or imply something that I wasn't trying to insinuate.

See, my texting thumbs don't think about all of that.  Because they don't have to deal with the fallout.  They just impulsively text and then go on about their business and then leave me holding the bag.

So, I decided to train them.  I was tired of empty feelings, tired of wishing I had more will power to just keep my texting thumb-puppies at bay.  I just had to will them to stay.  Rather, sit.

I'm happy to report I've met with some success in my texting thumb training.  Positive reinforcement comes in the form of unsolicited received texts.  They're the doggie treat of texting thumbs.

Nursing Home Rock Star

I wanna be a rock star 
But, I ain't got what it takes 
The drive and the determination
And the lucky breaks 
I wanna be a rock star 
But, I ain't got the face 
I wanna be a rock star 
But, I ain't got what it takes 

 —Third Day

Nursing home residents are the most grateful audience members there are.  They don't care what you look like, they don't care what you sound like, they don't care that you're nervous, they don't care that your guitar strumming could use a little work, they don't care if your voice wavers or is maybe a tad off pitch.  All they know and care about is that you're there for them.

I may never be that awesome, finger picking, barre chord shredding guitar maestro.  Maybe I was simply meant to strum out a few humble chords for a few eager, grateful old ears (that may or may not even be able to hear very well).  And that's all right with me.

Can We Just Be Friends?

Things have been well.  Teaching, reading for comps.  I'm feeling like I'm supposed to be a teacher again, which is nice.  In addition to teaching my own classes yesterday, I was frantically conscripted to be a sub for a level higher than I'm teaching right now. I was a little nervous about it at first, but I walked in and was totally fine.  It's a nice feeling to know there is a possibility for me to have a career where I can walk in and be myself.

I've found my cure for the common blues: Baking zucchini bread.  If I ever get into a bad spot, all I need to do is start baking up a storm and then proceed to give away loaves of homey, warm, sweet goodness.  There's something about making and giving away something that can be consumed and enjoyed by many that gives a little lift to the spirits.

Now, to the matter at hand.  It's an age-old conundrum.  Is there truly such thing as just friends between two heterosexual members of the opposite sex?  But more importantly, especially after a bit of line blurring (NOT of the Robin Thicke variety) is it ever possible to hit the reset button and go back to the way things were?

I say nay.

Is that to say things can't remain on friendly terms?  Is that to say you can't ever spend time together?  Is that to say you can't remain a part of each other's lives in some way?

Again, I say nay.  But things take time.  Lots of time.  Would I consider it a little presumptuous for someone to think that "hanging out as friends" could be interspersed with "moving forward" at this juncture?

Ben, oui.

A friend deciding to pursue a more-than-friend state of affairs with another friend should have known the risks, yea, knew the risks that could possibly incur.  And one of the risks is permanently altering the friendship that was.  Voilà.

There are risks involved in opening yourself up to another person.  Tell me about it.  But under any circumstances and in any fashion, opening myself up to anyone, be it for the first time or the fifth, is going to be on my terms.  When and if I'm ready.  C'est comme ça.

At this point in time, I am doing what's best for me.  What's best for me is guarding my heart and maintaining my sanity and getting my work done.

The way things were is exactly that.  The way things were.  If anything is to be maintained, it's going to involve figuring out the terms of the way things are now.  And it very well may not include "hanging out."  At least, not in the way that is being requested.  Hypothetically.

This is something I realized about myself and my life the other day: The times I have been the most miserable is when I've been the least consistent.  When I've gone back and forth.  Regarding my career, past relationships (if you can call them that), spirituality . . . when I failed to make a decision and stick with it, I've literally made myself sick.  My past inconsistency placed me into some pretty wretched spots.  I can't afford to go back there.  I just can't.

Being in a certain situation has been tiring and emotionally draining, and I'm done.  It's 100% out of my hands, and I'm not going to construct mental narratives around it any longer.

God is good.  He never fails to give me reminders that He knows where I am and that He has it under control.  I have to keep trusting in that.

A Prayer

God, help me to stop trying to control things that are completely beyond my human ability to control.

God, help my unbelief and lack of faith, even in the face of evidence of Your hand at work in my life.

God, help me to be patient.

God, help me to receive advice and instruction that don't fall into the category of what I want to hear.

God, help me exercise self-control.

God, help me to stay focused.

God, help me to continually reject the idea that I am alone and misunderstood.

God, help me to own who I am and who You've made me to be without fear or regard to the opinions of others.

God help me to be consistent, not just in productive habits and actions, but in productive thoughts.

Little Things and Bigger Things

About a week or so ago, my coffee maker stopped working.

I got up early, put ground coffee in the filter, filled the coffee maker with water, flipped the on switch, went back into my room to finish getting ready.  When I emerged, no coffee!  The little red light of the switch was on, but absolutely nothing happened.  Bummer.

I went shopping this past weekend to get stocked up for the beginning of the semester.  I considered getting a new coffee maker.  Mind you, I do have a Keurig coffee maker.  I got it for Christmas last year, and I love it.  The only thing is that buying the Keurig cups can get a little pricey.  So, I still used my regular old trusty coffee maker.  But, nah.  I didn't need a new one.  It could wait.  I needed to save my money.  I decided to just get a new box of Keurig cups, a little pricey, yet cheaper than buying a brand new coffee maker, and use them sparingly.

Today, a lady at church who I always sit with called to make sure I would be at Bible study tonight.  She had something for me, she said.  When I got to church, she slipped me a pretty little card and a bag of freshly ground Dutch coffee she brought back from a recent trip to Aruba.  Too bad I won't be able to make it anytime soon, I thought.  She's a coffee aficionado.  I made sure to bring her back some Cuban coffee.  "I have something else for you in my car.  We'll get it after church," she said.

After church, she opened her trunk and gave me a beautiful gift bag with a scripture on it: Love bears all things, believes all things, endures all things.  Love never ends. She said it made her think of me. I took the tissue paper out.  This can't be what I think it is.  It was a cute little personal coffee maker. She even said, "I knew you already had a coffee maker, so I don't know why I felt to get you this!  But this is what God laid on my heart to get for you."  And I just started tearing up.  She had no idea my "regular" coffee maker had stopped working.  And it's not like I even needed another one.  I simply wanted one.  But God saw fit to prompt someone else to gift me with something that I wanted.

It made me feel like God really and truly does know and care.  About the little things.  About not just my needs, but my desires, too.  I felt overwhelmed and grateful.  If he knows and cares about coffee makers, He's got to know and care about bigger things, too.

The ever cautious, stubborn skeptic that I am softened up a little today.  I cannot let fear stop me from believing that God will make good on His promise to give me the desires of my heart if I delight myself in Him.  I cannot let fear prevent me from hoping that somehow, He's working things out for my good.

