Da Vinci Nonsense

Ok, so lately, with the film scheduled for release and all, I've read all this crap about Christians all up in arms about the whole daVinci Code deal. And just for the record, here's my 2 cents:

I haven't read the novel, so I guess I don't know much about it. Except this. It's a NOVEL; it's fiction. And I don't think it claims to be anything else. So what's the big deal? I mean do Christians out there really believe that a piece of fiction is going to draw people away from Christ? I recently read someone skwacing (I didn't spell that correctly, did I?) about how it's trying to redefine Christianity. I think that's just a stupid statement. Like it said, it doesn't claim to be theology, does it?

As you can probably see, I'm really not interested in the whole debate. I don't think it's even worthy of a debate. And I wonder whether people really don't have anything bigger to worry about.

Da Vinci Nonsense

Ok, so lately, with the film scheduled for release and all, I've read all this crap about Christians all up in arms about the whole daVinci Code deal. And just for the record, here's my 2 cents:

I haven't read the novel, so I guess I don't know much about it. Except this. It's a NOVEL; it's fiction. And I don't think it claims to be anything else. So what's the big deal? I mean do Christians out there really believe that a piece of fiction is going to draw people away from Christ? I recently read someone skwacing (I didn't spell that correctly, did I?) about how it's trying to redefine Christianity. I think that's just a stupid statement. Like it said, it doesn't claim to be theology, does it?

As you can probably see, I'm really not interested in the whole debate. I don't think it's even worthy of a debate. And I wonder whether people really don't have anything bigger to worry about.

So some days I ask myself what the point og blogging is if it's just some stupid, obligatory post that I'm writing because of some stupid rule that I made for myself. Here I am. And I'm writing because I think I have to write something. And is there a point to that? I don't know. I guess it's a way to say to the world and to myself that hey, I am still here. That was a lame-tastic (lame ass) sentence. Maybe I won't even bother to post this. I'm tired. That's the thing. I'm so often tired lately that it makes it hard to be enthusiastic about much of anything. I pretty much only do what I think I have to do.

Hey, ask me later (maybe not here) why I had to move my blog. Right now, it all seems really dumb, but it'll be pretty funny in six months or so.

Some days, I start to think it's all more than one person is able to deal with, you know? I'm overwhelmed, nearly all the time, by work and tasks to be completed. And I don't know how I'll get it all done. And it feels like all I want is just a little help, or even just support and understanding. And I really, truly think I'm going crazy, or something that feels remarkably like crazy. And just when I think that I really can't do it anymore, I realize that I do have support and understanding. Just when it's nearly unbearable, that's when I get the phone call that reminds me that people do care about me, or the phone call with an offer of help. Or other times, just when it becomes unbearable, all of a sudden the task that seemed insurmountable is taken care of. Maybe this is part of what it means to trust God, that when things really do seem to be more than I can cope with, there's someone there.

Sir Gawain and Perfectionism

I've been grading tests on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and as I've been reading the responses, I've been thinking about what the poem seems to say about perfectionism. Forgive me if I've posted something similar before. I suppose that it seems to me that the root of Gawain's failure (or what he perceives as failure, the other characters don't) is his own perfectionism. Gawain finds himself in a situation in which, by his own standards, standards imposed by himself alone, there is no good solution. In this sense, the work even seems to harken forward to postmodernism--the sense that there's no right answer to Gawain's delimma. And yet, the other characters both his adversaries and Arthur's court see him as ultimately successful. He's the only one who perceives himself to be a failure. Although I'm not articulating this very clearly, what I mean to say is that maybe the lesson here is that we perfectionists would do well to remember that humans are not perfect and would do well to see ourselves as other see us.

I don't know; maybe I'm not making a lot of sense. I do know what perfectionism is something that I think about and am affected by far too often.

Ok, so here I am; don't know what to say. I'm behind on just about everything, and I'm panicked. All I really want right now is my dad. Well, dad and a good turkey sandwich. I guess I'm writing because I feel obligated, my daily post and all. Here it is. *sigh* Maybe I'm just tired.

I realize that the following post published three times. Blogger is acting up, so it was either three or none. And it was really too good to waste.

Scene: Family Sunday dinner. Family sits around dining room table, finishing meal.

Teen age son: You know, I think Rachel Ray will be one of those celebrities who dies young, under mysterious circumstances, you know, like Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe.

Family looks on, rather agog, as teen age son pushes his chair back from the table.

Teen age son (leans back in chair): But you didn't hear that from me.

Scene: Family Sunday dinner. Family sits around dining room table, finishing meal.

Teen age son: You know, I think Rachel Ray will be one of those celebrities who dies young, under mysterious circumstances, you know, like Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe.

Family looks on, rather agog, as teen age son pushes his chair back from the table.

