Rotten Chicken and Peking Duck - A Very Late Anniversary Post!

I wrote this post August 20th. I realize this is a bit late to post it, but the sentiments still hold true, even if it isn’t our anniversary anymore!

Yesterday was our 4-year anniversary. Well, actually, it was the day before our anniversary back in the States. But here in Taiwan, it was our anniversary. Living in a different timezone than the one you were raised in and got married in gets confusing sometimes!

I had a simple but nice meal planned: panfried chicken (one of the hubby’s favorites), sweet potato greens (pretty much the best thing ever!), and rice with mango sorbet for dessert. Then, the evening fell apart. First, the hubby came home sick and tired. Next, I discovered that the chicken I had bought only the day before smelled as foul as, well, rotten fowl.   

Not to be daunted, I went out to buy our favorite fried chicken from a local street-side vendor. This stuff is amazing! Fried chicken, sweet potato fries, shoestring fries, fried green beans, fried mushrooms, fried cauliflower—it’s delicious!

As I was walking to the chicken shop (unaware at that point that my plans would need to change yet again), I considered how much like marriage this anniversary was. Sometimes, you have perfect, beautiful days when everything falls into place. Sometimes, you don’t.

We’ve had our share of lovely moments. There’s the dinner we had just this summer at an out-of-the-way, family-owned Italian restaurant we stumbled onto on our last night in the UK. The restaurant was in Slough, the unwanted, ugly suburb of London. Despite its location, it was a perfect, romantic evening that neither of us will soon forget. 

Going further back, there’s the first breakfast we shared as a married couple. We sat out on the porch at our Bed and Breakfast. It was a working farm on a long, private, dirt lane in the countryside. The farmer’s wife served us homemade buttermilk pancakes, and we enjoyed the good food and sunshine, excited for the journey to come. 

Even further back than that, there’s our first date, tea in the park. I still remember the way he leaned his back against my shoulder while he talked about poetry and life. For a moment, I lost my breath. I couldn’t focus on all the wonderful, insightful things he was saying. My universe consisted of three things—him, me, and the sunshine.

We’ve had many lovely, perfect moments throughout our time together. We’ve also had unlovely, imperfect ones. Here are a few: the time we got lost and fought on our way to Biltmore, rainy days on our honeymoon when I got very grumpy, years of searching for a better job, an anniversary last year that wasn’t even celebrated because we were too exhausted and jet-lagged to think much beyond bed and the next exhausting school day, heartaches, frustrations, fights, hopes deferred and deferred again, and now an anniversary seemingly ruined by rotten chicken and an exhausted husband. 

Our anniversary evening continued in its imperfections. When I got to the chicken place, I discovered it was inexplicably closed. There was a dumpling place nearby, but when dumplings are a dime a dozen (actually they are more like $2 a dozen), that hardly seems special. Thankfully, a favorite Peking Duck place around the corner saved the day. We hadn’t visited it since coming back from the UK. To be honest, it was probably a better idea than the supper I was planning on making in the first place. 

So I got home. We ate our Peking Duck, curled up on the couch together, and watched a movie (something we hadn’t done in awhile). The evening wasn’t perfect, but it was our evening. We were together.

I can remember grumpy days as a child when my dad would tell me to straighten out my attitude. “But I’m having a bad day,” I would complain, expecting him to understand my excuse. “Your day is what you make it,” he would respond, expecting me to do right no matter my circumstances. 

Sometimes we can’t change those circumstances but we can change our reactions to them. Readers of this blog know that I liken imperfections in life to freckles, a mar on the face of perfection but a mar that can be beautiful. Marriage has its freckles. It’s up to us to make those freckles beautiful. If we look for marriage to perfectly meet our needs and make us constantly incandescently happy, we’ll probably be constantly unfulfilled and unhappy.

In conclusion, I guess the theme of this post is this. When life hands you rotten chicken make Peking Duck.

Ok. That just sounds disgusting. Let’s try again. 

When marriage hands you freckles, go out and buy some Peking Duck. 

Still not quite right. Let’s try one more time. 

My marriage is what I make it or what I allow God to make out of it. 

Note: I realize that saying “My marriage is what I make it” can seem insensitive to those in harmful, hurtful relationships. I’ve witness enough of the heartbreak that stems from these relationships to know you can’t oversimplify the response. Any advice that I offer here is primarily advice I’m offering myself. I don’t pretend to have insight into the married lives of others. 

