Biz-E

Here's a funny little article about one woman's busy day. The author asks, "Can a person feel unbelievably busy without feeling unbelievably overwhelmed?" Goooood question.

I was pondering my life & busyness a bit on the subway ride to Tribeca yesterday, running late for my class and silently cursing the A-train that couldn't wait 2 seconds longer before leaving without me on it. October ended before I could even determine where September went, and my day-planner has become more indespensible to me in these last weeks than ever before in my life. And it's all good stuff, this busyness - dinners with friends, Scrabble dates, classes, concerts and culture, half-price margaritas, weekend road trips, all good stuff.

But yesterday I felt the need to revisit priorities and realistic time-management expectations. Lame! My To-Do list, however, just doesn't seem to want to squash down and fit into this 24-hour-day timeframe I have to work with, so something's gotta give. And lately what's been giving is my health; I've caught myself eating a lot of dinners at 10:30pm (and...by "dinner" I mean microwave popcorn) and I seem to have lost the address to my gym. I do recognize the need for balance, for self-care, for rest - unfortunately, though, these are the things I find easiest to shuffle to the bottom of my list when busyness calls.

Circumstances found me up very early last Sunday morning, waiting for a delivery. Of course, it didn't show up until the very end of the window of time the delivery people had specified, so that left me sitting on my couch, waiting for 2 hours.

But it was kind of wonderful.

As I wasn't sure when exactly the doorbell would ring, I couldn't get too involved in any one project on my To-Do list. Didn't want to start in on that Netflix movie I've had for 2 months if I'd have to stop it after 5 minutes, and couldn't run out to do laundry in case they arrived when I was gone, etc. So I just sat there. A little bit bleary-eyed, a little bit chilly (Hi, Fall!), listening and waiting.

I heard a lot of quiet, which is not a familiar sound in the city. I liked it. I liked sitting in it. I thought a little bit, but not too much, 'cause it was early. I noticed how my feet were cold, and the floorboards were cold, how the seasons were finally, really changing and I thanked God for that.

As I sat there, doing nothing, I felt myself show up to the moment. I was fully present - not worrying about what comes next, not procrastinating nor wasting time, just being. I had the inclination that if I spoke, God would listen - and if God spoke, I might actually hear.

It was kinda like a mini-Sabbath, and it was addictive. I've been craving another one all week. Sure, it seems basic stuff to recognize our need to rest, take a break, and be quiet. Previously I've given mental assent to that notion, but on Sunday I felt the effects it bore in my being. And now I'm entirely onboard. Top of my To-Do list now: figure out the ratio of busyness to quiet that I need in order to be able to enjoy being busy, being me, knowing God, and avoid being "overwhelmed."

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

“A pilgrim must be a child who can approach everything with an attitude of wonder, awe and faith. Pray for wonder, awe, desire. Ask God to take away your sophistication and cynicism. Ask God to take away the restless, anxious heart of the tourist, which always needs to find the new, the more, the curious…


We go on pilgrimage so we can go back home and know that we never need to go on pilgrimage again. Pilgrimage has achieved its purpose when we can see God in our everyday and ordinary lives.”

-- Richard Rohr

I confess to a restless, anxious tourist heart. Big time. As I approach the one-year mark of living in my current apartment, I long for change. Time to go! Keep moving! Time to seek out a new apartment, new neighborhood, new experience.

Often I try to justify my restlessness as being merely a healthy desire to “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life” (to borrow a phrase from Thoreau). Try everything once, leave no experience un-experienced, seek out the other and get familiar with it, know a little something-something about everything. Other times I paint it romantic, call it “wanderlust” and pretend it makes me adventurous.

Either way, that quote above from Richard Rohr reminds me that the end to my restlessness does not lie in the new, the latest thing, but in God himself.

On a related note, last night I returned to my apartment to inspect the exterminator’s aftermath. My roommate and I suspected we had a minor bed-bug infestation (NYC – you gross me OUT sometimes!), so we called The Man with the Chemicals to come and set things right. He worked his chemical-magic during the day, and when I got home I saw just how thorough a job he had done.