Sweetness

So, my candy bags were a hit. More than one person said they were so relieved to get it because they hadn't had anything to eat that day.  lol.  And I made sure to get good candy, too.  You know what I'm talking about. If you're going to get candy, nobody wants tiny little Tootsie Rolls and nondescript suckers.  Nawl, we talking about fun-sized Snickers and Twix and Skittles and Starburst and M&Ms and Hershey's Kisses.   Someone even posted the "Here's hoping your semester gets off to a 'sweet' start" note on the door of the grad student computer lab.  It brightened my day to know I brightened someone else's day.

I taught my first two classes yesterday, well, not really taught, but more like went over the syllabus, introduced myself, let them introduce themselves, etc. I seem to have a motivated group of kids with the exception of two guys in my 9:05 that I can already tell are going to be annoying slackers.  Anyway, they're all freshmen, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, even at 8:00 a.m.  I think it'll be fun.

There is also a new super cutie I'm sharing an office with.  He's another one of these people overly gifted with language-learning ability that the Romance Languages department has a tendency to attract.  He speaks Spanish, French and Italian and is learning Portuguese.  I hate these people, but am drawn to them like a magnet because I want to feel as comfortable speaking a language not my own as they do.  I still get nervous about my Spanish even though I've been studying it all these years, and my French could definitely use some work.  Nevertheless, we had a nice little convo which flowed in alternating bits of Spanish, French, and English.  "If you ever want to practice, I'm right over here," he said.  Okay.  With your caramel latte skin, dark hair and Colgate smile.  He said he liked my name.  I like his too.  It's so Latin lover-y.  Like, if Eat Pray Love had taken place in South America, Julia Roberts' paramour would've had this guy's name. I didn't say that, though.  C'mon.

I always get excited for the chance to make stuff for people.  I have two loaves of zucchini bread on back order.  I guess I got a little zealous this summer making it for people when I still had zucchini growing in my garden and other people got wind of it and asked if they could also partake.  I'm also going to make some homemade vanilla ice cream and super easy cobbler for a little dinner party coming up.

And I just remembered I filled up my Jittery Joe's card with stamps, so I can get a free coffee.  I might save it for a special day.

Tomorrow is the day (Part II)

So, last Thursday I wore my new white peasant dress. It was the first day of orientation for the teaching assistants, the official "first day back" for most people in the program.

Tomorrow, I'm wearing my red dress with my red wedge sandals because tomorrow is the first day of class.  I'm done with coursework, but starting this year, I'll be on the teaching end of things.  Two sections of Spanish 1001.  In other words, Spanish For Dummies. lol.

Really, I think I prefer teaching the lowest level for now.  Preparation won't be too involved.  At this level, the syllabus and all assignments are already set by the higher ups in the program who organize the courses.  My students will be a bunch of scared freshmen who will be dying for a smiley instructor who loves to get interactive.  I'll be able to devote more time to preparing for comps.

I'm wearing my red dress because I want the first day of the semester to know I'm fierce.  I want it to know that I'm on fiya.  Plus, teaching gives me an excuse to dress up and wear cute shoes.  I don't want anyone thinking I'm one of the freshmen, now do I?

I had an idea to do something cute for everyone to get the semester started off right.  And once a cute idea gets into my head, I must carry it out to fruition.  I thought, What if I bought a bunch of candy and made up some goody bags to put in people's boxes?  I did just that and attached a note that said, "Here's hoping your semester gets off to a 'sweet' start! - Love, Chantell."

But here's the thing with me.  When I think of an idea to give someone a little present, I also envision how they will receive the present.  Like, I want people to walk into the department tomorrow, and get excited with they see a pretty little bag with a pretty little ribbon tied around it in their boxes.  I want them to see this colorful, festive thing in their boxes (the attached note was printed out on pink paper) and I want them to be delighted.

The thing is, sometimes I wish some particular thing would happen to me.  Like, that one day I would find a pleasant surprise in my box (and I have before).  But instead of waiting for it to happen to me, why not make it happen for someone else?

I think I'm going to start doing that.  Make it a thing, like wearing flowers in my hair.  Like, if something pops into my head that I wish someone would do for me, I will (within reason and the bounds of appropriateness, lol) try to do it for someone else.  Sort of an inverted "pay it forward."

Here's hoping tomorrow is the beginning of an awesome semester!

Tomorrow is the day

that I'm wearing my new dress.  It will be a new day, the beginning of a new phase for me in the PhD program, and I'll probably be meeting some new people.  All compelling reasons for wearing a new dress.

I will wear my yellow wedge sandals, I will wear my hair sunflower, and I will carry my new bag with Vincent Van Gogh violets on it.  It will be a new, bright, flowery day.

I can do it. I can't do it.

My mindset swings back and forth between between believing either one of those two sentences.

Of course, when I believe I can do it, I feel buoyant, like the sun is shining and I can feel the wind in my hair, and I'm power walking to some important place.  Every remembrance brings a smile to my face and my present reality feels like a calm, steady launch pad, ready to shoot me into a brilliant new reality that's closer than I think it is.

Naturally, when I believe that I can't do it, I feel like I've just been attacked by the gray.  Hopelessness lingers in every exhalation of air, and every tomorrow seems doomed to be a stagnant repetition of what I've always known.  The emotional mathematics of cost-benefit analysis seem stacked impossibly against me.  Every increasing investment feels like it's destined for an ever decreasing return.

Today, I believe I can do it.  I am halfway done with my last comps list.  I got my teaching schedule for the upcoming semester, and I'm beginning to remember the things that I enjoyed about teaching.  I'm starting to envision what my upcoming semester is going to look like.  It's going to be activity packed; I will have to manage my time well.  I will have to hunker down, and I will have to rely on myself to get done what I need to get done.  But I can taste the satisfaction I'll have when I stick to my guns and I complete things the way I've planned.  It's going to be a time of learning and discovery in preparing for comps, and it will be a time of re-familiarizing myself with the classroom in being a teaching assistant again.

I've had a chance to process a lot of things, and I feel like my best course of action is to continue to believe I did the right thing by moving to start this program two years ago, that I've made right decisions since, and that I will continue on this track until I reach the other side.

I can do it.  I know that I can.  I believe that I can.

(Sunflower) Surprises

I went home to spend time with my family before the onslaught of the upcoming semester next week.  Classes don't start until the 12th, but orientation for me starts Thursday. Not even a week of freedom (which hasn't exactly been freedom) left.  I'm beyond needing to get on the ball.

I was treated to a few "surprises" while I was home.  It's just nice when you're reminded that people are thinking about you.  It forces me to stop and be thankful.  Just to stop and be thankful for the people in my life who love me and care about me.  It truly is a blessing.

