Haunted Thoughts

This week I went to Knott's Scary Farm with Adam and some friends from work. I've never been a big haunted house fan (I'm a total wuss about scary movies too) but I was willing to try it. Adam said he'd protect me from any monsters, so I felt adequately brave.

I started to wonder about the wisdom of this plan as we stood in a mob of people for nearly an hour waiting to get in the park. No one said "Excuse me" or stepped to the side, no one had anything pleasant to say. A thousand lost souls awaited impatiently to get tickets, every man for himself as we fought to get in and sufficiently terrified.

When we finally got inside the park, I realized that the cute name of "Knott's Scary Farm" was hiding something very different - but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"The actors can't touch you," Adam assured me as a bloody corpse growled at me menacingly. I laughed nervously and just grabbed his strong hand tighter, telling myself it was all just for fun, so what was I getting so worked up about?

Our friends wanted to go to a Haunted House, and I held on to Adam even tighter as we entered "Axe Murderer's Mansion". Typical Haunted House stuff leered from the darkened corners, and I squealed at every boogey man who jumped out at me.

"It's just a guy in a mask," Adam gently assured me, but he couldn't help laughing at my inability to walk more than a step without a shudder. I started to feel rather foolish for my anxiety, but I couldn't shake the feeling. It just wasn't right - and the little voice in my head was begging me to listen. We snuck past a silent banquet table of mutilated manikins, through a bloody child's room, all the while peeking with morbid curiosity into corners filled with traces of violence.

By the time we came out the other side, my skin was clammy and I was feeling foolish for being so adversely affected; by an event treated trivially by literally thousands of people. It was all fake, right? Just people in masks and make-up having innocent fun at our expense - right?

The little voice in my head was screaming by this point. No, it was not innocent. No, it was not fake. In this imitation blood and plastic gore, there was a sinister reality that I couldn't shake. At the time, I couldn't explain why I felt so strongly. When our friends went toward another Haunted House, I just stood and shook my head, feeling foolish but resolute. Adam gently tried to coax me, but I stood my ground. I think he was vaguely surprised that his normally easy-going girlfriend was suddenly so unyielding, but after a second of indecision he told our friends we were going on a roller-coaster and would meet them after.

We went on the ride, and all the while I was warring with myself. Why was this so disturbing to me? I'd like to think that I'm not a complete wuss, but this was one area where even my typically competitive nature was not overriding the voice in my head. It didn't matter what anyone thought or how I was perceived. My spirit was not letting me rest, and it was battling my ego for every inch of ground.

"Just try to be brave," Adam advised. "It's all just for fun - it's fake."

I couldn't explain then, so I just stayed quiet and thought about it. What was getting to me, was not the lack of spiritual things - the fakeness of it all - rather it was from the presence of something deeply spiritual. For why are we drawn to these things anyway? Why do normal people - grocery store clerks, software engineers and steakhouse waitresses - paint their faces and come out in black for a night in celebration of death and dismemberment?

My argument is that people are drawn by the thousands because it speaks to the deepest, darkest parts of our souls. We are spiritual beings, drawn to either darkness or light. We come out in droves to see carefully engineered depictions of death and torture because there is an evil side to us that craves it.

But, Dani. Seriously? You're taking this a little far. It's Halloween. You're just too chicken to enjoy a good scare and understand that it's strictly for entertainment. What's the matter with Knott's Scary Farm? Sounds innocent and fun and a little frightening - but everybody needs to get their blood pumping now and then. Lighten up.

OK. Granted. And I don't take issue with a decent "boo!" or even pranks pulled on us more timid types. There's nothing inherently wrong with that. Here's what really scared me: there is something inherently wrong with the celebration of evil. The combined efforts to get every actor in makeup to appear like a tortured ghoul, every stagecoach in the park to appear as a hearse, every place we turned to be filled with the fog and cold of an unholy fear, took hours upon hours. Innumerable talents and skills - God-given gifts - used for creating representations of violence and dark forces at work.

In Phillipians 4:8 it says:

"Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things." -NASB

The King James version tells us to "think on these things," and Webster's translation calls it "cherishing the thought".

The Tyndale New Testament puts it: "Furthermore brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things pertain to love, whatsoever things are of honest report, if there be any virtuous thing, if there be any laudable thing, those same have ye in your mind."

These words are powerful descriptors. We are told to dwell on, cherish the thought of, and have on our mind anything "pertaining to love, beautiful, true, honest, just, of good report..."

The only thing at Knott's that even came close to being a part of this list was Adam's arms around me when I jumped and his graceful attitude when I announced I was not stepping foot in another haunted house.

A couple of weeks ago our pastor gave a sermon on calling bad things by cute names. He talked about how we rationalize the dark parts of ourselves - simplistically accepting our vices as "perfectionism", "exaggeration" and "shopping a little more than some, but less than others..." rather than a lack of Grace and Love, lying and greed.

In God's Law, however, I have yet to see any "cute-ifying" of sin and ugliness. It is hard for us to see such awful hatred of evil coupled with such beautiful love. We are not accustomed to a power equally given to two opposing passions - so we ignore His anger in favor of the warm fuzzies granted by a loving Savior. While His grace is beyond what any us of deserve; His hatred of sin is also far past our imaginations.