My furniture had been upended in the exterminator’s quest to leave no bed-bug hiding spot un-sprayed. Drawers were yanked out and stacked far from the dresser frame. My mattress leaned on the wall opposite from the box spring, and the bed frame was pulled apart. Pictures and posters that had hung on the wall when I left in the morning were now stacked precariously on a table. Faced with chaos to clean, not to mention 5+ loads of laundry in order to get the chemical stench off my linens and clothes, this would have been the perfect time for a pity party. (I’ve been a champion pity-party thrower lately, too.)

But God must have doused me with some of that peace that passes all human understanding. (Do you know that peace? When it finds me, it’s like a matter-of-fact deep-breath other-worldly “So what? God’s got me” confidence.) I surveyed the mess, determined that it would be just as easy to completely rearrange everything as to put it back to its original spot, climbed over the bookcase blocking my door and got to work. Many hours later my room had a whole new look that I was kinda jazzed about.

No, it’s not a new apartment, not a new neighborhood, not a new country. Just the same old furniture in a slightly new pattern. But it was enough to satisfy my desire for change, and I give credit to God, who allowed bed-bugs to bring about the exterminator who brought about chaos, which brought the opportunity and occasion for re-ordering. So thanks! to God – who is, as always, my great Re-Orderer.

Overheard

Woman #1: "What's your [Halloween] costume?"

Woman #2: "It's a mental patient, but like...sexy."
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Super-CAL-ifragilistic CORN-ucopia of Fall

Part of last weekend's fun was taking my friend T.'s kiddies to a corn maze. I heart fall activities - pumpkin patches, apple orchards, hay rides, you name it- so when T. mentioned a corn maze as an option, I was all for it.

My prior corn maze experience was limited to one encounter in high school, at the Fairfax County Fair. My friends and I had spent the whole day at the Fair, and didn't make it over to the corn maze until after the sun had already set. I don't recall much about our a-maze-ing experience, though I imagine vandalism and breaking the rules were involved, because after all, these were the hallmarks of my high school era. [I do remember that my friend Tully invented the character of "Stumpy" while we were in the maze - "I'm Stumpy! I have a stump for an arm! Aaaaarrgggh!" was pretty much how that scene went.]

But I digress.

This time around I was looking forward to truly absorbing the quaint Americana kitsch of a corn maze, breathing in autumn air, hanging out with toddlers who think that everything is fun and funny and new (I should have tried out "Stumpy" on them - I bet that would have been a hit), exchanging tall urban architecture for towering corn stalks, and just generally slipping into a simpler agrarian mode for a few hours.

Here is the map we received at the entrance of the maze:

What the.....? Cal Ripken, Jr.? I was especially perturbed given Cal's recent appearance in my dreams. Also, I'm not sure the corn-based rendering does justice to Cal's features - his face looked kinda lumpy and creepy. In my role as maze navigator, I found myself using phrases I never thought I'd ever have occassion to say, like "Ok, we're going to take a right at Cal Ripken's jaw" and "We're inside Cal's ear. We need to head east."

After my group made it out of the maze, parched from the dust and hot from the sun, we headed towards the concession stand for some beverages. T. asked the concession worker if they had cider, because we figured that if we were going to do autumn fun right, we should have some apple cider. It's autumn in a glass!

The concession worker, a girl probably about the same age as I was at my first corn maze encounter, shook her head. "We have Sprite," she countered, as if Sprite and cider were logical substitutes. Nope.

Cider-less, we still managed to enjoy the rest of the afternoon playing in corn, tromping through a pumpkin patch, and visiting a little on-site petting zoo.

"Bye, dogs!" T.'s toddler said to the goats.
"Bye, Cal!" I said to the corn.

MerryLand

I went away this weekend.

No, I mean a-w-a-y.

Away from cell phone coverage and email access. Away from text books and homework and to-do lists. Away from sirens and the subway and my 5th-floor walk-up.