I do believe, though, that no matter the brokenness and heartache, God can make something beautiful out of your life. 

Flashback Friday (Writer's Edition): Jack and Jane

Today, I went through my long forgotten Dropbox account and downloaded a couple dozen old files filled with scraps of writing. Much of this writing is awful; some of it has a few lines of promise; and other pieces just make me laugh. This piece made me laugh.

I wrote it in 2010, either right before or right after I started dating my husband. It's by no means autobiographical, but if you know us, you'll understand where the inspiration came from. The photos below were taken right around the time this snippet was written.

Enjoy!

Edit: I wrote this in one sitting 5 years ago with zero editing afterward. It was tempting to edit the life out of it before posting (especially the awkward tenses in the first paragraph), but I wanted to keep this retrospective. In that vein, I did only minor editing and proofreading before posting. Please forgive the imperfections! 

Our first photo together

Our first official couple photo

Jack and Jane

When you first see Jack and Jane as a couple—possibly sometime next September, or perhaps next year, or even several years from now—and you see them walking into the Corner Cafe on their first date, you’ll probably think to yourself, “They seem like a cute couple, but at the same time, something seems a little off.” And when you meet them again several weeks later at an art opening, your suspicions will intensify as you see how different they are. Jane loves bright colors and talks constantly. Jack stands by in his long black coat and listens to her chatter. Jane mingles. John sulks. Jane automatically treats everyone as her best friend. Jack looks as though he might bite anyone's head off. After these initial meetings, you will probably think their relationship is doomed to failure. However, when you see them again several years down the road, seriously dating and happy, you’ll think again of that first impression and wonder, “How did this all happen?”

Jack and Jane met in the park or maybe it was at a mutual friend’s barbecue. Jane might say the barbecue, but Jack might say the park. Who knows. Perhaps it was a mutual friend’s barbecue in the park. The point is, they met. They didn’t hit it off. It wasn’t that Jane wasn’t friendly enough. She asked him about his past, his family, his job, his house, his animals. And it wasn’t that Jack didn’t answer her questions. He told her he had been human all his life; he had a mom and dad and some siblings; he worked at a place of employment; he lived under a roof; and his animals were mostly furry. It was just that, for some reason, they failed to make a connection.

Jane walked away thinking nothing more of Jack than that he was slightly grumpy. She then forgot about him. She couldn’t know that Jack had tried to be kind, tried to talk, tried to chit-chat but had somehow failed. It wasn’t that he was shy. It was just that, well, he was private. Jack walked away thinking that Jane talked an awful lot. She seemed like a bit of a surface personality. And then he promptly forgot about her. How could he know that Jane was scared of people, that she talked a lot to cover her own fears, and that she found herself especially verbose around solemn pillars of self-assurance like Jack? It wasn’t that she was a surface personality. It was just that, well, she was private.

I’d like to say that after this meeting, despite their entire lack of actual communication, Jack and Jane couldn’t stop thinking about each other. That Jane fell asleep to dreams of Jack looking down at her with eyes full of stoic love. Or that Jack stayed awake at night, vainly trying to forget Jane’s rapidly moving mouth and trying not to imagine stilling it with a kiss. I’d love to say that Jane and Jack found themselves entirely in love after this one unsuccessful meeting. I’d like to say these things, but I can’t. The truth is, Jack and Jane didn’t think anything after this meeting. In fact, they so entirely forgot each other that when they saw each other three weeks later, it took both of them ten minutes of surreptitious staring and intense memory racking to remember where or when they had met before.

My heart, being hungry

It’s no secret that I love Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poetry. There are many poets I admire. Dickinson makes me smile and cry in turn. Frost makes me pause and think, ponder whether there’s a deeper meaning behind the straightforward rhymes even my poetry-hating father enjoys. And Donne . . . Well, I’m pretty sure I was once in love with Donne. By in love, I don’t just mean his poetry, I mean the man himself (but it was all because of his poetry, of course).

Those are just a few of the poets I love. There’s Hopkins and his pied beauty. There’s Eliot and his etherised patient. There’s Shakespeare, the bard himself. These are all wonderful poets, many of whom were movers and shakers of their time, blazing new paths for verse. No one, though, can match the emotional connection I share with Millay. 

Perhaps it’s geographic. She was a Mainer. I’m a Mainer. We both understand the hold that such a magical place can have on your soul. Perhaps it’s personality. Not everyone can write or want to write poetry about the beauty of frogs as she does in "Assault."She wrote the poetry I long to write, the poetry I would write had I her gift.

