10 posts tagged “friends”
It's been a quiet week at home. Helping out around the house, some unpacking, some cleaning, some drawing. I've been sick for the last couple days, but that's fading, and I should be back to normal by tomorrow.
It's kind of weird being at home—I'd become so used to having friends around (literally) all the time. And here I haven't interacted with almost anyone but my family in a week. It's a difficult adjustment to make, and while I'm dealing with it as best I can, things have been pretty rough emotionally. I love my family, but living at home is a very different experience than living up in the Cities.
I miss people pretty badly. And it's not really anything serious—I know I'll be visiting this summer, and living up at school again come August. But the day-to-day experience of not having them around is... weird. I can't run upstairs and say hello to Matt and Mike; I can't bug Ben and Adem to watch Scrubs with me. No one's clustered around the TV at 4:30 to watch Jeopardy—these are default interactions that I became accustomed to during the year, and not being able to fall back on them is a little surreal.
I do talk to people online, and there's been some scattered interaction on Facebook, which is nice. It isn't as though I'm completely cut off from my friends—far from it! But there's a different flavor to online interaction than offline, and most of the people that I talk with all the time up at school don't have the same kind of relationship with me online. We didn't when we were living in the same city, and we don't now. (When we lived in the same building, what kind of online relationship we had didn''t really matter, did it?) It's funny that after all of the people I've come to know and love through online interaction, it can be so difficult to build that kind of relationship with someone I already know in person. (Not surprising, maybe. But funny, just the same.)
It's kind of funny, again—the loneliness really only hits when I'm talking with people online. Just because of the difference, I guess—I think about how different the conversation would be if we were in the same room, and it makes me kind of sad. Not that I want to give up chatting with my friends—not by any stretch of the imagination. But it leaves me in a weird place when I do talk with them. Happy that we've got that contact, but almost desperately sad at the same time. I'm a little concerned that I come across as always being upset, which I don't want. I also don't want to take myself too seriously, so I end up joking about any serious comments I make. ...Which I think leads me to act more a little more bouyantly than usual, which i think probably comes off as being flighty and obnoxious—overcompensating, much? And then I worry that they're annoyed by me, and it's all some kind of downward spiral.
The entire previous paragraph is an example of just how much I've been overthinking every single thing I do, lately.
When I was young, she worked at a grade school out in the country—I visited a few times, many, many years ago, before I was in kindergarten. Most of a lifetime ago, for me. I don't remember much, just a few moments—here and there, things we did. I guess they aren't that important... not to this post, at any rate.
Grandmother (she has always been Grandmother, never 'grandma' or any other variant on the title), when she worked at that school, would sometimes bring home old books and magazines—textbooks that were being replaced, educational periodicals that weren't being saved in the library archives any longer. (Before I was eight years old, I had read every issue of Cricket published between 1975 and 1987.)
She often offered these books to my family, and we often (perhaps to my father's chagrin) accepted them. I no longer remember how old I was—third grade, perhaps? Fourth?—when I took home the literature textbooks. There were two, comparable to the literature book I would have in seventh grade: thick, heavy, hardbound, with a dozen names scrawled in the inside cover. That summer, they were my treasures. I devoured them quickly, tearing through at a breakneck pace, perhaps in the space of a few afternoons.
But it was through the second reading, and the third, and the fourth, that I fell in love. I would take the books out—one more often than the other, because it had a handful more pieces that I really enjoyed—and turn to the pages I loved best. I would read the poem (or short story) slowly, or quickly, again and again. I would read it out loud, listening to the words as I spoke them. I would act out scenes, dancing around my room—a dramatic interpretation of The Ransom of Red Chief, a breathless, stilted tribute to ee cummings.
One of the works with which I fell in love (and I love it still) was "The Highwayman," by Alfred Noyes.
I lack the words with which to express the haunting, profound effect this poem had on me as a young girl. At the risk of being painfully redundant, I fell in love. Each word seemed perfect—dooming, dramatic, perfect in rhythm, lilt, and rhyme. I read it aloud, again and again—sometimes as much as ten times in a row, start to finish, over and over. I locked myself in my room, sitting up on the top bunk of the beds I shared with my sister, sitting with the book that housed the love song of a poem.
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance—were they deaf that they did not hear?
I took the book and read out loud, pacing around my room, a dramatic reading. Reading it again and again, listening to the lilt and music of the words, I quickly memorised the poem—not intentionally, but easily. Each stanza memorised, I left the book open on my bed—always open to the pages of the poem, even if I never glanced at it. I ran about my room, from bed to desk to window to door, playing out each role. An emotional, physical, exhausting, thrilling, soul-baring tribute to a star-crossed love story.