With a toddler and newborn in the house where I was visiting, it wasn't quiet - but it was far removed from my ordinary, and I think I needed that. How good to play with the babies, swing on swings in mid-morning sunshine, run errands in a car, make cookies in a kitchen with a garbage disposal (!!), eat 3 balanced meals a day sitting at an actual table (!!). Definitely not part of my daily NYC existence.

Now, I'm crazy about the city, I assure you. It's just nice to sojourn in the suburbs every now and then.

Aside: KT and I each might move to MerryLand, though, based on their grocery selection alone. This girl can't ever remember seeing that many varieties of pickles, cans of soup, and granola bars in any grocery store between the Hudson & East Rivers. They say you can get anything in the world in Manhattan, but maybe "they" haven't been to St. Mary's County Shoppers Food Warehouse, huh?

Frank Loveliness

Last week I had some extra time after a doctor's appointment and before class, so I headed over to the bookstore at Columbus Circle to do some browsin'. After clearing the escalators on the 2nd floor, however, I forgot all thoughts of books when I found myself caught in a stare from Ol' Blue Eyes.

I had inadvertantly wandered into a new photography installation, featuring black-and-white photos of Mr. Frank Sinatra, as taken by Terry O'Neill. The pictures (some are life size!) are a mix of captivating candid and posed shots, and you can read more about them here, if interested. If you're a New Yorker, come on down to Columbus Circle and experience the wonder first-hand! If you're farther afield, don't fear! The photographs are being published in a book entitled, Sinatra: Frank and Friendly, due out this month.

While walking amidst the installation, I felt a little as though I was looking at old family photos. A strange notion, for sure, to think of Sinatra as family. I've got no explanation for it - maybe he reminds me of my uncles, maybe we could say his voice (The Voice!) transports me to an age of innocence that I associate with youth and being surrounded by family - who knows? Perhaps a pyschologist could get to the root of it, but I bet I've got bigger fish to fry in therapy than my Frank obsession :)

In any case, to sum up: Frank is family, and check out these photos! They're fantastic.

Politics are HIL-ARIOUS (and so can you!)

Steven Colbert had this to say in his recent op-ed piece in the New York Times, regarding his qualifications to be the next President of the United States:

"Look at the moral guidance I offer. On faith: “After Jesus was born, the Old Testament basically became a way for Bible publishers to keep their word count up.” On gender: “The sooner we accept the basic differences between men and women, the sooner we can stop arguing about it and start having sex.” On race: “While skin and race are often synonymous, skin cleansing is good, race cleansing is bad.” On the elderly: “They look like lizards.”"

How is that guy so funny!? I think he may be one of the current leading causes of incontinence in this county. As I baby-step towards a degree in Old Testament studies, I find his comment above particularly hilarious.

Getting Schooled

“A love affair with knowledge will never end in heartbreak.” -Michael Garrett Marino

“Say whhhaattt?” -Kristywes

Autumn is the “back-to-school” season, and as of this week, I am officially back to school! I resumed my Hebrew classes this Tuesday. New school, new teacher, (some) new classmates; same 3,000+ year-old language. I’m excited about the direction we’re heading this semester – hopefully a little less grammar instruction and fewer goofy practice readings (if you’d ever like to hear Rumpelstiltskin or Cinderella recited in Hebrew, just let me know) and more reading right from the actual bible and other significant texts. Good stuff.

I’ve also become a bona fide graduate student and enrolled in my first graduate class (a survey of Old Testament Theology). I’ve been happily ordering my books, organizing binders and papers, and otherwise behaving like the big dork that I am when school is involved. Such eagerness will extend right up until when I actually have to do some work, then – watch me lose interest. :) But no, I (hopefully) jest. I have the best intentions to be a good student, this time around.

There’s more to life than book-learnin’, though, so I’ve got a couple other things brewing for autumn. Firstly, I plan to Get Aggressive with Culture. This is the name I’ve bestowed on my efforts to take advantage of New York’s cultural offerings, while I’m still living here and able to do so. I’m off to a good start (been to 3 plays in 3 weeks) and have a couple more events lined up. So much quality music, theater, and literature are being presented around the city – I don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to take it in, AND be inspired by it to create my own.