Teen age son (leans back in chair): But you didn't hear that from me.

Scene: Family Sunday dinner. Family sits around dining room table, finishing meal.

Teen age son: You know, I think Rachel Ray will be one of those celebrities who dies young, under mysterious circumstances, you know, like Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe.

Family looks on, rather agog, as teen age son pushes his chair back from the table.

Teen age son (leans back in chair): But you didn't hear that from me.

Guinnie, Polly, and Beck

Oddly, Guinever and Polly don't seem to care for Beck. Normally, when I listen to music or watch TV or whatever, they don't seem to pay much attention at all. But they don't like Beck's music, or so it seems. When Beck comes on, they look at the speakers as though they are confused. Polly, who's normally so docile, will actually bark at "Where It's At." It's not like I'm this huge Beck fan, so I guess that this doesn't have to be an issue or anything. Still, I think it's werid and worth noting.

If I were good with photoshop, I'd make a silly picture of the two little dogs barking at and biting Beck. It's just the weirdest thing.

Thoughts on Breakups and Relationships

I've been thinking. I wonder when we allow ourselves to become close to others, truly close, either in friendships or in more intimate relationships, whether we give little bits of ourselves away to those people. It seems to me that we do. Or it seems that I do, anyway. I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing, but it does mean that I'm easily hurt. I'm thinking specifically of J, of course. Once we were so close, and even now, he probably knows me better than anyone else does. But we aren't close anymore; we aren't anything anymore, although I love him in a different kind of way and wish him great fulfillment and happiness. It's just that it still feels like there's this part of myself, part of my soul, I suppose, that is still with him. It feels like he has it and I never will again. That sounds like I'm sadder than I actually am. With the loss of a very close relationship, isn't also a potential future and dreamed of happiness that are lost too? I think so. So maybe what I'm feeling is only the loss of what I believed could have been.

I don't know. It's like I am, in some small but significant way, a different person than I was with him. This is not a bad thing, necessarily. I think that, in the end, I'm probably a healthier person, maybe a stronger person. I do think that I have learned something about being content, and I suppose that counts for a lot. Still, it feels like there's this part of me that he has and always will have. And I don't think there's any way around that.

Excuses. . .

I'm tired of excuses, especially from my students. Maybe I'm just getting old and crochety (isn't that a great word???), or maybe I'm just not being very understanding. But it seems that every semester I have a couple of students who explain to me that they are suffering from depression and anxiety and that I can call either their mothers or their therapists to verify this and that they are starting or stopping medication and that if there's any way I can be sympathetic and understanding and simply overlook their absences and missing work, they'd really appreciate it. And normally I try to be kind. I tell them that I, too, suffer with anxiety and that I know how truly terrible it can feel. I tell them that I'm so sorry to hear that things are difficult, which I am, and that I want to do what I can to help them get through this. But the truth is, I'm tired of being understanding and saying the right thing. I wonder if they assume that because I'm a relatively young female that I'll be nurturing and understanding.

What I want to say deep, deep down is something like this: "I'm really sorry that you feel crappy, and believe me, I've been there and I know how it feels. But it's no excuse. It's no excuse for missing class or missing work. I know this because I've gone through some really traumatic things, more difficult than you can imagine. And you know what? I didn't miss class or work. I didn't drop out of life. Even when I felt like I didn't want to ever get out of bed and face the world ever, ever again, even when I was probably suicidal, I just kept showing up. I kept doing all the things I was supposed to be doing, and that was the right thing to do. So if you want my sympathy, fine, you have it. I feel sorry for you. But don't think that gives you license to slack off. I've been where you are, and I know that you need to just keep showing up, even when you feel like you can't. I've done it, and I expect you to, too."

Is this absolutely the wrong response? Because I think it's totally true. And there's a part of me that just wants to say, "Enough with all your excuses. Either keep showing up and doing the work, or drop the class. Either way is fine with me. But don't stay in my class, be a big flake, then expect my sympathy."

The House

I'm in the process of purchasing my first home. Here's a photo of the exterior.

What I Wore Today

As you can see, these are great pink and tangerine and tan argyles! What could be better?

Just One More Update

I am feeling much better, although I'm still very easily exahusted. But I'm feeling back to myself, you know? I'm feeling like I want to write and read and bake muffins and do all the things that make me me. I've been touched by the concern that many of you have expressed, and I so much appreciate it.

Rest assured, that I seem to slowly be coming back to life!

One More Word About Photos

I really am interested in photography. If I thought I could, I would make a living out of it. I suspect that I'm not that talented. I realize that the sock project, as I'm now calling it, does not represent my best work. However, there's something interesting about the challenge of photographing one's self. It sounds narsissistic, but it really isn't. It's just more like a fun game. Someday, when I'm feeling more serious and have given up on the sock project, I'll maybe share some of my more serious work. I never used to think of myself as an artists. But photography is art, right? And then there's my writing. About six months ago it came to me like an epiphany: Hey, I really am a creative person! When I think about these things, I'm happy to be me.