I want to write it here, at least a stanza—but I've spent the last several slow moments of my life wondering which stanza to choose, and I'm at a loss. There are, I confess, stanzas that I adore slightly more than others, but the impact is lost without the verses that come before... and to type the entirety of the poem here, I admit, might be akin to overkill. So, I suppose, I redirect you to this page, which I encourage you to read aloud. (Imagine, perhaps, when you are done: a too-hot summer afternoon in Wisconsin; the upstairs, east-facing room of an un-airconditioned house; and a pale, skinny ten-year-old girl with waist-length brown hair, putting her soul into a dramatic reading of the poem.)
Last week, a friend gave me a collection of music that he recommended. One of the songs included was a reading of The Highwayman (I nearly asked him to marry me, but that's beside the point); I've put it up for you to listen. I could listen to it for hours—I have listened to it for hours. It's beautiful.
This poem amazes me. Even today, years after my first encounter with it, there is a non-negligible portion of my soul devoted to heart-skipping, breath-stopping, hand-on-the-heart, head-over-heels love for "The Highwayman."
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
So the most difficult thing, I think, is this: while I am on average feeling much better than I was a week (and two weeks) ago, and that is good, it is not the whole story. My mood is very capricious, and though I dislike feeling upset, small things—the smallest of things!—are likely to upset my balance on the narrow Peak of Sanity and Cheerfulness and send me tumbling down the wrong side again.
This is frustrating. I like being happy. More to the current point, I particularly dislike being unhappy. I'm always mildly baffled at how difficult it can be, at times, to keep smiling.
An example: I have several good friends, and even more people who care about me. I am aware of this; I know this. And this should make me happy—or, failing that, at least remind me that I am well-loved and cared for. And, I suppose, it does. But (and I suppose this is the crucial point), it doesn't keep little things from bothering me. And the little things bother me deeply.
Particularly the little things involving friends.
(I have been feeling very uncomfortable around one of my friends recently, and this has been affecting my mood in general, as well as making me particularly upset when around him. It's been rough, though I did mention to him that I felt uncomfortable, and I at least feel a little better having mentioned it. I guess. I still feel as though he dislikes me, but I guess it helps a little, rationally, knowing that's not so. And for those of you playing along at home, yes, this is the same person with whom I had this problem several months ago. Also, as an aside to Azure, if you comment, please don't mention anything that came up in our last conversation about this.)
This has been a problem for years, and I'm still not really sure what to do with it: very often, I feel ignored when I'm in a group setting. Even when talking, laughing, and taking part in the conversation, I feel strangely left out. It's not that people ignore me, or even that people don't pay attention to me—because they do! And I'm aware that they do, and that's why the whole dilemma feels so silly and frustrating. But all the conversation, laughter, and smiles seem not to reach me, and I'm left feeling isolated (and even actively ignored and disliked). I know that this isn't the case, but I can't help feeling it.
So a recent conversation with my friend Mike led back (once again) to a book that he's read called The Five Love Languages. Apparently there are a couple different flavors of the book (a la Chicken Soup for the Teenage/Mother's/Children's/Single's/etc. Soul) for different audiences, but the basic concept is that a person will generally best "receive" love in one or two of five ways, or languages. The languages in question, elaborated upon here, are quality time, gifts, acts of service, words of affirmation, and physical touch. It's actually pretty interesting stuff. And me being me, and you being people who frequently put up with my "I crave human contact!" rants, I'm going to excerpt a bit of the description for the appropriate "love language" category. Disregarding the bits about "lovemaking," which I'm not in a position (har) for, this description fits me to a T.
Anyway, Mike suggested that the reason I often feel ignored or disliked in a group setting is because I don't receive physical confirmation that people like me/enjoy my presence/want my around. And having spent the last week thinking about this in the myriad of social situations of which I partake, I find myself agreeing with him. Contact with people makes me feel liked and included. When I'm stressed or tense, physical touch calms me. Last night as I we were talking, Mike rested his hand on mine and gently stroked my fingers, and I felt almost immeasurably better. Even when the conversation stopped and he went back to his computer, I felt cared for and paid-attention-to (which is an awkward construction, but the best I can come up with at the moment).Many mates feel the most loved when they receive physical contact from their partner. For a mate who speaks this love language loudly, physical touch can make or break the relationship. [...] It is important to discover how your partner not only physically responds but also psychologically responds to these touches.
It is important to learn how your mate speaks the physical touch language. Some touches are irritating and uncomfortable for your mate. Take the time to learn the touches your mate likes. They can be big acts, such as back massages or lovemaking, or little acts such as touches on the cheek or a hand on the shoulder. It’s important to learn how your mate responds to touch. That is how you will make the most of this love language.
All marriages will experience crisis. In these cases, physical touch is very important. In a crisis situation, a hug can communicate an immense amount of love for that person. A person whose primary love language is physical touch would much rather have you hold them and be silent than offer any advice.