Let's see, I got a triple succession of gifts from mi mejor amiga who happened to be in town. A set of sunflower coasters.  An umbrella with Vincent Van Gogh violets and a matching bag.  She's the same friend of my sunflower umbrella. A friend moved by my floral obsession.  A lady at my parents' church who specializes in making pretty little wreaths made me a giant sunflower out of the material she normally uses.  My mom gifted me with a couple of sunflower accent pillows (to accompany my sunflower bedspread), and lastly, I was gifted with a pretty little frock. It's a cute little white peasant dress that makes me feel soft and feminine and sprightly.  It's a dress I've been looking for for a long time and I want to wear it right away (as I do all new items of clothing I acquire), but this one, for some reason, has to wait.  I feel like I have to wait for the right time to wear it.  And somehow, I think I'll know when that right time is.

There were other things this weekend that were for me.  Things that reminded me that God hasn't forgotten about me.  Things that let me know that I am loved.  Little things that make a big difference.

A Few Moments That Keep Coming Back to Me

1. I was in 1st grade and I didn't want to get on the bus to go to school.  I was crying.  I was waiting at the bus stop with my mom.  When the bus pulled up, my mom opened my lunch box to show me the treats she packed inside.  I remember seeing M&Ms and Cheetos and I smiled and got on the bus.

2. A girl used to bully me in P.E. in 7th grade.  She was a mean and ugly girl with thin lips and braces.  Years later I just happened to be in Montgomery and went to WalMart.  I saw her.  She had on a hairnet and worked behind the deli counter.

3. In France, I met up with friends at an all night-music festival in the streets.  Techno music was blasting from a nearby cafe.  I stayed on the sidelines and contented myself with laughing at everyone's antics.  Suddenly, a tall, thin man with blonde dreadlocks approached me.  For a second, I was afraid because I didn't know him and didn't know what he wanted or what he was going to say.  He leaned in and said, "I just wanted to tell you how pretty you are," then turned around and walked away.  I just stood there, stunned.  He didn't look back.

4. I was in class, making a comment.  I glanced over at a classmate sitting next to me while speaking and saw that he was staring at me intensely.  It caught me off guard, and I quickly looked away and began to stumble over my words, briefly losing my train of thought.

5. I was a child, walking the streets of Philadelphia with my mom.  I saw a homeless person for the first time, sleeping at the steps of a building.  I remember asking my mom, "Why is that man sleeping outside?" but I don't remember her answer.

6. A teacher was reading us the book Love You Forever.  It's about a boy who grows up whose mother always says "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."  At the end of the story, the boy is a man and says the same thing to his own child.  My teacher got choked up at the end and could barely finish.  I remember being alarmed.  I was so young, I remember not being able to understand why that would make my teacher cry.

Sunrise

I walked down the beach to watch the sunrise in solitude.

People or A Part of My Life

Friend, 27
From Turkey, we had our last Starbucks coffee together at the Georgia Center.  Met through "Global Friends."  I learned a few words in Turkish.  She improved her English.  I learned about her culture.  She learned about mine.  She met my brothers and parents.  I met her mom and fiance.  For two years we stayed in touch, and I remember our first meeting at Jittery Joe's.  Leaving now, back to Turkey for an engagement ceremony and then on to the UK for a doctoral program.  She is a part of my life.

Professor, 34
Dominican, a high-school graduate at 14.  Learned English on the fly.  Genius.  Harvard-bound.  Tried to take me with her.  I fell in love with her son.  Four-year-old, honey-skinned, long-lashed, hazel-eyed, curly-haired, dimpled beauty.  Hair after his mother's curls, a mane of auburn spirals.  A tasteful, simple nose ring to set it all off.  "No tears," she said, the last day.  She meant it.  It would just make her son upset.  This is not goodbye.  She is a part of my life.

Couple, 46
They got married when they were 31.  They know what it's like.  "Almost 15 years, now."  I saw wedding pictures, 90s incarnations of familiar faces.  A spacious house out in the country, cornfields in the backyard.  No children.  She wanted to adopt, but he never seemed sure.  She didn't press him.  When they said it was worth it, I knew they meant it.  A new recipe: crushed pineapple, cherry pie filling, topped off with yellow cake mix and pats of butter in the oven at 350 for an hour.  Easy, decadent cobbler.  They are a part of my life.

Friend, 31
We're friends, but more importantly, so are our brains.  We need to know about our lives, and our brains need to know what the other is thinking.  We apologize for apologizing.  God-ordained friends.  Literally.  She prayed, walked into the Ferg, and there was her teary-eyed answer standing there, all because of a mom with a poofy Pentecostal bow and a skirt.  When we make history, it goes down in the annals.  A baby on each hip.  She does it.  She is a part of my life.

Pseu-tor, (almost) 31
He wasn't always bespectacled.  He was always a friend.  Since post-undergrad (same job), grad (same Master's), and now, now.  But going back and forth over that thin platonic line is draining.  I'm done.  But still, there are birthdays, comprehensive exams, the Globe, tiny desks in shared offices, a picturesque field lined with benches with a fountain where people exit the departmental building and go to regain their sanity.  Where the social, academic, emotional, spiritual, and historical collide.  He is a part of my life.

Mother, 53
Lady is what I call her.  One of a kind.  She usually knows everything, even if I don't tell her.  And even though I roll my eyes when she dares to compare our times ("Mom, you met my father when you were 19!  It's not the same!"), she has a wisdom called experience PhDs can't give.  Smiling, voice goes up two octaves answering the phone, makes things the right way, good, the best.  Cries when she laughs.  Prays.  Praise.  She is a part of my life.

Hope

So, Friday I had one of those days that I dread having.  Where I'm utterly unproductive, where I'm snuggled into a fetal position in a fluffy pink robe, my eyes swollen from tears of frustration and I can't motivate myself to eat anything other than a couple of packages of brownie bites.  I couldn't even wait to get home from the library to get started.  On the bus, even (which somehow makes things seem even more sad to me . . . what is it about bus rides that paints everything with a melancholy tone?), tears still managed to spill their way out.  I can never hide it because even if tears don't fall, my nose and eyes immediately redden up.  It wasn't until a gentlemanly young man sitting a seat away from me asked, "Excuse me, are you okay?" that I realized I was as noticeable as I'd feared being.

I do allow myself the pathetic luxury of wallowing in self-pity from time to time, but I'm getting better at not giving myself over to it completely and at least trying to snap myself out of it.  I called and talked to a few people to give me an encouraging word.  One of the questions I kept asking myself is, "Should I give up hope?  Is it fruitful to still hope for something when the limitations and barriers have been clearly and repeatedly spelled out for me?"  I mean, not give up hope in God, but give up hope in this particular situation.  To me, to give up hope = to stop setting myself up for disappointment unnecessarily.

