As Close as I Want to Be

It's October, and I'm missing campaign season.  Or rather, I am not missing it.  No disappointment here.

I seem to get plenty of updates via friends' Facebook posts and the news pieces I come across in my journalism studies.  And even though I can't watch debates live (unless I want to fight sleep from 2-4am), I find that there are multiple updates the next morning, conveniently summarized with all the pertinent highlights.  Nothing lost (except for maybe the experience of wanting to get those couple hours of my life back, had I actually watched it live).

What I am escaping are all the automated phone calls with their pre-election polls.  Yard signs littering the neighborhood streets in silent battles between contending candidates and their supporters.  Loads of third class mail from the party and others, making extra sure you get yourself to the polls on November 6th.  Mudslinging ads on television and radio, all day long.

What I am not missing is the experience of voting.  Granted, via a paper form and an air mail envelope instead of an electronic booth inside a church near my old house.  And I won't be enjoying any of the baked goods that are always for sale by those church people every year on election day.  Nor will I get my little sticker which proudly announces, "I voted today!" for all to see.

But I will still exercise my duty as a citizen, and cast my vote which I'm hoping will make a tiny dent in the returns of a highly contested "swing state."  And I will be able to answer to all my family and friends, who seem to be giving me no end of pestering, wondering if I have/am planning to/remembered to vote yet???

I'll make my best effort to catch the returns as they come in on the 6th, staying awake as long as I am able, in order to know whom the U.S. has chosen to carry out the unenviable task of leading our nation through the next four years.

But I have no regrets that this election season, I am blissfully shielded from all the nuisance of signs, fliers, ads and unsolicited phone recordings.  As much as I miss a delicious Midwest Autumn, I suppose in the end, it's not a bad tradeoff.


---
overseas voter
avoiding all the hassle
but not the duty

Wild City Life

A pigeon nearly got a free ride from Aldgate to Uxbridge yesterday morning.  Only a day after I recall having the thought, "With all the birds wandering around this platform, I wonder if one has ever gotten on the train," there, as if on cue, was the little gray adventurer--brave or stupid?--hopping his way through the carriage as though scoping out the best seats.  A fellow passenger also noticed, and we joined in an unspoken pact to save this pigeon from his own foolishness.

I opened the train doors, as we were merely sitting at the platform waiting for departure several minutes hence.  Tried to steer him toward the open door.  Of course, this just made him move further down the carriage.  I thought at this point that my efforts were in vain, so I gave up, saying "Stupid bird--he's going to Uxbridge," and sat down, in an uncharacteristically un-heroic gesture from one who routinely chases flies and moths around the room just to capture and release them back to nature.

My fellow passenger, however, was more tenacious and managed to encourage the stowaway back towards--and out of--the waiting door.  I gave her a nod of approval and then felt slightly foolish for giving up so soon.

It got me thinking about wildlife in urban areas, London specifically.  I'd heard much about the foxes which apparently plague the city, but didn't see one for months.  And then, within the space of several weeks I spotted a couple out my window in the early morning, and one literally by the side of the pavement looking not so well.  Some neighbors were calling for assistance.

I've always felt ambivalent about this issue of wildlife in cities.  Even not so urban streets that cut through major animal traffic areas and leave a legacy of carnage strewn along the roadside--I ask myself what right have we to motor our vehicles at top speed through the places which once allowed critters to roam freely and safely (that is, until another predator snatched them up, I suppose).  Still, these things bother me.

Here in London, it is mostly pigeons that one encounters, although I have seen squirrels around Harrow, and magpies and a few other small bird species almost anywhere there's a green space.  And if one goes South to Brighton or other seaside towns, you will find the most aggressive seagulls you've ever encountered.  While roaming Hampstead Heath, I even saw some rats (the cousins of whom can be spotted on Underground tracks between train arrivals).

I suppose as long as humans insist upon settling and building on formerly natural areas, we are destined to share our home with the wilder element.  In some ways I don't mind all that much.  In fact, I rather like the spontaneity it affords when a butterfly unexpectedly breezes across my path or a gull provides free entertainment by dive-bombing an unsuspecting visitor's open food tray.

Or when a pigeon makes a valiant, yet ultimately unsuccessful attempt to accompany me on my tedious morning commute.


---
avian rider,
is going by Underground
faster than flying?

Getting schooled

After 13 years away, Wendy is back in one of her favorite roles: student.  And while this MA Broadcast Journalism program I'm studying isn't all that easy, for me, being in school is.

I'm one of those people who could probably be a student forever.  For better (expanding world) or for worse (diminishing finances), it's a role that's always felt natural to me, from those early days of kindergarten right up through my last degree.