Recently, I was walking into town to pick up some groceries. I was soaking up the way the light glanced off the city balconies and the poem of hers below came to mind. 

My heart, being hungry, feeds on food

The fat of heart despise.

Beauty where beauty never stood,

And sweet where no sweet lies

I gather to my querulous need, 

Having a growing heart to feed.

It may be, when my heart is dull,

Having attained its girth,

I shall not find so beautiful

The meagre shapes of earth,

Nor linger in the rain to mark

The smell of tansy through the dark.

The buildings I was admiring were hard, angular city buildings far away from my beloved country houses framed by evergreens, yet here I was seeing beauty where "beauty never stood" or at least where I never would have seen it in the past.

Sometimes I fancy fear in Millay’s last stanza, a fear of being so full of beauty that she no longer values the “meagre shapes of earth.” Maybe I’m sensing my own fear. I don’t ever want to be so full of the big things that I pass by “the smell of tansy through the dark” or the slant of light on a city building. Because of this fear, I sometimes wonder, “Should I cultivate a hungry heart?” 

I’d like to think that a satiated heart can enjoy these simple moments, that Millay and I don’t see “beauty where beauty never stood” but that we are instead attuned to the beauty in the nondescript and that anyone, no matter how full they are on beauty, can learn to appreciate the nondescript. 

Maybe, though, that’s not even an issue. Our hearts are continually drained by the busyness of our lives. They’re always hungry. We tend to get so caught up in that busyness, though, that we don’t realize our hunger. It’s sitting there, waiting to be filled.

I suppose that’s the way it is with God, too. We become spiritually drained through everyday life. But we let that everyday life so overwhelm us that we never stop to feel our hunger. We forget the joy and restoration of a quiet talk with God or a moment gazing at the shifting light. 

I often like to satiate both hungers at the same time. C.S. Lewis talks about something similar in Surprised By Joy. He recounts spending his whole life searching for joy and then realizing, at the end of his search, that those moments of joy on earth weren’t the end goal but “signposts” pointing him on to the true joy in Christ. 

This world, I’ve come to learn, at the ripe old age of 27 (yes, I realize that I’m really quite young), is full of beauty and magic. It’s our own Narnia given to us by a loving God for our enjoyment. That beauty, though, shouldn’t stop at our eyes. It should seep into our hearts and lead us to true beauty, redemption and peace in Christ. 

The sad thing is, we don’t enjoy his gift. We’re full of looking for the next exciting experience, forgetting that the moment here and now is beautiful. Because we ignore our hunger, we keep missing those signposts pointing us on to the most exciting, beautiful, joyful “experience” of all.

For the beauty of the earth, 

for the glory of the skies, 

for the love which from our birth 

over and around us lies; 

Lord of all, to thee we raise 
this our hymn of grateful praise. 

-Folliott S. Pierpont (1835-1917)

In Whatsoever State I Am

Last Monday morning, I got up early. Actually, if I’m honest, I never fell asleep. We live in a high-rise apartment complex with a few stores in the courtyard below. That morning, we were out of coffee, so I hurried down to 7-11. It was raining. It wasn’t the warm, humid rain we normally have. In fact, the air was surprisingly cool for Taipei this time of year. As I stood at the counter listening to the coffee machine whirr, smelling that fresh coffee scent, and hearing the cool rain drizzle outside, I was transported.

Our apartment complex from the ridge in a nearby park

Transported sounds like a word some cooler-than-thou writer with pretensions of grandeur would use. In fact, it reminds me of my sophomore creative writing teacher adamantly warning us to avoid the “lure of the obscure.” “Don’t talk old-fashioned just because you think it sounds cool.” I can’t think of a better word, though, for how it felt. For a moment, I wasn’t in Taipei, standing at a 7-11 counter. I was in Maine, on a rainy morning, grabbing coffee at a local cafe and chatting with the shop assistant, probably a longtime friend since this is Maine after all.

The moment was fleeting, but it was there. I was transported.

Longterm travel is a funny thing. When you first arrive at a new place, a new home, you are enamoured with that newness. It’s not that you don’t love home, but home is old hat. You can have that back whenever you want, right? You want to try new foods, new places, new adventures. The longer you stay, though, the more you seek the familiar, something that feels like home.