Over the Knee Socks

Let me clarify: I do not assume that all of you are really all that interested in seeing photos of my socks. The sock project is really for my own entertainment. All of a sudden, taking photos of me in socks seemed like a really good idea. And for now, it brings me enjoyment (or at least giggles), so it's worth something.

That said, this particular photo is really of over-the-knee socks. And these are extra special because Carina sent them to me for my birthday. What a great friend! She's maybe the only friend who would realize that, "Hey, pink, striped over-the-knee socks somehow epitomize who Drennan is."

In case you are wondering, yes I do actually wear this stuff out in public. In fact, I wear this sort of thing to work. I know that my not seem all that professional, but why should I let that stop me?

I'm basically quite vain about my appearance, and I'm OK with that. The thing is that I don't want to be beautiful; I know that I'll never be beautiful. But I do want to be interesting looking. And you can't deny that a college professor who wears striped knee-highs is interesting looking.

I'm tired (again!) and headachy and don't know what to write. So here I sit, typing my obligatory daily entry. Only I don't even know what to say. I'm tired; I'm annoyed; I'm frustrated by being tired all the time.

Oh well, maybe more later.

Random: Happiness and Loneliness

All of a sudden, there' so much I want to say. And this makes me excited because if I'm wanting to write, it's like I am feeling like myself again. So here (for my benefit, as much as anything) are my current random observations about what's going on in my head.

Nearly every day, I feel overwhelmingly lonely and deliriously happy by turns, sometimes both at once. Happiness makes me want someone to share it with. And earlier today, I read Dolce Carina's reply to my post awhile back about relationships, and she confirmed that what I want is entirely normal and healthy and possible. And something about that makes me so happy.

I've been thinking today about all the labels I give myself: Christian, teacher, writer, friend, daughter, sister, neurotic, strong, independent, insecure. I wonder; am I merely the sum of all these labels? I wonder which of these is most important. I wonder if anyone will ever appreciate me for all instead of just some of these. But what does it mean that I label myself a writer? I mean, I don't go out telling people, "Hey, I'm a writer," because I don't exactly write professionally. But I do write stuff that moves me along professionally. So maybe I do write professionally sort of. But I know I'm a writer because I need to write in order to live fully. I think that some of you understand that.

Oh here's something else. And this is no exaggeration. Since moving to Vermont, I am moved on a very deep level every day by how beautiful the sky is here. When it's clear, it's a blue I don't remember in California. But when it's cloudy, that's best of all. Each morning on my way to work (it's this lovely, perfect 13-mile commute!), I think, "God, thank you for giving me this beautiful sky." So as corny as this may sound to some,I am so thankful for the sky each day. And the stars are the best of all. I've often thought that there must be a God who loves me simply because of the stars. They seem to serve no purpose; they are just beautiful. What a creative, brilliant, loving God to give us such beauty every day.

And there are all these things, these experiences, that are so full of joy each day (it's those 11 moments), that I am moved to tears (a trite expression, I know). And I think that life, just to breathe and smell and feel, is such an amazing, inexplicably wonderful thing. And I feel perfectly joyful.

But then, almost instantly, I'm aware that I want someone to share it with, that the beauty would be even fuller if only I could communicate (oh, paltry words!) just how much it all is. And that, for me is loneliness. Loneliness is the phone that doesn't ring each evening. Loneliness is the birthday card that doesn't come in the mail. Loneliness is hoping that someone wants to listen to me exult in the start, but no one is there. And I suppose that's part of why I blog. It at least gives me the illusion that I can communicate with someone who cares.

And here's the other thing. I swear that I love my friends more and more each day. Partly, I love some of you because I know that you do read this and that means I'm not alone, even if most of you are far away from me. And then I'm happy again. It's a pendulum, I guess.

My mother has often reminded me that there are to ways to have balance in life: to find rest somewhere in the middle of things or to be like a pendulum moving between extremes. Those are my words, not hers, but that's the general idea. I think that finding rest in the middle is maybe the sanest way to live. But I guess it's just not who I am. I seem to exist at the margins or the extremes or something. I used to fight it, to try to situate myself in the middle, to be quiet and meek and conservative and to follow the rules. But that's just not who I am. And as non-sane as I think moving between extremes may sound, I'm learning to embrace it because it's who I am and because it all adds up to joy in the end.

Can I laugh and cry at the same time? That's how I feel now.

Oh, but I'm here and I'm alive and I feel and I'm writing about it. And this is me. And I like it.