When many of my seminary classmates were whining about "having to spend one more year on campus," (following internship) rather than going out immediately into professional ministry, I was that annoying one who relished being back in academia and secretly hoped it would never end.

When I was serving in campus ministry, I would get a little pang of longing each fall when the new year started, half wishing I were the one carrying that backpack and heading off to class.

Now that I'm back in the classroom, even at age 41, I still feel a sense of belonging here.  Something about me was born to study, participate in discussions, and explore new worlds.  This broadcast program is especially stimulating as we are actively doing projects, learning new software and equipment, and taking on group tasks which simulate the work of a journalist.  It's lively, fun, and plenty challenging for my tastes.  And my classmates are the most diverse group with whom I've ever studied--hailing from many countries around the world and providing perspective as well as hilarity on a daily basis.  I love them all.

I realize that this world of school is not meant to last forever.  Unlike those who make their living through instruction or some other role within the institution, for me this will only be a passing season.

But for the time being, that oddly ageless looking girl looking just a little too comfortable toting her backpack down those halls is me.


---
a student of life
sounds a little better than
a student for life

The Things We Do for Love

Philo is lucky he's a cat. In human terms, his behavior would be entirely unacceptable. Whining loudly at all times of day, sometimes just to hear his own voice, noisily trying to "bury" food bowls after mealtimes, walking across my internal organs in the most painful way possible--these things do not endear him to me. He also taunts his little sister by pretending that he's grooming her (which she loves), and then, after a few licks, begins to nip at her (which she hates). You'd think she'd learn.

But Philo has a way of getting what he wants. Whether it's attention and affection on demand, a perch with a view, or a spot in bed with someone he barely knows (oh, for the courage!), he just has an approach that works. It worked on me.

This cat appeared out of nowhere (i.e. the South Dakota prairie) late one rainy Saturday night. After a brief meowing session outside the window I happened to be closing, and a less than graceful introduction wherein he soiled my clothing with his dirty wet paws, this wandering minstrel secured a place on my back porch, complete with dining, bed and bath suite. And this, at the end of a week where I had assuredly declared that after the death of my first beloved cat three months prior, I was certainly not ready for another. Philo apparently heard it as a challenge.

His first night indoors (on the eve before his neutering surgery) became a sleep-deprived, prolonged yowling session which eventually found me curled up in the bathtub, door closed, pillows shoved against both ears while Philo ran frantically from window to window. This could have been the first indication that domestic life with this animal was not going to be a walk in the park.

His mood did settle somewhat after the surgery, but I suspected he knew very little of indoor life when he would recline alongside his food dish, tipping a few pellets onto the floor with his paw, and eating them from there. He also seemed inept at lapping water from a bowl, choosing instead to submerge the entire lower half of his mouth and coming away with a dripping chin (which earned him the nickname "Waterbeard.")

These things may sound unspeakably cute to the reader who has never heard the high volume monologues at 5am, or the unearthly screams on trips to the vet, all for the crime of loading his carrier into a moving vehicle or attempting to examine his teeth. And I do mean screams.

But it would be unfair not to credit Philo for his amusing habit of vocalizing with every leap and motion, his fearless exploration of any new environment, and the affectionate overtures he universally bestows, which earned him a name referring back to the Greek word for love.

Obviously, in spite of his ill-timed yeowling (which I was privileged to experience again this morning), this cat has earned a permanent place in my household. He eventually accepted--even loved--the little sister kitten I brought into his life without asking permission. He has never once complained that we've moved no fewer than six times during his fourteen years with me. And despite the faceful of fur he frequently presents, I wouldn't trade that possessive, protective paw that lays across me as I sleep--not for anything.


---
what is in a name?
for my furry loverboy,
a title well-earned

Go On with Your Dusty Self

I have always appreciated the depth of an Ash Wednesday. Growing up, having those ashes smeared on my forehead and those ominous words spoken over me--the morbid part of me loved it. As a pastor, the gravity of saying those same words to newborns and seniors alike is both humbling and sobering, smearing ash on each and every head that presents itself.

And then, the dilemma. Shall I intentionally avoid "practicing my piety before others" and wash off the smudge before travelling home? Or should I stop being so vain and concerned with what others think, and simply keep the outward sign of the mortality that's always with me as a visible mark for a short while? This year I chose the latter, although as soon as I stepped out of the church building, I instantly regretted it.