Our first year here, I was too busy to feel much homesickness. Granted, there were moments when I really wanted a good piece of bread or a bowl of mashed potatoes slathered with butter that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. At Christmas, too, I wanted snow and family. But there was also something enchanting about the newness. I learned to love rice even more than I already did. I fell in love with a simpler Christmas free from cultural expectations. I missed home, but I treasured the new.

Christmas Eve 2014

A sleepy Christmas morning 

This year, though, it’s a bit different. Perhaps it’s the length of time I’ve been away. We’re nearing 13 months since my feet last hit American soil. Maybe it’s the life changes I’ve gone through. I’m not teaching this year, so I have more time on my hands, more time to long for that one place that’s always felt like home—Maine. Or maybe it’s the recent agony of a long-sought hope deferred. If I can’t have this one thing we long for, then can’t I at least be home?

Maybe it’s one of these things or maybe it’s all three of these things in combination that make me miss home so I much. I don’t know. I just know I miss it.

I miss the changing of a sunshiny summer into a crisp fall. I miss the smell of apples fresh-picked from a tree. I miss long drives in the middle of nowhere just to run errands. I miss friendly but reserved people. I miss living in a town where I’m known by my lineage, my parents or my Dad’s parents or even my Dad’s parents’ parents. I miss being known as an Andrews girl just by my looks.

I’m a small-town girl with a loving family from a beautiful place, and I miss it all. 

But I’ve found these moments here to get me through. Sometimes it’s something small that reminds me of home. It could be a drizzly morning getting coffee or it could be searching out and finding a long-missed food. Other times, it’s not so much something that reminds me of home but something that feels like home in a new, surprising way.

Let me explain. When we left for the UK this summer, we went knowing we would return here but not anticipating that return. We’ve enjoyed our time in Taipei. It’s been an adventure, but it’s never felt like home in the way that Maine or the UK does. When the plane touched down at Songshan Airport, though, we were both surprised at how we felt. It was like returning to an old friend. A puzzle piece slipped into place. 

Arriving at Songshan Airport

Since returning, I’ve had two contradictory emotions growing. I miss home, but this place continues to feel a bit more like a new home. It’s the familiar walk through the park into town. It’s fresh watermelon juice from a roadside stand. It’s buying flowers for a pittance at a traditional, undercover market with a weird smell. It’s looking at Taipei 101 from my apartment on a clear morning. These aren’t things that remind me of home. They are things that I’ve learned to love for themselves and have consequently begun to feel like home, a new home. 

I’ll continue to miss home. Taipei will never replace Maine in my heart. There are many things I don’t like here: the weather (especially in the Winter), the lack of good quality bread, MSG in everything, not being able to communicate freely. 

I’m learning to be like Paul, though, and treasure where I am. Paul says in his letter to the Philippians that he has learned in all things to be content. By our standards, Paul had every reason not to be content. He went through unjust imprisonments and shipwrecks. He knew hunger and want. He should have been unhappy, but he wasn’t. 

By that comparison, I have it pretty good. I have a 3-bedroom apartment, plenty of food (especially after our trip to Costco the other night!), air conditioners in almost every room, friends, income, and plenty of creature comforts. 

The only thing I lack is that one place I would prefer to be. I have to imagine that Paul had a place he preferred. Maybe it was his childhood home. We don’t know. We do know that not only was he content to be away from that place (if he indeed had such a place), but he was also content to be in the midst of all manner of hardships. Why? He had Christ, and being in the center of Christ’s will is always home.

God allows hardships and longings in our lives for a reason. We should always come back to the same question. What does God want me to learn? In this case, the answer is laid out pretty plain and simple by Paul.

“I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”

At the hot springs in the mountains outside Taipei 

The Irony of My Blogging

I've been thinking lately about the irony of my blogging. I crave anonymity, but I publish my thoughts and pictures on a platform accessible to anyone with a computer and internet connection.

I've always loved the anonymity of this photo. Just my chin and a sweater. Photo courtesy of Carrie Hogue.

Case in point, a few weeks ago I discovered some reviews (here and here) I'd written were easily accessible by keyword search. I felt a mixture of emotions: elation and frustration. I was elated that my blog was finding traction but frustrated that my invisible presence on the web had ended.

A photo from one of my reviews

The irony is, of course, if I really want to be anonymous, why am I blogging? I haven't found the answer to that question, but I think it lies in the "Why" behind my writing. I write to learn myself. I write to understand myself. Consequently, it's in writing that I'm the least concerned with anonymity. Logically, I have to know me to understand me. Anonymity from myself isn't an option. The question still remains, though. Why do I then share that writing with others?