The flip side of that is that when I'm around people—watching a movie, talking, or just hanging out—and I don't have that contact, I can feel excluded or ignored... even if I'm an active part of the conversation.
It's interesting.
And to Mimmi—I got your package today, and it was so sweet I nearly cried. Thank you. Love and hugs.
No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful—he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.
-Romans 10:13
I opted not to attend my evening commitment last night, instead having dinner and carefully setting up a temporary drawing studio in the sink room. I listened to music and drew, shaped, erased, redrew the set up (jewelry hanging from metal bars) that I had arranged. The lights were out except for the little desktop lamp I had brought with me as a light source for the drawing, and the room was peaceful and dark. I spent a couple hours drawing, secluded but not really alone. Several people stopped by—some of them several times—to say hello, look at the drawing, give me a hug. It was very relaxing. (The drawing itself, I think, turned out very well, although much of the darker charcoal has already brushed off—so it looked good at one point, at least. I really do need to buy some fixative for all these charcoal drawings that I've been doing.)
After finishing the drawing (in all honesty, I didn't quite finish—I realised after I had packed up that I had forgotten to put in some final details, but decided that things were good enough), I brought the art-specific things downstairs to my room and moved the rest of my work for the night into the lounge. I had some homework for one of my German classes—it was kind of touch-and-go. Sometimes I could read exactly what it said, and sometimes I couldn't make heads nor tails of an entire paragraph. But I worked on that for a while, eventually resigning myself to the fact that I wasn't going to get any further than I had already gotten.
And to be honest, my mind wasn't entirely on my German homework (well, is it ever?). There were two very interesting discussions going on in the lounge—two friends talking about life, and two others, further away, talking about the nature of religion. The latter two eventually disappeared, but as the night went on, more and more people joined the first quiet discussion.
And people began talking about what they believe, and what they don't—the questions they have, the things they wonder about, their journeys toward and away from God. Why they believe—or don't any longer—what they were taught as children, and everyone's quiet, uncertain, personal thoughts on what they think they might believe someday, but don't quite yet.
It was strange, and sad, and beautiful—the little moments, the questions, the honest curiosity. Wonderful to watch and listen as these people talked about what they hold true in life—so strange to see the softer, uncertain, side of them—and sad, as they spoke about the things they don't believe, even though they wish they did. The gentleness in the conversation was...amazing.
I think people are beautiful.
I love living in Minneapolis, just because it's such a fun word to say and type. Minneapolis, Minnesota. It's almost lyrical, isn't it? Every time I write my return address, it's like a little poem in the upper left corner of the envelope.
I'm home for the holidays, back in southeast Wisconsin. I love it here, too, of course—I grew up here. Here, with the Lake, the Farm, and the Racine Zoo. (Someday I will tell you of my child's love for Lake Michigan, but today is not that day.)
Right now I am missing Minneapolis. Not the city, really (although I love that as well), but the friends I have there. Of course, "there" is a slightly inaccurate term—I do have friends there at the moment, yes, but many of the people I term my "Minneapolis friends" are, like me, home for the holidays. I miss them.
I'm here with my family, and I love them, and that's wonderful. And I'm happy to be here with them. But part of me is also scattered in pieces across the Midwest. (Oh, dear. That sounds horribly dramatic, doesn't it? It's not meant to.)
I'm looking forward to getting back up to the Cities and seeing everyone again. Especially the guys from Club 522—staying up til three a.m. just isn't the same without them.
I spent all day—all day today—lying on an air mattress in the lounge. Napping, resting, cuddling, hugging, sleeping.
It was amazing. Human contact. Human touch.
I feel relaxed for the first time in months.
I'm very emotionally thin right now. Barriers down.
I can't remember the last time I felt like this.
Does everyone remember Gregor? (Google image search has some pictures that capture Gregor's real look far better than my photograph, by the way. I urge you to check them out.)
Well, we learned some more about him today. It turns out that he is a giant water bug, a member of the family Belostomatidae. Is this exciting or is this exciting? Right. And for those of you who missed the link the first time, go ahead and click here right now and read the article. Did you read it? I hope so. And I hope you will now agree with me that these things are freaking terrifying.
I have a friend who studies entomology. Having recently gotten ahold of him for the first time in a while, I mentioned how I had found Gregor earlier this year, admitting (with some embarrassment) that giant dead bugs make me think of him. He replied, ever so casually, that the bug must have been "Belastomatidae, I'm sure. I see them dead on the bridge all the time!"
After about three seconds of research on Belastomatidae (involving the strenuous act of copy-pasting the word into my Google search bar), I determined that my friend was right. Gregor is definitely a Giant Water Bug.