First, I was aware that I was looking down, away, anywhere but at people's faces so that the mark wouldn't be readily noticed. Then I noticed my relief when we were all facing the same way, as when we rode the down escalator to the tube platform, as it meant I didn't have to make eye contact. Then I wished I'd just worn a blasted hat which I could've pulled down far enough to make it a non issue. What was I thinking? I'd have been better off just washing the mark away before leaving, rather than doing this ridiculous internal dance and external avoidance.

As I sat waiting for the train at the FAR end of the platform, she walked past me. A woman--I didn't look at her. But I felt her looking at me. Oh great, I thought, she's noticed the smudge and is now staring at me like the freak that I am. I will not look back. I will not give her the satisfaction. I will continue looking ahead, as if I haven't noticed her staring.

Train arrives. We both board, and I am dismayed to notice that she stands opposite me, alongside the doors where I could avoid nearly every face on board. I can still feel her stare, and it aggravates me so much I decide to just look up. I meet her eyes, which are smiling warmly at me. She gives me a look of knowing, of compassion or kinship or both. I instantly return the smile. And I feel ashamed.

How often do I jump to conclusions about people and their intentions toward me? How often do I judge myself first, before anyone else has a chance to, or to at least be able to say "I already knew that" should I meet with criticism? I hated that smudge the instant I set foot outside my church; it sat smugly ashen and dirty upon my forehead as though it represented every secret undesirable fault I contained. The things I walk around with and pretend I'm hiding from the world. And all those things which everyone else carries around, irrationally thinking they're the only ones who could possess such faults, such imperfections, such dark secrets and desires.

To dust we shall return--all of us. And we believe we bear the imperfection of our nature all alone, until some brave soul dares to look us in the eye, to share a common moment, to say without words "I know who you are."

Remember: you are dust. There's no judgment in it. It's just a truth about who you are, and actually, it's perfect. And when you choose to just love your dusty old self, instead of walking around, cast down in self-loathing, you may look up long enough to see the world--that crazy imperfect world--loving you back.



---
ashes to ashes
imperfection knows its own
and can't help smiling

Pond Jumping

So here I am. When people ask, "Why London?" my answer is usually, "Why not?!" Yes, I dreamed of living here as a child. And I've loved it both times I visited, wishing I could stay longer. But in the end, it's like this: I was driving to Iowa last summer, feeling confronted by my lackluster life, and longing to create something new, when I found myself saying out loud, "I want to move to London."

If you've ever tried this, you know how dangerous it is to actually speak something out loud. Even if there's no one else around, you can't pretend you didn't hear yourself say it. And as soon as I heard it, something shifted inside me. It's a shift I recognize from a few other times in my life, like when I found I'd be living in Hong Kong after college. Or when I knew I wanted to become a cat-mom. Big, life-changing things. :) But you "know" in a way that doesn't come with too many reasons or explanations.

In the year I spent planning and preparing for this move, I met a number of UK-born folks whose dream it was to make a new life in the U.S. These connections were especially precious, as we had an instant kinship. Of course I wanted to move to England. What's to explain?

But then I got to thinking--what is it with those of us who seem bent on living somewhere other than the country of our birth? A restlessness? A crazy notion that everything will be better "over there?" An irrepressible sense of adventure or simply boredom with the familiar?

The closest I can come to an explanation, for those who require one, is that I moved to London for love. And now that I'm here, that notion is confirmed every day: double decker red buses, centuries old houses converted to apartments, rose gardens and gilded trash cans, a ridiculous number of different coin denominations, screen-less windows, polite nods and more tea towels than any one person could ever use. Even when this place drives me crazy, I still can't get enough of it.

And isn't that, my friends, what love truly is?


---
american in london
united states--or kingdom
finds herself at home

A year well seasoned

The groundhog is a big fat liar.

Granted, I never put much stock in the weather predicting abilities of rodents, but in the dismal chill of early February, any bit of good news is cause for hope. A woodchuck or a meteorologist? Take your pick--the accuracy is about the same. But here in the dismal chill of late March, my patience begins to run thin...

Except for two years in subtropical Asia, I have always lived in a climate with discernible, contrasting seasons. The changes in temperature, weather, and vegetation have marked chapters in my life, as well. I like the variance--it keeps things fresh for a girl addicted to change. But I do have one complaint. At least here in the Great Lakes region (and also the Midwest where I grew up), the seasons aren't of proper length. Winter and summer test our patience with their extremes of temperature and duration, while the lovely, temperate Spring and Fall seem to get up and excuse themselves right when you were enjoying their company the most.

I have some advice for the seasons, if they're interested in being appreciated to the fullest possible extent: keep within the bounds of three months a piece. It's only fair.