On that note, let's end quite abruptly with a poem by Emily Dickinson.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Are you –– Nobody –– too?

Then there's a pair of us! 

Don't tell! they'd advertise –– you know!

How dreary –– to be –– Somebody!
How public –– like a Frog ––
To tell one's name –– the livelong June ––
To an admiring Bog! 

When I Am Weak

Confession. I wrote this a month ago and was too proud and embarrassed to publish.

So, I moved to Taiwan last month. 

After a summer of silence, I thought it best to cut to the chase and give the most important update first. In the space of a week, the hubby and I interviewed for positions at an international school here, were offered jobs, packed up our entire apartment, and moved to the other side of the world. 

You'd think, after such a drastic life change, that my thoughts would be full of international adventures and profound thoughts on adjusting to new cultures and new ways of living. I do have plenty along those lines to share, but at the moment, my thoughts are full of something else.

Right now, I think of pain. More specifically, I think of these words by Emily Dickinson.

                                         PAIN has an element of blank;
                                         It cannot recollect
                                         When it began, or if there were
                                         A day when it was not.
                               
                                         It has not future but itself,
                                         Its infinite realms contain
                                         Its past, enlightened to perceive
                                         New periods of pain.


The truth is, I can't recollect a day when pain was not part of my life. It begins in the morning when I wake up--brain-fogged, head already aching, muscles and joints crying out as I steel myself for another day. It continues throughout the day until I collapse into a ball of exhaustion. I go to sleep, vainly hoping that rest will heal my body only to wake up again and face another day of pain.

Periods of busyness and change always increase my pain. Moving to Taiwan is no exception. Right now, I spend the better portion of my day wanting to cry in weariness and frustration. I don't want to be this way. It's not a play for attention or an excuse to spend a day relaxing. It never has been, not when the symptoms started in third grade and not now. 

You see, I have what can, at best guess, be called chronic fatigue syndrome and fibromyalgia. In simple terms, it means I'm always tired, no matter how much rest I get, and my body's pain receptors work overtime.

I don't write this post as a plea for sympathy. In fact, I'd rather not talk about it. I know hitting publish when I'm finished will take a great deal of bravery. I don't want to have to admit that I'm sick and have been for the better part of 18 years. If I don't tell you, then I don't have to admit it to myself. 

Truth is, I'm ashamed of my pain. Being tired all the time means, in my mind, that I'm weak, lazy, and incompetent. I'm embarrassed to admit that I slept till noon today and then spent the day in bed. At heart, I'm a busy bee morning person. I love getting up before dawn. I'd rather be able to say I conquered the world, or at least my small corner of it, before lunch. 

I know the reactions that come when I admit my weaknesses. There's misunderstanding, confusion. People talk about times they've been tired after staying out dancing or pulling an all-nighter. Other people assume I'm a hypochondriac and my condition could be cured with a good night's rest and an aspirin. 

Of course, these are only some of the reactions. Many other people, are sympathetic and try to understand. But even that reaction bothers me. Their opinion of me changes. Their sympathy makes me uncomfortable. They try to understand but are reacting to a mysterious condition with no obvious physical signs or clearcut causes. It's not a lost limb or a cancer. It's just constant pain and tiredness for no apparent reason. 

I hold nothing against anyone. I get that my weakness is a confusing one. Plus, the truth is, it's nothing compared to amputation or cancer. And really, it's not anyone's business. Why do people need to know? As a northerner, I keep personal information about myself on a need-to-know-basis. This is no exception. 

Why then, am I talking now? There are a couple reasons. For starters, I suppose it's cathartic. I'm tired of being ashamed of my weakness. I don't want to complain it from the rooftops, but I don't want to be embarrassed either. Second, I think one of the most important things about personal painful experiences is the lessons they teach us. Some good things are best when shared. Life lessons are one of those things. 

Today, I've been thinking about Paul's words in Corinthians. He's talking about his thorn in the flesh, his physical weakness: "For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me. And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong."

I used to think that God's strength being made perfect in my weakness meant that I would somehow be made perfect, not that the weakness would disappear but that I would have supernatural physical strength to achieve great things. Of course, for some people it might mean that, but I took this as a challenge of sorts. I would work multiple jobs, take on heavy course loads at college, and forego sleep because I thought I had to. I thought I had to be not "just like everyone else" but that I had to be better than everyone else. I had to be perfect. 