One person said, "you should never give up hope," and then quoted Romans 5:5.  Hope maketh not ashamed. I started looking up all the scriptures having to do with hope.  I guess I still wasn't convinced.  What I mean is, I wasn't convinced that the best thing for me to do wasn't just to allow my hope to die.  To lay down my expectation that some magical day, things are going to change.

Today was my day to teach the little ones.  Love those guys.  Today we learned about loving your neighbor.  (To the tune of "Are You Sleeping?"): Love your neighbor, love your neighbor, Jesus said, Jesus said, I can love my neighbor, I can love my neighbor, you can too, you can too.  I wasn't in the sanctuary for the message.  This morning before even heading to church, there was a part of me that told myself, If he preaches on something about hope today, then I'll know.  But how would I know if I wasn't even going to be in there during service?

Near the end of service, of course, parents come by to pick up their kids.  Usually, by the time all the kids are gone and I finish making sure toys are put away and wiping down tables with Clorox wipes, service is completely over and I just pop my head back into the sanctuary to chat for a minute before heading home.  But today, after all the kids were picked up and all put back in place, when I walked into the sanctuary, altar service was still going on.  And the title of the message just preached was flashed up on the screen:  "When All Seems Hopeless."  I gasped.

There's a doggedly stubborn, skeptical part of me afraid to believe it more than coincidence.  But there's another part of me who teared up (surprise, surprise) at the knowledge that God really does know where I am.  Maybe He's trying to tell me that moving on and thinking about the situation a different way doesn't have to mean giving up hope.

I'm supposed to be finishing my poetry comps list.

I'm also supposed to be moving on.

God, I hate talking about depressing things, but I can't just act like they aren't happening and that I'm not feeling the weight of them and that they aren't negatively affecting me.  Because they are.  Because I'm letting them.

Sometimes I feel like every time I get to a spot where I'm back on track, some little fox comes along to spoil my vine.  It's quite frustrating.

I honestly feel like I'm trying to do the right thing.  So, then, why do I end up feeling like I must be doing something wrong?

If anything, I am learning that I must completely give up my desire to control things that are beyond my human ability to control.  I am learning how futile it is.  I'm learning that it also isn't really a matter of "letting God have control" than it is realizing I was never in control in the first place.

I must also remind myself that "moving on" isn't really moving on if I'm still hoping for things to work out the way I wanted them to.  That would actually be the opposite of moving on, come to think of it.

There are some sobering things I'm having to come to terms with this summer.  It's the realization that I'm going to have to handle some things alone.  Things that no one will be able to help me decide, that no one will be able to help me implement, that no one will be able to help me see through to the end.

That is not to say that they cannot be done or that I won't have any guidance.  I choose to believe that God is guiding me. But at the same time, the idea that I'm going to have to rely on myself is scary.  That point in my life is here and will swing into full force once the school year begins.  What I've been experiencing this summer is, in a weird way, trying to prepare me for it.

Yes, I'm Going There

I normally stay away from the fray.  You know, the morass.

But suffice it to say that last night's verdict in the Zimmerman trial was a gross miscarriage of justice.  There's no other way to say it.

An unarmed teenager gets pursued by an armed man (even after the armed man was explicitly told NOT to pursue the teenager), and is shot and killed by the armed man.  If Zimmerman had stayed in the car, Martin would still be alive.  There's no way around it.  Armed man pursues and ultimately kills unarmed teenager.  How is there not anything wrong with that? Yet, he walks free.

If people wonder why there is such apathy towards our government and voting, such distrust in our justice system, especially among minorities, look no further than what happened last night.

As an older sister to two young black men, it scares me.  It really scares and sickens me that this is America.

And we dare to say "with liberty and justice for all."

Good, Productive Me

Yes.  This is the me I want to be.

I only wish I had been this me as soon as I returned from Cuba.  Ah, well.  We can't be the me's we wish we had been back then.  We can only be the me's we are now.

Interestingly, the more I have to do, the easier it is for me to get myself together.  Or rather, the more I have to do and the closer the deadlines are to approaching, the more apt I am to get myself together.  Let's be honest.

Anyway, I wish I could remember this feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment that I feel when I know I've put in a decent amount of work for a day on the days that I'm feeling like a pudgy slug who hasn't been to the rec all summer and who doesn't want to get out of bed and who shamelessly procrastinates like a mug and who looks out of the dreary window and mopes around in the melancholy morning nibbling on stale donuts and drinking half cups of day old coffee.  Eww.  It has been raining inordinately lately, though, for real.  Like, isn't it July?  Aren't we supposed to be complaining about the scorching Georgian sun?  At least I haven't had to water my veggie babies in like a month.

I've just been having a bit of a tough time this summer, truth be told.  I mean, not just with getting it together, but with being emotionally preoccupied.  I'm just now getting to the point where I'm able to truly chill out about it.

Maybe I'm just saying this, but maybe it's true . . . anytime there are, er, possibilities in my life, I get mad distracted and go into my little mind wandering world.  Particularly at times when I can least afford to.  Perhaps the good Lord knows that I can't handle a PhD program and the dynamics of a relationship at the same time.  Maybe I technically could, but wouldn't do well at either.

Everything is going to be SO different this coming fall.  First of all, the professor I adore is moving on to bigger and better things.  She's not my major professor, so it's not like my committee is jacked up or anything (and my major professor is amazing, by the way), but she's the awesome, genius lady who stands up for the students like no one else does in the department.  I'm going to miss her and her little boy who is my amorcito.  I know we'll stay in touch, and if I play my cards right, I might get a little taste of the bigger and better stuff she's doing, but still.  It's just not going to be the same.  Secondly, I'll be teaching for the first time here.  Not like I haven't taught before.  Not like I haven't taught at the university level before.  Nothing new.  But I'm nervous because I don't have a feel for what teaching looks like here, and, well, we all know how my last teaching experience went.  (If you don't, suffice it to say that it involves the adverb badly.) I know, what I'll be doing a month from now is universes away from what my last teaching gig was all about.  But still.  Thirdly, I won't be taking classes anymore and am afraid I will feel disconnected and isolated while I hole myself up studying for comps.  No more being "that girl."  You know, that girl who won't shut up in class?  (Or, as I've been told, the girl who people rely on to talk during seminar because they didn't read.)  I'm afraid it's going to suck.  But I guess I'll just have to make more of an effort to get out and stay connected with my colleagues.  And I guess I will see folks around since I'll be teaching and so will they, (not to mention the craploads of meetings and "teaching circles," etc. that I was blissfully able to skip my first two years) so . . . maybe it won't be too bad.

Here's to the continuation of my productive streak!

Ecclesiastes 3:11

Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end. (New Living Translation)

He hath made every thing beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end. (King James Version)

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He also has planted eternity in men’s hearts and minds [a divinely implanted sense of a purpose working through the ages which nothing under the sun but God alone can satisfy], yet so that men cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. (Amplified Bible)

He makes everything beautiful.  Everything has a time.  I can't see the entirety of His plan.

