And Then There's Gatsby

There are days when college seems absolutely ages ago. I'm not going to go into any specifics, but a decade does come into play if I'm going to be honest. And in the time that has transpired, I have moved around a lot. It's not just about changes in place, but changes in focus and life and oh so many other bits and pieces of transformation. At the same time, when I think of the me I was then, I still feel like I know her, like we're connected intimately on so many levels. She's still a person I would want to take the time to consider a friend.

I can't deny that I allowed a bit of snobbery to affect my school persona. I was one of those student types, and I took it on completely, sometimes to the detriment of kindness when I felt the ideas of others were subpar. But time has passed, and while I've had the chance to proof read a couple university thesis papers for former students over the last two years, it's been a long time since I've had to do any sort of elevated writing. I'm sure that if I pulled out my college essays I would be tragically amazed by what I knew that has now just floated away into the dimmest reaches of my mind. Not that I've fully sunk to idiocy, but the days when I basked in the glow of the Intelligentsia...

A few weeks ago, I saw a preview for "The Great Gatsby." It was a purely magical display of color and light, typical of the Baz Luhrman theatrical style, and I was instantly caught up in the desire to refresh my memory regarding this glorious achievement in American Literature. I picked up the copy I read back in my Simpson days, and found myself instantly immersed in memory. My wiggly underlining and scribbled side notes recalled the era so clearly. Though my actual recollections of the story are hazy, just reading the opening lines drew me back into the me I once was. Of course, as I read it now there are different lines that pique my interest, new themes that draw my attention in, life experiences that color the way I view the characters and they way they interplay with one another, but the beauty of the language, and the clarity of thought with which F. Scott Fitzgerald weaves his story still captivate me utterly.

It is so easy to get so caught up in the daily routines of life that the freshness of each new day becomes dull. Life becomes little more than the passage of days scratched in the walls of a prison cell. The hopes of the future are dim wishes, clouded by the struggles of keeping a business running. I find myself removed so far from the me I thought I was that I scarcely know who I am any more. But reading this book brings the past back poignantly, even though it is impossible to repeat it. Reopening the door, taking a walk, seeing things anew in varying shades of light.



I suddenly realized not all the pictures I wanted ended up here. Hmm...Let's see if I can find the rest of my self promoting poser shots...



Okay, that's better. I have now successfully demonstrated that the girl with the spiky blue hair that I knew to be me my senior year of college is more a figment of my imagination at this stage than any sort of reality...

A Dose of Dostoyevsky

Night has come and a hush is falling over the flat. It is a place that goes to sleep a bit earlier than I am accustomed to, or at least settles down before I cease to be alert. I've been writing a lot today. Not only is this my second blog today, but I've been working on a story and am close to hitting the 100 page point. It's been a long time since I've produced so much. An encouraging thing if writing still resides in my soul.
As mentioned before I've also been reading a lot. The last book I finished clocked in at about 827 pages if I recall correctly. Sadly, it wasn't so much worth the reading. Rather funny to note, part of the reason I pressed on was because it was a massive book and Karina had carted it all the way across the globe so I figured there must be some value in it. When I returned the book to her this weekend, however, I learned that she hadn't even read it yet herself.
Well, at least the book I'm reading now has proved to get me thinking already. I've taken on the rather daunting task of reading The Brother's Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. To finish it will be no small feat at 718 pages with very small print, but I'll do my best to make it through as I ponder the insights I find therein as well.
There have been some challenges for me this past year. This being a public forum I won't go into great detail, but I'll be honest. I have struggled. I want to be a loving person. I want to be the kind of person that, upon spending time with me, people feel as though their life has been bettered in some way. Not because I myself make them better, but because they experience the love of God through me. I know that I, of myself, am far from being a loving and considerate person. It is work for me. While there are ever so many people that I love dearly, there are equally as many, and no doubt exponentially more, that drive me batty. They get under my skin for one reason or another and being kind to them, let alone loving, is not my first thought. But this is not what I want from my life, and not what God wants from me either.
Let us look now at some wise words written by Dostoyevsky:

"That's the chief question-my most agonizing question. I shut my eyes and ask myself, 'would you persevere long on that path? And if the patient whose wounds you are washing did not meet you with gratitude, but worried you with his whims, without valuing or remarking your charitable services, began abusing you and rudely commanding you, and complaining to the superior authorities of you (which often happens when people are in great suffering)-what then? Would you persevere in you love, or not?' And do you know, I came with horror to the conclusion that, if anything could dissipate my love to humanity, it would be ingratitude. In short, I am a hired servant, I expect my payment at once-that is, praise, and the repayment of love with love. Otherwise I am incapable of loving anyone."