Secondly, I’m off and running with the goal of Getting in Touch with My Heritage. I’m Polish (with the last name to prove it), but I don’t know very much about being Polish. What do Poles (and Polish-Americans) think, feel, like, dislike? What defines Polish literature, humor, cinema, world-view? How does one dance the Polka, play the accordion, celebrate national holidays? There’s a pretty large Polish community in and around NYC, so I’m going to tap into that resource and find out, culminating with a foray into Greenpoint, Brooklyn in search of the “Perfect Pierogie.” Stay tuned.

“But in your dreams whatever they be…”

Lately I’ve been visited in the night by bizarre-o dreams, of yet undetermined meaning. Some are kind of entertaining, some raise emotions that often seep into my waking mood. Last week I dreamt I needed to get Jeremy Piven a copy of his head-shot ASAP, and I woke up stressed because I didn’t know when I would be able to accomplish this. The other night I dreamt of a friend I haven’t seen in awhile, and spent most of the day missing him terribly.

See if you can lend your interpretive insights on some other dream-gems:

A) One dream found me in the midst of an army base in Baquba, Iraq. The president and vice president (Ronald Reagan and Donald Rumsfeld, respectively, each with schmarmy slicked-back hair) are touring the compound, being all official ‘n stuff. I stumble across an old Army commander, wounded and lying between 2 parked cars in a garage. He is hurt bad, but is alert, and I know there is still time to get him medical attention and save his life. When I beg some bystanders to call 9-1-1, they stutter and shrug and are completely inefficient. I grab my new cell phone to call, but alas – there is no “1” key on my phone, so I have a difficult time calling. Finally I am able to get through, and after what seems like forever, precious time lapsed, the paramedics arrive.

To my dismay, the paramedics are some Iraqi civilians with wives and children in tow. They stand around and look at the commander (who, by the way, has now morphed into my dog, Grimley – however, the urgency of the situation remains unabated), but they are unable or unwilling to help. Sufficiently stressed and upset, I appeal to Reagan and Rumsfeld, but their backs are turned to me and I can’t get their attention. I awake – and it takes a few hours to entirely shake off the stress of that dream.

B) Growing up outside of Washington, D.C., post-Senators but pre-Nationals, the Baltimore Orioles were the closest we had to a home-town baseball team. And the star & hero of the Orioles during my youth was Mr. Cal Ripkin Jr. So imagine my dismay when he showed up in a dream last week, acting like a total skuzzy jerk! (Also, in the dream Cal was played by Michael McKean, with long stringy white hair.) Throughout the day following the dream, I had to consciously re-adjust my mental image of Cal, reminding myself, “It was just a dream! In reality, Cal is a balding, milk-drinking, all-around good guy! Not a jerk.”

C) Nestled all snug in my bed for a Saturday afternoon nap, I dream that I get up and go into the kitchen. Looking out the window, I notice that the drizzly rain from earlier has turned to snow. And swooping down towards me, from the roof of the building opposite mine, is a miniature Santa Claus. He is grinning and impish, landing on my window sill and staring at me through the glass. I tell him, “I accept you into my heart!” (I don’t even want to begin to unpack the theological issues wrapped up in that phrase) because in my dream, I have learned from movies that that is what you are supposed to say when you meet Santa. I ask my roommate, sitting on the couch behind me, if she can see him, but she can’t. Despite repeated affirmations that I have accepted him, Santa Claus flies away into the snowy sky.

Uhhhh....yeah.

A Rogue By Any Other Name

If I wasn't so enamored with my city-livin', public-transportation-takin' lifestyle, and if I had about $20,000 to burn, I would totally buy this car: the new Nissan Rogue.

I have no idea what kind of gas mileage it gets, nor what its safety/performance ratings are like, nor any of those statistics that a more responsible person would use to judge an automobile. I just really love the name. Rogue. Rogue, rogue, rogue-ity-rogue.

Pedestrian, pointing: "Whose Rogue is that?"
Me, modestly: "That's my Rogue, sir! That's my Rogue."