Is Love Enough?

I knew it was going to happen. We all know, don't we?  The downswing.

My last post was so bursting with positive energy, part of me didn't want to follow it up with anything else that wasn't equal in its I-am-confident-superwoman, it's-all-gonna-be-all-right brilliance.  But life is life.  I'm no less confident, no less sure that it is going to be all right per se, but I am sort of pensive today and maybe sort of questioning my present emotional state of being.

First of all, what I'm sort of wondering is if I've ever been in love.  I mean, I think I know what it is, and what I think it is, or rather, what I feel I know about it, is that it is not a "feeling."  It is not some magical movie moment where a bunch of tingly feelings and rainbows and unicorns all converge in some warm and fuzzy fireworks display.  Rather, I'd like to think of it as a knowing.  A confidence.  I believe that saying "I love you" is less how you feel about someone and more what you know about someone.  I know who you are.  And I love who I know you are.  It's something akin to a fact rather than a declaration.

I see it as appearing plain as day.  Like frustratedly looking for your keys (I do this quite often) only to find them in the most obvious place that you somehow overlooked.  There they are, plain as day.  They were there all along, waiting.

Have I experienced this?  I'm afraid to believe that I have.  Because if I have, then . . . it puts me in a tough spot at present.

I'm too old for absolutes.  When it comes to these matters, that is.  Nothing is set in stone.  All I'm saying is that right now, it's a little difficult for me to keep calm and carry on, as it were.

Aside from the am I/aren't I conundrum, second of all, is the question of whether it's enough.  What I mean is, even if you know for sure that you love someone, that you love each other, is it enough for a relationship to work?  Is knowledge of each other and each simply loving who the other person is enough?  As unromantic as it sounds, I don't believe so.

If a partnership is going to work, then each person also has to be able to meet the other person's needs.  Let me qualify that and say that no human being can meet all of another human being's needs.  I don't think one person is meant to meet all of another person's needs.  But the most important ones have to be met if it's going to work for the long haul.  Spiritual, emotional, financial, intellectual, sexual . . . these are just a few examples of the types of needs, that, if not met by both parties, could possibly make a partnership a total no go.

Some things can't be fully understood until after you're married, I suppose (if you're living a Christian life, which I am striving to do), but for the most part, you know good and well what you're signing up for.  Some people just ignore the signs that important needs won't be able to be met.  Some people go into things believing that love is enough.

Regardless of how I'm feeling right now, I know that, in the end, it isn't enough for me.

Your Life Is Now

I'm on a positive kick after talking to mi mejor amiga earlier today, so I'm going to go ahead and write this now so that when I get into my little dramatic bouts of melancholy, I can look back on this and get my head right.

Part of what we were talking about is the fact that we are living our lives now.  So many times we envision ourselves at some point in some indeterminate future, believing that our lives won't truly begin until we get to that point.  We worship this idea, we build a shrine to it.  We hold on to it for dear life, and then become extremely discontent with our lives when things don't exactly happen the way we had envisioned.  We still cling to it.  We mourn it.  That life that could have been.  That life that should have been.  The life that isn't.

What I have come to believe from experience is that we have to let go of what could have been/should have been, but isn't.  Completely let it go.  Because this is the thing: How can we expect God to give us the desires of our heart when we're still clinging to what we thought should have been? It's only when we let go of that idea, let go of the way we thought it should have worked out, let go of our preconceived notions of the life we thought we wanted at this point in time, let go of it completely, that God has the chance to give us something we never expected. It's only when we let go of it completely that we open ourselves up to receive those things God has for us that go beyond what we ever conceived for ourselves.

There are things beyond our control, but there are a whole lot of things within our control, that are within the scope of our ability to achieve. I say whatever it is that you want to happen in your life that you can control, go for it. Do whatever you need to do to make it happen. Don't live your life thinking that it will only truly begin in some indefinite future.

I'm not saying I'm 100% happy all day, every day, 24/7, with where I am in my life.  I still have a lot of work to do.  I don't even know what "100% happy all day, every day, 24/7" even means or if it's even part of the reality of being a human being in this fallen world.  But what I can say is that the past few years, I've taken steps toward living the life I want to live.  I'd always wanted to learn a third language after doing the Spanish thing.  I applied to a study abroad program and won a scholarship to spend 6 months in France.  Je l'ai appris.  I had a horrible, soul-draining job.  I quit it and applied to a PhD program so that I could put myself in a position that would open more doors for me and perhaps put me on the path towards a career that I enjoy. I'd always wanted to learn how to play the guitar.  I borrowed one from a friend, found an instructor I could afford, and went for it (getting a brand-new guitar from my generous brother in the process).  I'd always wanted to learn how to garden.  I staked my claim in a community garden plot, not knowing what the heck I was doing, but did what I could and now I'm obsessed with my "veggie babies" and learning all kinds of vegetable recipes.  While I can't make the "perfect man" (whatever that means) fall in love with me, I have been very honest and forthright with men who are interested in me about what I want, how I feel, where I stand and what I expect.  I've found that people admire my candor, that I've saved myself a bit of time and maybe a bit of heartache, and perhaps that I've inspired people who are serious to step up to the plate.  Why complain about how men treat you and how "there aren't any good guys out there" if you don't believe you should be treated a certain way and if you don't set expectations for the type of relationship you want?

Your life is happening right now, and whatever it is that you've "always wanted to do," put yourself in the position to do it right now. Write your own story now. When you're in His hands, you can't go wrong.

Weeds

Back in the day, I was a Bible quizzer.  One of the chapters I was responsible for that I can no longer quote verbatim was Mark chapter 4.  The parable of the sower.  All I remember now (in trusty old King James English) is Hearken, behold there went out a sower to sow.

It goes on to talk about all the different types of ground the seed fell on: some didn't even get the chance to sprout, some later died, some grew and flourished.  But one of the strongest images to me in that passage is verse 7 which describes thorns growing up and choking the plants so that they didn't produce.  That image came to life for me when I witnessed that very phenomenon in my own little garden.

When I came back from Cuba, I was overwhelmed with how ridiculously my garden had grown.  Thankfully, I had people who were available to take care of it for me when I was gone.  When I got back, I went to work weeding.  While pulling the usual weeds out of the ground, I discovered a weed that horrified me.  It was a thin, rope-like stem of a weed that literally wrapped itself around the plants and entangled itself like an herbal boa constrictor.  I couldn't help but think of the parable.  This weed was literally choking my plants.  And it would have eventually rendered it unable to produce if I hadn't cut it away and pulled it up by the roots.

I just remember the shock when I saw it.  How unbelievable it was.  How is this weed doing this?  How dare it?  I felt violated.  I was reminded of evil.