Just imagine...just as Fall has run its course at November's end, Winter tantalizes us with that first dusting of snow, building up to an oh so cozy White Christmas. Even the worst of cold weather critics couldn't object to a predictable period of snow and ice through February, where at least we have some holiday diversions to occupy our attention. A snow day or two is a nice novelty... Then, just as we're feeling proud of our winter endurance--

March arrives! Enter Spring, with mud and flowers and new buds and crazed wildlife. Never was an old friend more welcome, with the advent of baseball, fresh air, and increased sunlight--thawing hearts along with the ground. Now imagine THREE SOLID MONTHS of this heaven...with what cheer would we welcome the next season, having had our fill of planting, wooing, and three-quarter length sleeves...

Summer would arrive in timely fashion, right as the school year ends, and vacation plans begin. Sure, the weather would be hot, but is that not expected in June, July and August? A few months to show off the fruits of winter workouts (right?!) and float through the outdoor festival season in gauzy threads (okay, perhaps that's just me...). But you get the idea. And a little heat provides an excellent opportunity for us Midwesterners to do something we're really skilled at: complain about the heat. Can you even remember what winter felt like? I think these must be record temperatures. Time to get out the Slip 'n' Slide. (or insert your favorite complaint here). We gotta give the people what they want. And anyway, you won't have to hear it for very long, because everyone would be assured that once September arrived, we'd be securely in the arms of...

Aaaaahhhh, Autumn. As it's my favorite, I saved it for last. For me, the smells, tastes, and sights of this season are the sweetest and most savory. I could live in Fall for quite some time. But even pumpkins, bonfires, and crunching colored leaves have their limit--imagine eating crème brûlée every day. Would it not lose some of its charm? And so, I'd be satisfied with three full months of Autumn delights, feeling I'd had a proper serving of enchantment, sufficient to see me through the dormant days to come.

Well, seasons, what do you think? A fair enough proposal? You each get three equal months in which to wow us with your splendors. And just as we reach the tipping point, you gently exit, a wistful "see you next year" in your wake. We get the benefit of missing you, and you leave feeling fully appreciated. So what do you say?

The stillness of a 23° March morning seems to be the only reply.

-------

My perfect design

Of well-apportioned seasons:

Everybody wins

To sleep, perchance...

The earliest dream I can remember was somewhere around age 4 or 5. A faithful watcher of the Donny & Marie Show, I once dreamt I met Donny Osmond--in person! I couldn't believe he was standing right there in front of me, and as he reached out to shake my hand, in that instant--poof! I woke up. :( My disappointment could hardly be contained.

The phenomenon of dreaming fascinates me, and I have often recalled these night time adventures in great detail. I still have vivid memories of a "giant spider" who haunted me after I watched some scary Disney movie about a predatory octopus. Or the eerie incident where classrooms in my school were collapsing, one by one, into the hollow courtyard below. But the dreams weren't all bad.

There was the heart to heart I shared with Jim Carrey--and felt like I really knew him upon waking. Or the infants I held--with amazement--in my arms, somehow "knowing" they were mine, even during a time in my life when I was convinced I didn't want children. But one of my all time favorites happened when I was a high schooler, just before waking one morning.

I'm walking down the hallway of my school, between classes, nothing special. Suddenly, and for no particular reason, I begin singing the opening lines to Barry Manilow's "Daybreak." Now, even though I was a bit of a Manilow geek, even I was surprised that I seemed to have no trouble whatsoever recalling every word. As the song progressed, other students joined in, also knowing all the words. The event culminated in a highly choreographed, almost "flash mob-esque" finale, set against the double staircase on the second floor--all executed perfectly. And then, when the last notes were over, everyone simply continued on to their next class, books in hand, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

My first thought upon waking was, "That was weird. But kind of cool." As I lay in bed, delaying the inevitable morning routine, my clock radio announced, "Before that we heard Barry Manilow's 'Daybreak'..." And then it all made sense to me. But somehow that made it even cooler--a dream with a soundtrack!

As for recurring dreams, I've only ever had two. In the first, I am searching frantically for a public restroom (this is in the early morning hours, so not too much of a mystery, I suppose...), but always find it too be just a little too public -- as in, rows of toilets with no dividers, or an open-air design, facing a busy freeway. The dilemma is always, how badly do I really need to go?!

The second recurring dream is much more satisfying--I am flying, on my own power. At first, it's usually a bit of a slow start, as I question how this is gravitationally possible. But I always end up just going with it, somehow propelling myself upward, over trees, neighborhoods, cities. And the feeling is pure exhilaration, and a sense of "I knew I could do this."

