Thursday, December 18, 2008


So I’m home in Ohio.

I feel wonderful.  I’m back with the fam.  I’m sleeping in my old bed.  It’s goddamn COLD outside.  Yeeeeeeesssss.

And as I anxiously await Christmas (and every next conversation with Michael), I find myself sorting through the ghosts that live around here.  I have stories.  Lord, I have so many stories.  But I don’t know how many of them even matter anymore.

There’s this branch of therapy.  I was reading about it for a paper once.  It’s called “narrative therapy.”  Basically, it’s built on the premise that human beings have an innate sense of narrative, of story.  Like, try asking someone for his life story sometime.  He can’t tell you all of it.  So he will select episodes and scenes that he thinks are important.  These are the scenes he uses to define who he is.  These are the back-stories of the character he plays in his life every day. 

And so narrative therapy attempts to reconstruct someone’s life story.  The therapist will suggest that the patient select difference episodes and moments from his life, happier moments, or stories with more meaning and order, and use these episodes to construct an untroubled character for him to play. 

It’s pretty cool.  But boil it down?  It’s the art of letting go.  It’s the art of starting over.  Simple. 


But worth a shot.

The more I talk to Michael, the more of my stories that I tell him, the more I want to just scream, “BUT NONE OF THESE THINGS MATTER ANYMORE.”  Because honestly?  Honestly?

I don’t hurt much these days.  I’m not too angry.  And I’m really not scared.  I’m playing an untroubled character.  So somewhere along the way I think I must have decided to begin my period of reconstruction.  My renaissance.  It’s like I’m not even much interested in my life story any more.  There’s nothing in it at all.  I would make a terrible TV show. 

It’s maybe why I haven’t been blogging much lately.


Monday, December 1, 2008

In case of 400 YEARS

I really love mornings at my apartment. 

I usually wake up around 8:30.  Not because I have to, mind you, but because I’ve been going to bed so early these days, I simply can’t sleep past 8:30 anymore.  And by 8:30, Beth and Jes are already gone.  So it’s not like there’s a line for the shower.

But Rachel is usually up.  On my favorite mornings, Rachel is already up and sitting at the kitchen table.  She’s reading.  A steaming mug of coffee sits in front of her.  I notice that there’s another inch or so of coffee in the pot. 

“Is that for me?”  I ask.

“Sure,” she replies.

I pour the coffee for myself and pad out into the living room (aka My Office).  Why do I pad, you ask?  It’s because I’m wearing my slippers.  Of course.  I’m also still in my pajamas.  Why?  Because I can be.  Work doesn’t start until the afternoon.

I take a minute to appreciate our beautiful view…

…and then plop down onto the couch (aka My Desk).  I set the coffee on the coffee table (FINALLY using that piece of furniture to its exact purpose!), open my laptop, and get to the day.  The day is inside the laptop.  The day is job hunting, paying bills, e-mailing people, getting e-mails back, watching LOST, and writing writing writing.  And if it’s a really good morning, there’s already something in my inbox from Michael waiting for me.

You know, I can bitch and complain about money all I want.  I can fret over not making my bills, bemoan the few hours I get at the after school place, and beat my brains out hunting for a job.

But there’s a simple joy in the mornings now.  A joy of stillness, of not rushing, of being able to open my eyes up slowly to every new day.  

Last night at church we talked about this.  About how, just before the New Testament and the birth of Christ, there were 400 years of NOTHINGNESS for the Israelites.  400 years of waiting.  400 years of the profound, empty silence of God.  That’s so long to wait for even the simplest word from the Almighty.  How many generations lived and died in that silence?

So, yes.  I really love mornings at my apartment. 

But here's hoping that there's a point to all this waiting.  Here's hoping that into the silence of my life here in California...God will finally speak.