Paul says God allowed his thorn in the flesh to keep him from being proud. I guess that might be why God allowed mine as well. It reminds me that I'm not perfect. I can't do everything. Even if I were healthy, I couldn't do everything. My weakness just helps remind me how much I owe God.

Of course, sometimes, I try to use my weakness as a secret badge of honor. I think, "Look how much I achieved while being in so much pain!" Thinking this way makes me feel better about being different, being weaker. It's always then, though, that I either collapse in exhaustion or God shows me someone who's weaker than I am but has done so much more than me. 

The Christian life isn't about being perfect or about comparing trials and tribulations like scars from the battlefield. It's about our own relationship with Christ and how that relationship showcases Christ to the world. God's strength being made perfect in weakness doesn't mean that, because I have Christ, I will have the strength to do wonders. It means that I let my weakness teach me how much I need Christ. I am nothing without Christ, just a self-obsessed girl trying to find meaning in her own inner ramblings. God wants me to glory in my weakness not because it makes me great but because it keeps me humble and lets him shine bright.  

With Christ, though, I can let go. I can let go of the need to be perfect. I can let go of the desire to be normal. I can let go of it all. I am sick. That's ok. I am tired. That's ok. I am in pain. That's ok. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's nothing to be proud of, either.

I'm not perfect on the outside or the inside. I have nothing left to prove, nothing left of myself to give. That's ok. I have Christ. When I stop being ashamed or proud and just let myself be weak, my artifices and facades can slip away. When I am weak, he can be strong. 

I started this blog to write about finding beauty in imperfection. I used my freckles as an example of that quest. Since moving to Taiwan, my freckles have been getting even more attention. My kids always want to know why I have so many dots on me. I don't think they find them beautiful. They find them strange. I could let that bother me, but it's ok. I've let go. I don't need to have perfect looks anymore. I'm content.

I'm only now just learning, though, how to be content with my physical weakness. Being weaker and tireder than others isn't so ok with me. I've been the weird one in looks and personality as long as I've been the one with the weird physical weakness. I'm ok with the first two weirdnesses, but I'm still holding onto that last one. 

I think it's time that stopped. I've actually always been able to find beauty in my pain. I've just too often let my shame or pride alternately drown the beauty out. It's time to let go. God's strength, not mine, is made perfect in my weakness. Because of my pain, I'm drawing closer to Christ. I think that's the most beautiful thing of all. 

Do What You're Passionate About {or Love is Hard Work}

Disclaimer: The following is a random jumble of sleepy thoughts. It makes no claims to good writing or proper grammar (and yes, I do realize that I just personified my writing). 

I have a little secret to tell you. Contrary to popular belief, I don't really enjoy the process of sewing.

I mean seriously? Who enjoys painstakingly cutting out fabric, pinning it together, sewing straight lines, finishing seams, trimming necklines and facings, and all that jazz?

Ok. I know some people enjoy it. I'm just not one of them.

So why do I keep coming back? Why do I lie in bed at night mentally completing sewing projects and thinking through each step (even the ones I hate) involved in designing my own dress, skirt, or pants?

It's the same thing with writing, really. I had a reputation as a writer long before I had a reputation as an aspiring seamstress. The truth is, though, I don't really enjoy it. At least, I don't enjoy the finer points of writing.

Who wants to dissect sentences, hunt for the right word, look up grammar rules, plan out perfect plots, or create cohesive characters? The ideation is great. But going through the blood, sweat, and tears of making those ideas into readable wholes? Not my idea of fun.

And yet, no matter how hard I fight my addiction, I still find myself coming back to writing. I still find myself dreaming up ideas in the shower and rushing out with half-washed hair to write them down before I forget. I still find myself staying up late (like tonight) when I should be in bed just so I can try to corral this stream of ideas into submission. I still find myself trying to create strong characters and plots.

So what is it? Why do I keep coming back to these things I don't like? After much thought, I have only one answer. Passion. Because here's the thing, I'm lazy. I don't like doing anything that reeks of hard work. But I like, love, am passionate about the creating, and creating, my friends, is hard work. I keep coming back because the rewards are sweet.

There's been some recent chatter across social media channels about the saying "Do what you love, and you'll never work a day in your life." To be honest, I've never liked that phrase.

For starters, even the most enjoyable job will have amounts of pure, hair-tearing boredom. It's just a fact. You will work a day in your life. You will work many days in your life. And it will feel like back-breaking labor. The point is to find something that makes the working days worth it.

Second, I feel the statement has a fundamental flaw based on our culture's definition of "love."