I don't know what to title this post.

First of all, I am overwhelmed with gratitude today.  The only way I can describe it is that I know that God knows where I am, and that He's reminded me that I am where He wants me to be.  

Ordinarily, in a situation like the one I've been preoccupied with for the past few days, I would be extraordinarily depressed.  But instead, I feel peace.  I'm so thankful for that peace.  Truly trusting Him and truly leaving it in His hands is a catharsis.  It's a burden lifted.  It's a knowing that feels so natural you aren't surprised when you hear the words confirming it cross your own lips.  It's like being aware of a feeling that you suddenly realize is a fact.  I do not know what the future holds.  But there was something about today that made me truly believe that God is in control.

I have questioned myself and my commitment to God many times.  Is all of that really necessary?  You're just living your life this way because it's what you've always done.  You're rigid.  You're judgmental.  You're uncompromising to a fault.  You've done all the "right" things, and where has it gotten you?

Yes, I, even I, have doubts.  But I felt like today God gave me a teeny tiny peek into the beauty and assurance that results from consistency and commitment.  From not giving in.  From standing firm.  It surprised me.

I'm usually not one who's big on "never compromise" type talk.  I'm really not.  It smacks of dogmatism and grandstanding.  Like a politician who has to convince himself of his own talking points.  Like a Pharisee before he realizes he's unwilling to cast the first stone.

However, I had a couple of experiences today that showed me something like a tiny shaft of light, a flower before it blossoms.  Because I said yes. Yes, it does matter.  Yes, it is worth it.

Unpacking

Yay!  I am officially unpacked.

Ridiculous . . . after two weeks of being back from Cuba.  Well, one of those weeks I was spending time with my folks. But still, a week back in my little enclave and I'm just now getting unpacked.

(Sigh.)  I'm slowly making headway.  Finished editing a chapter for my prof's project.  Tomorrow is Operation Write Cuba Reports.  If I'm smart, I'll write one report that could suffice for all three people/institutions for whom I have to hand in reports.  Heh, heh.  Aside from that, I need to sit down and write out a nice, long updated to-do list.  Right now, things still seem a little scattered.  Once I order my thoughts and compile a tidy little list, I'll be good.

There are other things I was trying to unpack as well.  Metaphorically.  But I've come to the conclusion that I seriously just need to not worry about things I have no control over.  For real.  I do so much better when I keep the main thing the main thing, youknaaimsayin?  I refuse to get bogged down in Shakespearean tragedies and telenovelas.  Because they negatively impact my work.  And I have a lot of it to do.

Present Life

I wanted to write more stuff about Cuba . . . I just hate that I couldn't chronicle my experiences as they were unfolding.  It feels slightly inauthentic to go back and cherry pick what I want to share.

Well, I guess I already do that even when I talk about my present life.  lol.  But at least it's much more immediate and there isn't the time lag that adds to the feeling of inauthenticity that I've sort of been feeling when trying to recreate my Cuba experiences.  I did post links to pictures, and supposedly, a picture is worth a thousand words.  I guess it's okay if I just leave it at that.  I had romantic ideas of doing sort of like profile/sketches of people I met, but now it just seems corny.  Let me write some inspiring, "real" things about these "real" people I met.  It just seems like something a naive hipster would do.

Anyway, present life is pressing upon me.  I got back to what's home base for now this past Sunday night and have been trying to get back to the grind ever since.  On my plate this summer: working on a project for my professor, babysitting her son, writing reports for the grants I won to go to Cuba, writing an article about my Cuba experience (for possible publication!), and preparing for comps.

My apartment still sort of has the post-finals-whirlwind-of papers-blew-through-it look that it had before I left for Cuba, and I still haven't officially unpacked.  I've just taken out essential toiletries and have been picking clothes to wear out of my suitcase.  I need to get my life together.

I haven't been totally unproductive.  Making headway with the project.  I got all my paperwork squared away to get reimbursed for Cuba expenses from my grant (yes, baby!).  I've worked in my garden a bit, and have some beautiful veggie babies in development.  I've already sacrificed a rather large zucchini to make zucchini bread and muffins.  Mmmm.  I clipped my nails back down to nothing so I could get back to practicing the guitar.  I hadn't played it in over a month.

The only thing I'm hesitant to write about right now are personal life matters. And when I say "personal life" we all know what I'm really talking about.  There are so many little eyes reading this, known and unknown.  And I'm trying to keep things as smooth and drama free as possible.  Not posting the juicy details, so to speak, is my way of doing so.  I think the only time I will freely write about anyone who's anywhere in the vicinity of being in the running of being The One is if I get engaged or something.

All of that to say that there is a possibility in my life right now.  That's all I feel at liberty to say.  Because a possibility is honestly all it is at this point.  But here is something I will say.  And this is hilarious, but so true.  It seems like when it comes to guy matters, it's either feast or famine.  What I mean is, I will go through long periods of people being unaware of my existence or just not that into me.  But let one person become legitimately interested in me.  Oh, and also, let me go on a trip.  That also does it.  Let me be far away and let some other dude throw his hat in the ring, and suddenly folks come crawling out of the woodwork.  It's like, oh, dude, really?  Where you come from?

Anyway.  After I got back from Cuba last Monday, I spent the rest of the week with my family.  Whenever I spend more than a couple of days with my family, I'm never ready to go back to work.  I'm just bad about leaving.  I'm not a good goodbye person at all.  But now that I'm back . . . I feel like, okay, I can do this.  And I love when I get that feeling.

Love / Hate

One thing I loved about Cuba was coconut ice cream.  It was my drug and my Nutella substitute.  I wanted it all day, every day, and I wanted to bring some home with me.

One thing I hated about Cuba was the lack of toilet paper in public restrooms.  If there's one thing girls need, it's toilet paper every time.  Thankfully, I had my trusty kleenex travel pack with me at all times as well as hand sanitizer.  I was the one every one hit up when they had to go and TP was a no show.

