Tükin It

If you had told me, after receiving my first ever blog comment here on April 5, 2007, that Stephen and his best friend would be walking with me to Central Park's Strawberry Fields in honor of the 30th anniversary of John Lennon's death on December 8, 2010, I would have... furrowed my brow and chuckled.

But I suppose stranger things have happened :)

***
ONE WEEK!

God Moving Over the Face of the Daughters

^*Waters, hehe. But my version of the title is still applicable, and when I think of it that way when I listen to it, it makes even more sense. Also, if you've ever heard it (Moby's the artist), you may recognize that the base chords are the same ones used in the resolution music in Inception. And yes, the chords make me teary-eyed in both venues.

By the way, I did mean "base" and not "bass." I'm still a homonym whiz--don't you fret!

***

Soooo I didn't make it over to the park this morning. My workload is quite ridonkulous; I feel the need to skip church, if that gives you any idea. I will still find time to write today, and I hope you're excited! Because your expectance is the only thing holding me accountable. That and I'm worried about how complacent I've been with not writing.

Oh, I never told you how I recognized my complacency. I was sitting in church during worship and heard clear as day, "Why aren't you writing?" It wasn't audible... I haven't had that privilege yet, but it did hit me like a sack of flour. Why aren't I writing? Why aren't I exercising the one God-given skill I phrase as "God-given" because of the dire purpose and calling it has cemented in me? So yeah. One of those "Good question, God"s. Go figure?

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Reading The God I Don't Understand: Reflections on Tough Questions of Faith by Christopher J. H. Wright for a book review for Old Testament Literature. It ties right into the Problem of Evil lecture Professor Rabinowitz (messianic Jews for the win) gave on Tuesday. I'm really enjoying it.

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I don't care if you have as much protein as an egg, GoLean Kashi cereal. You still taste like tree bark.

Happy Sunday, lovely people! And hey, lest you forget: God is good God is good God is good.

Just warn me when forever starts to end

Hey, this posting-every-day thing is growing on me. Like a period on the end of a web-surfing sentence as I head off to bed. You know I found a relatable image to share:

Eh, that's a text. Whatevs. Also, I'm only about 12% heart at this point. I read this post today about a friend of a friend who can't help but dream, can't help but imagine what could be out of what seems as though it shouldn't have been. He can't help but extend an inkling into forever. All my coping mechanism inklings are extending into forever, which will lead to coping forever. No, not coping. After a certain point, the coping will be over. A new forever is running in my direction.

I'm going to go write in Central Park on Sunday! Expect pictures and an actual piece! Hold me to it!

Student blip: got an A- on a project that's worth 20% of my grade in a class I have a C in :) that's a happy feeling.

Now here's a picture:

Cheers, all.

Veddy Interesting

***

I've been watching some Woody Allen movies. I wrote a review of Manhattan; I really enjoyed it. I'd always heard of Woody Allen but never actually watched his works. It only took watching one more (Hannah and Her Sisters) to realize how transparent Allen is. He's a talented movie machine, but he's transparent. His movies center, from what I can tell, around justifying man's inability to defy his own whims. Allen's personal life seems to be whim-coated... I've never heard of another man who married the adopted daughter of his girlfriend of twelve years. Says his 23-year-old son, Ronan Farrow: "He's my father married to my sister. That makes me his son and his brother-in-law. That is such a moral transgression. I cannot see him. I cannot have a relationship with my father and be morally consistent...."

“The heart wants what it wants. There’s no logic to those things. You meet someone and you fall in love and that’s that," said Allen. Allen's movies' relationships are plagued with extramarital affairs and disconcerting age differences. He portrays people as having no control over who they love. That's preposterous.

Years ago I heard someone say "love is a choice." Oh! It was an older couple on Oprah. She asked them how they'd stayed in love for so long, and they said that every night, they'd write each other a letter about what about their spouse they were thankful for that day. Both said the letters were easier to write some days than others, which makes total sense. But no matter what, days full of tension and conflict ended in letters of genuine gratitude.

This reminds me of Ephesians 4:26: "Do not let the sun go down on your anger." An Anonymous offered "Happiness is a choice." Emotions are controllable. Okay, perhaps not controllable, but it's choice that transforms anger into contentment and distaste into love. It's the choices people are unwilling to make that limit our emotions. Heck, there are hundreds of choices I am unwilling to make. There are people who will always provoke that facial expression many of you know and love... and I don't care to change my opinion of many of them.