Let me explain. We use the word "love" for chocolate and our parents equally. Of course, there's a cultural understanding that you love your parents more than chocolate (at least I hope you do), but we use both words for both feelings. They're different, though. Enjoying chocolate is easy. Loving your parents, or anyone else for that matter, is quite often hard work.

So when people say, "Do what you love, and you'll never work," the idea I take away is enjoyment or the kind of love you have for chocolate. "Do something you enjoy, and you'll never work because enjoyment is the opposite of work."

If I were to simply do what I enjoy, I would spend my days on the couch, watching TV shows and movies with awesome wardrobes, eating pasta, drinking orange juice by the gallon, and shopping for clothing online till my credit card maxed out. I love narrative, food, and style. Why not enjoy them the easy way? But let's face it. I enjoy pasta, but I don't truly love it.

When I do something I love, though, that's a different story. I write stories and blogposts; I make my own pasta (yes, I said make my own pasta!); I plan wardrobes and sew clothes. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy doing what I love, but I don't enjoy it because it's fundamentally enjoyable to sweat over a rolling pin or pull out threads till my eyes water. I enjoy it because I love it. Few things can match how much I enjoy successfully creating a new recipe, story, or dress, even if the process is hard work.

So I guess what I'm saying is, here's my take on that famous saying, "If you do what you're passionate about, it generally won't be easy, and it won't always be enjoyable, but everyday of work will be worth it."

Freckled - A Philosophy

One summer, after days spent running outside in the sun, my older brother and I discovered our freckles had turned green. We ran through the house telling everyone and laughing at our images in the mirror. It’s one of the last times I remember taking joy in my freckles.

Photo Credit: Carrie Hoge, Quince & Co

I am freckled. Freckles speckle my forehead and cheeks, dot my neck,

boldly cover my shoulders and arms, and cluster on my kneecaps and shins. Not even my hands, fingers, knuckles, feet and toes are free. Wherever the sun hits, I have freckles. 

I have a love/hate relationship with these freckles of mine. They make me more like my mother, one of the most beautiful women I know. But they are also traditionally considered a flaw. They mar my pale skin.

I’m freckled. I’m imperfect. For years, I beat myself up over this fact. I hated myself. I tried to force myself into what I thought the world wanted. I tried to be thinner but curvier, shorter but not too short, blonder or redder but not in-between. I wanted smaller hands, smaller feet, a smaller waist but bigger bust and hips. I tried to learn when to be quiet and when to be raucous, when to laugh and when to swallow my humor. I tried to erase my freckles. I tried to be perfect. 

I still remember the day that I really started to change. It was about halfway through college. I’ve never been good at trusting people with who I really am. But there was one person there who I let know the real me. We were walking down the hall after a class when I think I made a self-deprecating joke about my freckles. She countered with a line from Gerard Manley Hopkins “Pied Beauty,” “Glory be to God for dappled things.” 

In the poem, Hopkins thanks God for all things pied. Pied means multicolored, spotted, dappled . . freckled. Hopkins’ is thanking God for: 

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

Some years ago, a friend gave my siblings and I handmade mugs. I chose the mug with an imperfection. The clay had collapsed slightly at the lip. When I started dating my husband, I gave him that mug. He understood. That mug was me, fragile and imperfect. Whenever he drank from it, he held that slight curve, that imperfection, against his mouth. It was a perfect fit. 

A freckled bride

In seeking perfection, we too often miss what we have. Life is freckled. It's never perfect. But we can choose to see the beauty in the imperfection.

This blog is me. I'm done with pie-in-the-sky expectations about my personality, my looks, and my life. I’m ready to love, discover, and enjoy my pied, freckled life for what it is. 

I’ll write here about what I love doing. I love writing, sewing, cooking, reading, and philosophizing. In short, I love creating as well as reflecting on other people’s creations. This is something of a DIY/fashion blog, but it’s one with a twist. This is a blog about the beauty of life in all it’s messiness. By blogging about what I love doing, I’m also blogging about where I find that beauty. It’s in the journey of creating, that I have learned and continue to learn to appreciate the life I’ve been given.

When trying to nail down the theme of this blog, my husband summarized, “Even beautiful women have freckles.” I’d like to edit that statement. Life wouldn't be half so beautiful if it weren't for the freckles.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things--

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, plough;

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him. 

Real Women

Recently, a friend of mine gave voice on his Facebook page to a frustration common to many of us (male and female)--how pop culture and advertising skew our idea of healthy body image.