Frankly, this creeps me out. I mean, I love Gregor. I think he is as awesome a dead bug as I am ever likely to find on the bridge. But I've been working on two assumptions here: Firstly, that he is dead. (He is.) Secondly, that his presence on the bridge was something of an anomaly. (It wasn't.)
The idea that my friend sees dead giant water beetles on the bridge "all the time" gives me the creeps. I mean, it is certainly (in my opinion) better than seeing live giant water beetles on the bridge all the time, but the fact that we are seeing these things "all the time" in any form gives me cause for worry. Because the bridge is significantly above the water level of the river, and I am fairly certain that the bugs in question do not simply appear there when they die. At some point, they are alive and on the bridge.
Let me restate that: at some point, they are alive and on the bridge. "All the time." Did you READ how big they are? Did you LOOK at the pictures? Holy buckets, people. At some point, these things are alive and flying around in the air.
If I ever saw a giant two-inch cockroach of a bug flying around downtown Minneapolis, I think I would scream. (But with my mouth covered, because I have just now developed an irrational fear of Giant Water Beetles flying into my mouth.) They're huge, and brown, and they have little jointed legs and huge black beady eyes, and I can't imagine these things flying.
I really don't know what to do with this new knowledge of Giant Water Bugs. I feel horribly enlightened, like the main character in a conspiracy movie. It's like I've discovered some secret underworld apocalypse society, wherein giant flying bugs exist, and intelligent spiders form colonies around bus stop lights, and an tiny elite class of informed people hoard shotguns and ammo to deal with the imminent insect-and-arachnid invasion.
I mean, Gregor's cool, but holy freaking crap, what about his relatives?
I am suddenly terrified of going outside.
It seems a little strange that I am posting so much about God at another stage of uncertainty in my life. My spiritual life is on the upswing—far from whole, but growing once again. It's a good feeling, if a little...overwhelming? So I post these things, because they are on my mind. Not because I am sure in my faith, but because I am uncertain and lost, and these are the things that help me find peace. And, tentatively, I offer them out to you.
One of these things that I turn to is a prayer taken from the book of Ephesians. In it, Paul is speaking to the Church at Ephesus, and he says this:
I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better. I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order than you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and his incomparably great power for us who believe.
For this reason, I kneel before the Father, from whom his whole family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.
The above verses are from Ephesians 1: 17-19 and Ephesians 3: 14-19. The reason I bring it up, is because it's a beautiful prayer to pray for someone (anyone) in your life. When I feel that someone in my life needs a spiritual boost (not infrequently, this person is myself), I turn to this page in my Bible and read these verses, subsituting his or her name (or the appropriate pronoun) for the bolded, underlined words above.
It is a simple, powerful prayer if you want to help someone but don't know where to begin or how to find the words. If I know you are reading this, I guarantee that I have placed your name in the lines above. I tell you so that you can (if you so wish) do the same for yourself, or those dear to you.
I feel I may have posted about this on one of my (many) previous blogs, but here it is again—for those of you who are newly my friends, for those of you whom it would not hurt to read again, for those of you whom I do not know who stumbled across this whilst VOXing.
• Life goes on. Unbelievable sometimes, but true.
• The people who really matter will never lose touch. And sometimes that is up to you.
• Except sometimes they will. And sometimes that is up to you.
• I adore my family. Every once in a while I realise again just how awesome they are.
• You don't really know your limits until you've exceeded them. Oops.
• You learn more from your mistakes than your sucesses, but you have to be willing to admit that they were mistakes in order to accept the lesson. I nearly ran myself into the ground last semester, but managed to scrape by. For some insane reason, I thought I would be able to do it again this semester. I learned otherwise, and hopefully I won't do that again.
• Even people who claim to hate dancing love to see someone dance. And sometimes you can take them by the hand and spin them around until they forget to be embarrassed.
• Orange spit stains. Shout wipes help.
• Life is hard when your friends are hurting. No witty commentary here, I'm afraid. My heart aches.
• Hugs are amazing. I could hang on to my friends for hours and be the most contented girl on this green earth.
• God is faithful. This deserves a post in and of itself. Perhaps after I finish my paper. And on that note...
• Papers are ridiculous. I'm sure that my professors want to read thirty papers about the same topic even less than those thirty students want to write about the topic. Oh, college.
• It's not worth your health. Nothing is. No, not even that.
• I love watching movies with geeks. Hanging out on the IT floor is like high school friday movie nights all over again. Amazing. I feel so at home here.
• These are my joys in life: Dancing. Singing. Acting. Sculpting. Volunteering. Helping. Healing. I feel like I am doing none of the first four things right now, and I can only hope and pray that I am helping and healing someone.
I long for human contact.
And for those who have yet to hear the update, yes. I dropped the class. I cannot describe the sense of relief I feel from that. And life goes on.