I've read this passage several times now, and every time I am struck by how much I can see of myself in this. It is so easy to love people in theory. So easy to care about their souls. But when they don't care a whit about me? Well, it's suddenly not so easy. It's not even so much about expecting them to do the same things that I do. I don't expect that. But what I've grown to see so clearly this year is that I do respect a certain element of respect. I expect people to follow the golden rule. If I treat them kindly and with respect, I want to be treated the same way. And when I'm not...where is the love?
I think in some ways it is a lot easier to accept this sort of treatment from people who do not believe in God. I've long seen the beauty in the adage that we must "love the sinner, hate the sin." I think as a Christian it is important to realize that I cannot hold non-Christians to the same standards that I seek to live my life by. They don't follow the same moral code. The things that are not acceptable to me, might be completely acceptable to them, and therefore, I have no place to tell them where they are doing the wrong thing.
I'm not talking about absolutes, like saying, "well, you don't know any better so it's really okay for you to go out and shoot your neighbor because you want to steal his car." I'm talking about the moral codes that I chose to live by because of my faith. And because I have spent a long time contemplating this sort of issue, it isn't so difficult for me to accept when people who are not Christians don't agree with my beliefs, or when they see the world differently.
However, it's a lot easier to become judgmental of others who I feel should be on the same page. We are called to unity in Christ. We are called to accept one another, to love one another, to pray with and for one another. One of the greatest blessings in my life is that I have been able to live in three countries, in cities of all different shapes and sizes, and to experience humanity in general and Christians in particular in all three locales. The churches I have attended have varied greatly, but in each and every one that I have been in, I have found people who love Jesus with all their hearts, souls, minds and strength. They worship in different ways, they praise in different ways, they even serve others in different ways, but I have seen Jesus in them, I have felt accepted by them, and I have grown in my faith through contact with them. I might not always agree with them on every point of debate over the word of God, but I can love and accept them because I have seen their hearts.
Why then do I find myself coming in judgment of others when the thing they don't seem to agree about is me as a person? Is my love so shallow that a mere act of ingratitude is enough to shake it entirely, to cause me to withdraw it. In truth, just as the woman said of those suffering patients, people who are in pain, or have issues of one kind or another, often lash out at those who are trying to help them, or fail to see the value in what is being offered them because of their own misfortunes.
I know that I am weak and frail, that I do not love the way I ought or serve as much as I could. I know that I fall and fall and sometimes before I can even get back on my feet from one disaster I'm back on my face again. It's like the year after I got a concussion in a Hong Kong hospital. I couldn't seem to keep my balance. Over and over and over I found myself on the ground when normal people were perfectly capable of remaining vertical. But in those cases I did my best to brush it off and jump back up, sometimes before the people around me had fully become aware of the fact that I was down on the ground for the hundredth time. If only I could learn to be more resilient when it comes to hurt feelings. If only I could manage to grasp the truth that I am not the one sent to judge the world, but to love it. "For how can I love God whom I have not seen if I can't love my brother who I have seen?" (my own paraphrase of I John 4:19 I think) No matter how many times I have read those words I find that I still slip back into my old ways, longing to do to others as they HAVE done to me, rather than as I wish they would do.
I must confess, it's been a really long time since I've written a paper. Obviously this is not a paper, but it feels a bit like some sort of discourse and as though there should be some nice little conclusion to wrap things up. Something to pull it all together and make it, if not more pleasant, at least somehow resolved. But this isn't the sort of thing I really know how to resolve. It's something I'm still trying to hash out for myself. So rather than tying it off with a sweet little bow of repentance and forgiveness, I leave it as it is, something I need to keep working out with fear and trembling and will hopefully learn to do better with as God gives me chance and circumstance in the days to come.

My Neck of the Woods

For the past few weeks my life has fallen into a pattern. When the weather is good, it can be quite positive. When the weather is not so good, it's rather problematic. I guess when I was a kid I had slightly different ideas about things. I remember a time when I was ALWAYS hot. Mom had to put a limit on when I could wear shorts. I would eagerly check when the thermometer when I was languishing in the heat, only to be disappointed that it was not yet 72 degrees, and therefore shorts were a no go. But since my back breaking experience in 1992, my life changed to where I was far more likely to be cold, and my real love of the sun grew and grew.
All the same, I've been outside for several hours, rain or shine, reading or writing in my journal. I've definitely made up for all the time that I was missing out on reading during this year, and have already finished two books, with a third (over 600 pages long) almost finished as well. While I know I should really be working on my own writing (and have written more than 30 pages on a story myself thus far) it's been great to let myself escape into the stories of others, getting a feel for different styles of literature. The three books I've read, The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger, Five Red Herrings by Dorothy L Sayers, and now Firefly Summer by Maeve Binchy, are all very different in style and character development which really helps me to come up with new ideas for what I'm working on.
Anyhow, yesterday, when I was on my way home, I was suddenly inspired to start taking some pictures. So here is a little glimpse into the places I've been wandering on a daily basis.