I have read a little about dream interpretation. But my own "school" goes something like this: generally speaking, a dream is rarely an omen, nor a deep symbolic mystery to be unraveled. Rather, the predominant sensation or emotion one experiences in the dream is simply a reflection of what's already going on in waking life. This applies nearly every time I try it on. Even if the actual circumstances in the dream look nothing like "real" life, chances are the feelings do.

Still, analyzing a dream almost seems irrelevant--just as a former roommate of mine used to muse that naming and identifying stars and galaxies took the wonder and mystery out of night sky gazing. Perhaps. Better to let the dream world be what it is--a temporary escape from the "logical" day to day world where one hour follows the next, somewhat predictably, and the laws of physics--for the most part--apply.

After all, where else can you meet your favorite celebrities, defy gravity, and star in your own music video--all in one night?!

----

nocturnal dramas...

you may say I'm a dreamer

and you would be right

A rock by any other name...

I just bought pajamas with clouds on them. They practically reached out with their little ruffled sleeves and dragged me to the checkout counter, so cute are they. It wasn't until after getting them home that it struck me--half of my chosen Chinese name is "cloud!" So it was a deeper, more primal urge that inspired this purchase. (I know, whatever helps me sleep at night, right?)

But it got me thinking about names again. The names we're given, and the ones we choose. (And, I suppose, the ones we reject). As a newborn, I defied both of the names pre-selected for me-Amy and Jill--by simply not looking like either of them. (I guess a mother just knows these things.) ;) The story told to me goes something like this. Neither choice being suitable, my mother settled down to a well-deserved post delivery nap. Upon waking, in that inspired place between sleep and full consciousness, she suddenly knew what my name would be--Wendy Sue! And so it was. I like to believe that I was telling her who I really was, in my own pre-verbal way. :) Or perhaps I give myself too much credit...

Nonetheless, I ended up with a name which, although not technically existing before the publication of Peter Pan, has subsequently been interpreted to mean "wanderer." A more appropriate title for me there could not be. :)

I have wandered the globe, the US, even the contours of my own mind and spirit during the 39 years I've spent on this planet. You might even say that it's a hallmark of my life not to stay put. The past nine years in Toledo have been the longest consecutive stretch of time I've lived in any one place. Ever. And so the Wanderer lives up to her name...

My name expanded after a two year residence in Hong Kong, where I learned that Westerners often adopt a Chinese name for themselves. My former neighbor, who had knowledge of the language, assisted me in selecting mine, which combines the characters for "cloud"- 雲 and "stone"- 石. It illustrates what I see as the essential paradox of my life: remaining stable and grounded, while maintaining the free spirit to wander. A related internet alias I've sometimes used is Petra, playing on the "rock" theme from a borrowed Greek word.

Other cultures make much more of names and their meanings than my own does. But as one who loves significance in all forms, I'm satisfied with my chosen monikers. And grateful that I have a mother who, upon realizing that her baby had other ideas, happily cooperated with the inspiration of the moment.

-----

an aspiration

to roam the earth, while solid--

that's what's in a name

T.G.I.M.

I have never been a workaholic. In seminary, we were repeatedly cautioned against getting out of balance with our time management, and not knowing when to take a break. Even as I heard these warnings, I knew it would never be a problem for me. That's just not how I roll.

In fact, I may err more on the side of taking it easy. I have always been conscious of healthy boundaries, and encourage others to do the same (with varying degrees of success). I like to think that what I have to offer is a mindfulness of leisure and sabbath time, something which is sometimes lacking in my more motivated peers.

Throughout my post academic life, whenever I've been employed full-time, I've guarded and cherished my day off. Because most of those years have involved some sort of ministry, it happens that I've declared my own "sabbath" day--usually a Monday or Friday.

Now, however, I find myself in a half-time employment situation. For the first few months on the job, I neglected to take a "day off," figuring that half time hours would allow for plenty of down time. The time I wasn't working my job, however, was being filled with household and other obligations, volunteering, seeking further employment, etc. What I noticed was a growing resentment as the weekend approached, and I realized that I would be working through it (as pastors do), and then going straight into the next week with no real break in sight.

I soon recognized what was missing: a true "sabbath" day, just as I had always observed. Even part time pastors need a day off--go figure. :)

And so Monday has become, once again, a little oasis each week. I may get things done around the house; I may not. The point is, I don't beat myself up for it either way. Mostly, I'm enjoying what there is to enjoy: time with my furry housemates, good conversation, tasty morsels, an occasional massage, or idle web surfing.

And once again, order has been restored to my week.

-----

A day's refreshment

Joy not to be overlooked

Thank God it's Monday!