Cuba Diary Snippets: May 20, 2013

After lunch, me, Oriana and Mike went to Casa de las Américas with Padrón.  It was absolutely fabulous.  Padrón knows everyone—literally.  There's a congreso on the Caribbean going on there—I should really try to go at least one day—I think Wednesday.  I got a chance to talk to Roberto [note: last name omitted]—it was awesome—just the fact that I used his NYT article in my history paper—and there I was, sitting in his office with him, talking to him—it was pretty amazing.  We were talking about the differences in racial identity in the US and the Caribbean—it was interesting what he had to say about the "one drop rule."  In the United States, "one drop" of black blood makes you black.  But in the Caribbean, "one drop" of white blood makes you not black.  He said what matters most in the Caribbean is appearance—the whiter you appear, the better off you are, and he said there is a lack of black pride in the Caribbean for that reason.  He quoted a passage in Cecilia Valdés where Cecilia's mother (or somebody) tells her "Pareces como una blanca!" Wow, you look white, (even though she was mulatta).  He criticized all the racial categories there are—"it makes it as if they are different than me" even though they're black.  Or would be considered black in a US context.  At first I was using the phase "gente de color" [people of color], but he corrected me and said people don't really say that anymore—he personally prefers to be called negro. Black.  He is a tall, handsome, dark-skinned man with dreadlocks.  He is quite striking—not that he's extraordinarily handsome, but he's a striking and arresting figure.  I wonder if he was skeptical of me because I'm light-skinned.  I was pretty taken with him, though—I hope he didn't think I was a weirdo.  Padrón gave me and Oriana free copies of the Casa de las Américas journals—several past editions.  He even wrote the intro to the Benedetti book that Oriana's mom made us promise that we would bring back and gave her a free copy.

Later we went to see the cannon shooting that happens once every night at 9 pm.  Before that we had dinner.  I feel a melancholy descending upon me. Maybe before dinner tomorrow night I'll go to the Hotel Cohiba for fast internet.  I need to write people.

(More pictures here, here, here, here, and here.)

Cuba Diary Snippets: May 15, 2013

I didn't go to the institute with the other students today.  I went to the Fundación Fernando Ortiz as Rodrigo suggested and bought some books from his colleague Yolanda that he suggested.  When I arrived, I met a grandmotherly lady from Jamaica originally, but whose family has been in Cuba for 80 years.  Her name is Josephine [note: I'm leaving out her whole name].  We chatted, she gave me a program of upcoming events at Casa de las Americas and before I left, she gave me her phone number.  She said "my house is your house" and at that moment, I wanted to cry.

 . . . . . . . . . 

Before I left the residence, Carlos, the administrator of the residence along with a few of the workers were discussing politics in a way I never anticipated discussing politics with Cubans. Carlos [said], "This is all Obama needs to do, we don't care about Guantanamo or any of that.  Just ask Castro, 'What do you want?' And then send over 100 ships full of products and supplies that people need, and then the embargo will be over."  He talked about the fact that the politicians eat every day, they have plenty of money and everything they need while they're debating politics, but who really suffers is el pueblo [the people].  He said that people who are involved in tourism are tricking the foreigners who come.  He said all they want us to see are the children in uniforms smiling, oh, everything is happy, etc., but they don't want you to see the suffering or a child on the street who doesn't get enough to eat every day.  Then he asked if I was going to become a senator after a this political discussion, and we all laughed.

 . . . . . . . . . .

On my way back, an older Cuban man remarked at how pretty I was and how beautiful my teeth were—prettier than a model in a toothpaste ad.  He took it upon himself to accompany me across the street and kiss my hand and say that we could have a very beneficial relationship ("no sexo ni nada de eso," [not sex or anything like that] he clarified).  I was trying to avoid saying I was American, but I guess I give off an American aura.  I've heard a lot from people that they thought I was Cuban or Dominican . . . I guess I like the fact that I "could" be a lot of things.  Anyway, I had to gracefully get away from my old Cuban admirer ("Si yo fuera más joven . . . " [If I were younger] he lamented before I walked away).

 . . . . . . . . . 

Walking a little further on was a guy asking if we needed a taxi.  "Taxi, señorita?" I shook my head no.  We kept walking.  "Cuban boyfriend?" he offered.  I laughed heartily.  If I didn't need a taxi, maybe a Cuban boyfriend would be what I was looking for.

 . . . . . . . . .

This afternoon, I legitimately cried after lunch.  One of the servers in the cafeteria told us that he tried to reach the US en balsa [note: a balsa is basically an inner tube people would use to try to get to Florida from Cuba] twice, but each time, he was caught and got brought back and mistreated by the Cuban authorities.  If felt horrible just thinking about so many peoples' realities.  "No seas así," [don't be that way] he said.  His name is Elio.

A Tale of Two Currencies

In Cuba, there are two currencies.  One is the Cuban peso, otherwise known as moneda nacional, abbreviated as MN, and the other is the Cuban convertible peso, otherwise known as the peso convertible or, simply CUC (pronounced "ceh-ooh-ceh" or "kook."  I liked to call it the second way). CUC are comparable to the dollar, worth just a teeny bit more.  If I changed over $50 USD, I'd get about $47 CUC.

MN is what most Cubans use on a daily basis and is what people get paid in by the state.  CUC is what foreigners use when making most purchases in Cuba.  (Books, taxi rides and fresh fruit from the guy at the fruit stand are notable exceptions to that statement.) However, here's where it gets tricky . . .

Most quality items (toiletries, electronics, clothing, etc.) are paid for in CUC, Cuban citizen or not.  But only certain Cubans have access to CUC.  Usually those who work in the tourism sector or those who have relatives in the States who send remittances.  What's more, 1 CUC = 25 MN.  So, if your state salary is 300 MN a month (the average), what does that equal out to in dollars?  Just to give you an idea of what people's daily reality is like.  Most people somehow manage to get by.  Barely.

Lots of Americans looked at me like I was crazy when I said I was going to Cuba.  "But isn't it communist?" Uh, yeah.  But Cuba being communist had nothing to do with my safety or my ability to learn or travel freely while I was there.  People seemed to have this image that Cuba's a third-world war zone with armed guards stationed everywhere and people being snatched off the streets.  Um, no.  And if anything, Cuba is socialist more than hard core communist. There's definitely a private sector that's opening up, and tourism has a lot to do with it.  I would say that people are more equal in Cuba.  Not to say that injustice, prejudice and inequality don't exist, but socialism has, in many ways, leveled the playing field, if you will.  There's not the ever growing chasm between the very top and the very bottom that exists in the US.  But at what cost? The strange communist/capitalist hybrid that is Cuba is no more evident than in the two-currency system.

(Click here and here for more photos!)

¡He vueltooooo! (Spanish for "I'm baaaack!") or Fitting In

So, how do you describe a month-long experience in one post?

You can't.

I got back from Cuba last night and have been weathering reverse culture shock pretty adeptly ever since.  Today, I partook of something every red-blooded American does to mark the beginning of reentry into American life: a Starbucks frappuccino.  The Caramel Ribbon Crunch is on point.

I think what I will do for the next few days is dedicate each post to either a Cuban person I met and the context and story behind our relationship or a concept/idea connected to Cuba that I want to explore.  That way, it's allowing people to get a taste of my experience without bearing the burden of recounting every single detail in chronological order.  I also kept an extremely consistent diary while I was there.  Maybe I'll post a diary entry or two.