Both of the benches here are ones I've sat on for my little reading writing times.


There are a couple of different Colonnades here in town. On days when the weather is quite rainy I spend a lot of time here in this one. There are some benches under the roof, and not usually very many people, so it works out nicely. And right now the flowers are particularly lovely. I'll admit, I went a little silly and took some self portraits as well. Yes, I'm still a poser.



From here I wandered down the path toward home. As I've said before there are a lot of springs here. I wanted to get a picture of these little stairs down to the spring, but had to walk on slippery stones across the creek to get there. I was a bit nervous about the way, but managed not to slip and drop my camera. It amused the little old lady walking by with her dogs.

I also decided to enjoy one of the springs. I can't say I'm a huge fan of the water, but I do try on occasion for my health and all :)




And then I continued along and took a few more as I left the park.


This next one I took for Julie, even though I'm not sure she ever checks my blog. Mom, you might have to make sure she gets a load of this one, seeing as how she loves that green glimmer on a gray rainy day...
These last two are from the way up to the house once I come out of the park. I'm always intrigued by the mirrors, and I love the name of the street because it's the same as my birthday ;) Kinda nice having my birthday be a national Czech holiday as well as a common street name!

So I hope you've enjoyed this little drift with me...and I'm definitely hoping the sun comes back by the weekend as the internet so sweetly promised me this morning...

Plans, plans, plans!

Only two short weeks until my parents are upon me. That's right, I'll be travel guide extraordinaire once again. It's actually been quite a while since I've had the chance to play this part, and I'm really looking forward to it. It's just the planning bit that rather gets to me. Looking for hostels, thinking of the best places to go, how to fit it all in, etc. It's not like living in Hong Kong and having everything right there at my fingertips. There was plenty of space for them to stay in my house, and plenty of activities to take part in within easy walking distance. But Europe is...well...it's big. And there are SO many things that they should see. Obviously we can't do it all in two weeks, especially when I have to work most of that time, but I'm really hoping to make it a memorable experience.
This week I had to turn in my official decision for next year. I've known all along that I wasn't going to stay another year, and sending it in was more of a formality than anything else, but it had such a ring of finality. Last year I waffled up until the decision, and after as well, having decided to leave and then opting to stay. This time, the choice was easier, and yet it still left me feeling a bit strange after I'd sent it in.
It's true that I'm ready to head stateside and be closer to my family again. True that I feel there are things for me to do and figure out that I can't do so well here. True that my school situation is likely to change dramatically as my boss is moving on to something new, and the person taking her place is someone that I really never want to work for. So many things that make this the right time for a change. But I've put a lot of time and effort into this place after all. I've made a sort of home here, and I've connected with lots of different people during my three years here. It will be strange to pack up and say goodbye. Granted, I'm hoping to take a piece of this place with me in a very tangible way, but it's still the end of an era, and that's always monumental. Not to mention the fact that I have no idea what in the world I'll do when I get back to the US.
I've also been thinking so much about writing lately, and yet feel so dry on the topic. I'll have a line or two that could make a good start to a story, and yet no feeling for what should come next. When I was a kid I had stories in my head all the time. Granted, there are few people who would ever have been interested in them, but they were endless. Characters floated about various plot lines and I felt that they really did exist. Now I'm left wondering what I still have in me that could be of value to anyone. What words can I speak to the people of this world? Do I have anything left to say that can inspire? Are there stories yet within this little brain of mine? Or do I need to set aside the dreams that have been with me as long as I can remember. I've ALWAYS wanted to be a writer. So why haven't I managed to produce anything? For so long I had aspirations of getting into the field while I was young. I wrote two novels in high school, and even sent the first one to some publishers. I attended writer's workshops and subscribed to writing magazines. But I'm not so young anymore. At the age of 31, what do I have to show for my dream.
People, especially Mark, tell me I need to just write. But what? I could sit and do a stream of consciousness, bringing back visions of Ms. Staley's classroom, Enya lilting in the background, but where will that really take me. Nostalgia for nostalgia's sake isn't really worth a whole lot on the literary market. (sigh)
So I'm trying to make plans about so many things, and yet finding myself with the desire to just curl up and finish reading The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand, which I've been working on since Christmas break. At least I'm getting out another blog, another attempt to remain in touch with my ability to put words on the page, even if they're read by only a scant few...