I've spoken with many friends about their discouragement concerning "not being able to help who they love." I don't know how to convince them that what they're experiencing is a lack of will. In the same way that loving a spouse and expressing that love for them is a choice the opposite spouse makes, an unfaithful spouse chooses to refrain from using self control and discernment.

This is a difficult claim to make because so many people marry people they shouldn't have married in the first place. All I'm saying is that marriages that work forever work forever because both people chose to love. I understand "marriage takes work" is not a new idea. Controlling love isn't even a new idea. But not many people have it.

Ideal love doesn't feel like a choice. Ideal love requires no self control. Ideal love is temporary. But the permanent stuff--yep, I'm going there--is worth working for.

***

"One last chance

to say goodbye,

no I-love-yous hanging

on our lips

like bad weeks of the year."

Up and Up

first of all: HAHAH^

second of all: lots of uncertainty in my head

third of all: today has been a good day.

that's gonna happen more often.

D: God is good God is good God is good!

Curses and Blessings

I could not possibly say all I've been thinking right now. My mind is a whirlpool. Cess pool, maybe.

Here's a snippet: I see what God's doing by removing control from me. He's making me squirm and retraining where I turn. I've prayed more and trusted more and gleaned more wisdom in the past week than in the rest of my life combined. Now the name of the game is to fend off spiritual warfare and resentment when I ask God for peace and don't find any. I always used to find it there.

I know he knows what's best for me, and I trust that that will be revealed to me in my lifetime.

I wish I could peek into what's best for me and rest assured that it's the same thing I yearn for.

I wish I could control what I yearn for. I can't control it, but I do think it's changing.

If you're reading this--hello.

If you're not--well that's exactly the thing I'm supposed to get used to now, huh.

God is good God is good God is good. Say it with me: God is good God is good God is good...

Essay 8

[Dad suggested I post some essays I've written for class, and I think it's a good idea. The only writing I do is for class, but I plan on changing that. I wrote this on October 22nd.]

Essay 8

“You’ll really like this,” Gina said. “You talk the same way she does.” She passed Joan Didion’s essay “Goodbye to All That” over the top bunk where I sat with my laptop and lunch.

I was staring out the window, thinking. I could see 33rd Street from where I sat—the legendary Macy’s sign, a street sign boasting “Broadway,” and hundreds of tiny New Yorkers masterfully responding to the glowing white stick men beckoning them forward. I thought of the relative ease with which I’d adapted to the crossroads of the world. I thought of what I’d rather see through my bedroom window. I thought of the boy I would not marry in the spring.

I fell asleep in my first class and barely spoke in the second. People asked me what was wrong, and I did not know. I wondered what it would be like if people expected me not to talk. I considered bailing on my dinner date with Gina; I doubted a trip to Brooklyn would foster peace of mind.

Later that night, we emerged from the Bedford Street subway station, turning our heads from side to side—deciding which corner to turn mirrored a Choose Your Own Adventure, and we relished in it. My eyes widened at the sight of a record store called Earwax Vinyl, and I nearly caused a bicycle crash in my haste to explore it. I’d only made it halfway across the street when the lights went out. The deadbolt turned. The sign changed its mind and told me, “Sorry, We’re Closed.”

“Ooh, major buzzkill!” Gina exclaimed. “It’s just your luck.” I kept my pained agreement to myself.

Gina was on the prowl for genuine red velvet cake, and I figured a bakery selling such was bound to sell something with chocolate and peanut butter. We leapt at the word Café and wandered blissfully into those with curb appeal. We walked into one but were underwhelmed and continued on. Brooklyn is, after all, the New York movies rave about. We knew not to settle.

I felt an immediate connection to Verb Café. Any café named after a part of speech earns a tiny section of my heart. They didn’t have red velvet cake, so we split a piece of chocolate-peanut butter cake. In true wannabe-connoisseur fashion, I took note of their espresso bar. No one understood my delight as I ran my fingers across a gold-plated La Marzocco logo. La Marzocco espresso bars are coffee culture celebrities, but when the cappuccino I ordered disappointed me, my daylong muse on success took a hit like a record takes a scratch. My hope to master this city and culture and career faded gently as the song would, skipping beats in an endearing way. I dread that the endearing will, as a lost lover’s pet name does, eventually grow intolerable.

I wrestled with identity that night. I wondered to what extent I knew Didion’s despair. I wondered if someone will someday remove me from this city—remove me from this Promised Land to all those who wanderlust. I used to know what comes next, but that path was drawn in sand.