In addition to keeping a diary, I indulged in my floral obsession and pressed a variety of enchanting flowers in the back pages of the diary.  I'm not a flower pressing expert by any means, but it was just my way of bringing a piece of Cuba back with me.  Seriously, every time I passed beautiful flowers, they were just there for the taking in my mind.  I gravitated towards them and took it upon myself to pluck them.  They wanted to come back to America with me.

Anyway, I'll just share a little tidbit that I absolutely loved about being in Cuba: If I didn't open my mouth, seriously, people quite often mistook me for Cuban.  It was a fabulous feeling.  For the first time, I traveled to a foreign country where I could have passed as a native.  In Spain, I was automatically pegged as a foreigner.  In France, a little less so, but still, I gave off an air of not belonging.  In Cuba, for the first time, I could fit right in.

"But you look just like a Cuban!" was the response time and time again when I satisfied people's curiosity about where I was from.  A girl on the street swore that I was a girl in her management class until I assured her that I couldn't be—Soy de los Estados Unidos, I finally revealed.  I'm from the United States.  "Ohhhh!  But you look exactly like a Cuban!  I'm telling you, exactly like this girl in my class!"  In addition to Cuban, I was also thought of as other possibilities, including Jamaican and Dominican . . . American was the last thing people associated me with, even looking my American passport dead in the face, apparently.  During my last few moments on Cuban soil, checking in at the Jose Marti airport to fly into Miami, the agent at the desk asked me if I spoke Spanish, and then, my passport in hand, asked me where I was from.  Umm . . . the United States.  Yes, but what is your "procedencia"?  (In other words, Where are you really from?)  I knew what she wanted to know.  How can you be just American when you speak Spanish, and you have some blackness in you? "Well . . . in the United States, I'm considered, um, afroamericana."  Then the lightbulb came on.  Another agent next to her, a black woman, overhearing our conversation, nodded emphatically.  (Like she knew.)  "Oh, because, I thought maybe you were Dominican," the original lady offered.  Really?  Girl, you got my American passport staring you right in your mouth. lol.  Priceless.  Maybe, deep down inside, my true identity is some sort of Caribbean extraction.  Who really knows?

For those of you who aren't my FB friends, but are faithful readers, click here for my first installment of photos.

Quick Cuba Check In

Greetings from Cuba!

I'm seriously paying $10 an hour for this junk, so it's gotta be quick.  Cuba?  So far, so good.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on who you are and how you look at it), I haven't been seduced by a desperately handsome, rum-drinking, cigar-smoking, curly haired Cuban who's the color of cafe con leche with dark fire in his eyes.  I have, however, been accosted by an old man on the street who swore he'd have more game if he were younger, and I've been the object of a few catcalls and overly appreciative looks.  But that's Cuba.

Research-wise?  Some appreciable progress.  I'm just trying to take it all in stride.  I did have an awesome conversation with a Cuban guy who's an editor at one of the premier publishing houses and cultural centers in Havana, Casa de las Americas.  He wrote an article in the New York Times just a couple of months ago that I actually used for my history research paper.  I was a little starstruck.

I have lots of stories to tell, but that'll have to wait until I can access "fast" internet a bit more cheaply.  Caramba.  Keep me in your thoughts and prayers!

Here's to a New Adventure

I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm getting virtually no sleep tonight.

So much of my lack of readiness is my fault.  I totally waited until the last minute on so many things, just miscalculating how much time I thought I'd have to do what I needed to do.  It sort of sucks, and, in light of an email exchange I had a few hours ago, kind of embarrassing.

But here I am, a few hours before I'm supposed to be at the Delta check-in desk to be a part-time assistant with a brand new study abroad program.  I'm also going to do "research."  Yeah, I have a plan.  I have copies of a nice little typed up Spanish version of my proposal to aid me if any scholars or curators ask what my research is about, but what does that even mean?  I have no idea what doing research in Cuba even looks like, and I have no idea if any of my plans will even come close to being carried out.  Let's face it: I don't really know what I'm doing, and Cuban Spanish is going to take me for a ride.  My gringa patchwork of Latin American accent and occasionally European Spanish phrasings and vocabulary is not going to do me any favors.  I've been told by a few that I have a Cuban "look."  So, maybe if I keep my mouth shut, keep calm and carry on, I might be able to get by a little more easily.  Worth a try.

I should be thankful I have this opportunity, and I am.  I know it's going to be fun.  I know I'm going to have to be patient.  I know it's going to be different.  I know lots of funny things will happen.  I know lots of frustrating things will happen.  I'm sure I'll have a lot of stories to tell when I get back.

I want to take everything in stride. I want to open myself up to the unexpected. I want to discover something I didn't anticipate.

For the past few weeks, I've been surrounded by the feeling that something is about to change.  As a friend said, "Like you open up your front door and everything looks different."  There are a few things that are shifting around in my life right now in a state of indeterminacy, a sense of something-but-not-quite.  Maybe Cuba will give me at least a fleeting glance at what that something is.

Here's to a new adventure.

Hummus and Nutella as Metaphor or Sam-I-Am

"I don't really like hummus."
"What??"
"I don't know . . . I just don't like the taste of it."
"Okay . . . whatever.  I love it.  You're missing out."
"Well, I'll just try a little bit." (tastes some) "Wow, this is actually pretty good."
"What did I tell you?  The kind you had before must've not been very good."
"I guess not.  I really like this."

"I've never actually had Nutella."
"What??  You're crazy.  You HAVE to have some."
"Okay, I guess I'll try it.  You're always raving about it." (tastes some) "Oh, my God. Where has this been all my life?"
"See, what did I tell you?"
"This is SO good.  Oh, wow.  I'm going to seriously have to get some of this."

Moral of the story?  Try it.  You might like it.

Freedom! (Not for long.)

I'm back.

Yes, like the phoenix, I have at last arisen from my ashes, reborn.

I crawled into my final papers cocoon as fat, grubby caterpillar and emerged a hauntingly beautiful, lavender-speckled butterfly.

I am free.

I have loosed the shackles of paperwritingdom.  I have slain the fire-breathing dragon of coursework.

Seriously, barring any game-changing events, I am done with taking classes forever.  Next up, comprehensive exams, prospectus approval, and then, writing that dissertation, baby!  Oh, and I'll start teaching in the fall.

And now . . . a new adventure.  Cuba.

I thought I was going to have time to breathe between turning in my final papers on Tuesday and when I leave for Cuba on Sunday.  But here we are, early, early Friday morning and I've barely started packing.  And my vegetable babies are getting overrun with weeds.

What am I going to do?  I have to get my life together.  And quick.  I'm going to Cuba and I'm not ready.

And, I'm trying not to let it get me off track, but I really need God to stage an intervention in my personal life right now.  (Sigh.)  I must leave it in His hands.

Tomorrow afternoon, I'm going to see my family before I head off to la isla.

By the by, la isla is basically devoid of internet.  So, I'll try to post one more time before I go off the grid.