He finished his comment with this statement:

“Don't believe that your natural self is shameful, gross, or inappropriate! No man-made product can improve what God gave you! There is no need to hide behind that stuff. Let's learn to respect what's natural.”

[caption id="attachment_418" align="aligncenter" width="560"] Photo courtesy of my wonderful friend, Marybeth Hoover[/caption]

As someone interested in both history and the history of fashion, I recognize that every time period has had its ideal female body type. In each of those cultures, women with differing body types have had only a few options: rebel, force their bodies into submission through diet and shape wear, or give up.

The rebels of those time periods often give rise to a new ideal. Consider the strict hourglass look of the 50s and 60s and the rebels who broke through. People like Audrey Hepburn and Twiggy brought hope to the hearts of many a straight-figured girl. Sadly, they also unintentionally created a new ideal. Suddenly, shapeliness became fatness.

Today, we have women rebelling against this new ideal. Their maxim? “Real women have curves!”

As a broad shoulder, thin-hipped girl, I can’t help but take some offense at this statement. I'm disgusted as anyone at the emaciated beauty ideal being pushed on us today. However, despite years of wishing, I’ll never have hourglass proportions. (Incidentally, I’ll never have model proportions either) Does this mean I’m not a real woman?

Yes, real women do have curves, but they also have straight figures. Real women have apple figures, pear figures, rectangle figures, and whatever other fruits and shapes have been used to describe a woman’s body. Real women are just that, women. They come in every shape, size, and weight. Being a women doesn’t come from your subscription to or rejection of any culturally ideal look. It’s defined by a set of chromosomes.

I’m not trying to say you shouldn’t care how you look or that you shouldn’t appreciate beauty. Yes, take care of yourself; look your best; stay healthy. What bothers me isn’t a balanced attention to physical appearance but rather how we women judge our worth by that physical appearance. We live in a culture that makes it hard to do anything else.

Recently, while I was crossing the road in the face of oncoming traffic, a man crossing from the other side commented as he went by, “Don’t worry, you’re too pretty to run over.”

I laughed at the comment and didn’t take it too seriously. I live in an eccentric city with a lot of eccentric men who like to give random compliments. But it did start the train of thought that first inspired this essay. Would my death be any less tragic had that man thought me any less pretty?

How often do we ascribe greater worth to prettier people? We gravitate toward them. We even view them as smarter, more talented. We’re more saddened when they, in our view, waste that intelligence and talent. We view attractive people as better people, better leaders, better politicians, better for the community as a whole.

I firmly believe we were each created by a good God for a purpose. That God doesn’t care whether we match our culture’s current beauty ideal. He looks at the heart.

As real women (and real men), isn’t time we started doing the same?

An Anniversary Post

Yesterday, we celebrated our 2 year wedding anniversary. The day before, on her 12 year wedding anniversary, a friend learned her husband is dying from cancer. As I mourn and pray for this friend, I also pause to reflect.

We're taught to treasure the moments in life. This glib statement often seems accompanied by the idea that the moments to treasure are the happy ones, the sunshine-filled, laughing days. But are those the only beautiful moments?

For two years, I have lived with, fought with, loved, angered, and stood alongside a very real, very human, and very lovable man. We've had our wonderful moments and our awful moments. So, should I treasure only the wonderful moments? It's a hard question. I hate it when we fight and struggle, but those fights and struggles are part and parcel of the life we're building together. The friction, either from the storms of life or from each other, grows us and our marriage.

As I watch this friend struggle through watching her husband die, I have no glib statements. How can you treasure these moments, good or bad, knowing all the moments you dreamed of will soon end? At the same time, I'm awed by her. Through the pain and tears, she looks for God's little miracles and counts it a blessing to hold her husband's hand.

Maybe this seems like a gloomy anniversary post. I'm not sure. But I'm reminded that every kiss could be our last, every fight could be the final one, and all our humans plans could come crumbling down at the feet of a good, sovereign God. I'm reminded to thank God for the time, good and seemingly bad, that I've had with my husband and for the time we have left, whether it's a lifetime or another minute.

I'm thankful I get to fight with and for this man. Every breath we share is from God, and I thank Him for every breath He gives.

I'm thankful, too, for my friend who right now models true for-better-or-for-worse-love. God doesn't tell us never to sorrow; He just reminds us that we sorrow with hope. Thank you, friend, for your transparent example of sorrow and hope.