So we flirt with our dark sides, calling them by cute names (Knott's Scary Farm, anyone?) and under-estimating their grip on our spirits, while He cries from heaven, begging us to see the evil around us for what it is and not wallow in our own complacency.

Hebrews 10:19-24 says:
"Therefore, brethren, since we have confidence to enter the holy place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way which He inaugurated for us through the veil, that is, His flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful; and let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds..."

It's hard to seem like a wimp at Halloween. It's hard to "not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind..." (Romans 12:2) It's hard to live in the "new and living way" when the old, dead one is so titillating and widely accepted.

But we are called to "hold fast". To "cherish" the noble thoughts. These would not be commands if they came easily. It takes courage to call bad things bad, and I am as guilty as any of wanting to fit in - to shut off the voice in my head and just throw myself into the moment. It's hard when these words come up: "perfect," "honorable," "praise-worthy" and those uncomfortable ones: "evil" and "sin".

However, I think it's worth it to abstain. I think it's OK to seem a little wimpy and get a couple of weird looks for the reward of obeying the little voice in my head. Besides, when I get scared, I squeal too loud anyway.

Bullfrogs and Comfort Food

Yesterday I woke up with a bit of sniffle, a slightly hoarse voice and just enough sickness to make me feel adequately sorry for myself on my way to work.

Today I sound like a very unhealthy bullfrog and got sent home after three hours of moaning at my desk. After a stop at the store for the necessary sick day items - (O.J., soup, and graham crackers) I came home and crashed.

Honestly though, I have an incredibly hard time with sick days. It feels like such a waste to get a day off to sleep and eat runny food and wish you could do something more interesting besides think about how sick you feel. I have to say that having a nest made it a great deal better though, and I was able to really enjoy having a place all my own to come in and recuperate.

Why is it that we have "sick food" anyway? For me, my comfort food is graham crackers dipped in milk. Whether I'm sad, sick, lonely or just have the munchies, that always sounds good. I'm not usually a big soup eater, but when I'm sick it always sounds good, which is kind of weird. Wouldn't you think that you would crave things that you normally like when sick, instead of reverting to a nasty menu to make being sick even nastier?

I don't get sick that often, but when I do, I'm a total wuss about it. I don't know how to go on with daily life and a sore throat. Really. It's actually quite pathetic.

So there's my running commentary on sickness and Dani and how the two intertwine. Aren't you glad you tuned in?

The Danger of "Nesting"

A lot of things have changed in my life lately. I started a new job, moved into my own apartment after nearly a year living with my grandma, and played flag football all in the space of one week. (OK, so I know that playing football isn't really life-changing news, but every good writer knows the "list of three" concept, and football was all I could think of on the fly. Sorry.)

I'm here to discuss the "nesting" concept. Somewhere in-between the fascination with play houses and her first burnt batch of cookies, every girl realizes her overwhelming need to "nest". We are drawn into the Home section of Target without trying, buy cute homey things that we neither have room for nor can afford, and are constantly attempting new concoctions in the kitchen. And buying soap. ...or maybe that last one is just me.

Anyways, I have my own place now... as in, MY own place. As in, no roommates, just me. As in, paradise/kinda scary at night/very creatively stimulating and nice to come home to after a long work day.

It's a gorgeous little studio in Dana Point, about 20 miles south of where I was living. I have an itty-bitty kitchenette, bathroom and "common area" which will eventually be organized to the point of cuteness. Right now I feel like I'm sleeping in the corner of a storage shed, but I have only lived there for three days. Shelves, sunflowers, and horses will all soon be in their places, never fear.

And after it's "cutified" I will post pictures. Promise. :)

But anyways, now that the details are out of the way... about nesting. My brother Denver says nesting is dangerous, because the next step is "baby fever". I think I'm safe on that front. However, I can definitely agree that nesting is the girlie version of when a guy walks into Home Depot with a project in mind and a list of "but I need this to do that...". Shark-infested waters, baby.

I have wandered dazedly through countless home stores, sighing over adorable hutches to keep all the dishes I don't own, and agonizing over my sad lack of cash. I hold ceramic dishes in my hands in the store, wishing I had an excuse to take them home, idly pet hanging curtains and try out couches that would take up roughly 60% of my apartment if I was stupid enough to give in and buy them.

I get warm fuzzies just by sitting on the couch (thanks, Adam,) and looking over at my kitchen, itty-bitty edition - complete with toaster oven for baking tiny things, (thanks for that, too, Adam, :) a four-cup coffee pot for half my daily consumption, and a microwave to heat up all that my tiny, delicate appetite can handle. (Haha...)

When I'm at work, all I think about is going home, folding clothes and putting up pictures, and when I'm at home, all I do is fantasize about how awesome my bower will eventually be.

So maybe nesting is dangerous, but what's life without a little risk? So what if I spend a little too much on the perfect curtain or buy another mug that I don't need? Give a girl a break... at least I don't want a baby.

Running Observations

So I run almost every day. I say "run" because it sounds so much better than jogging and panting. I usually run the same route, because I'm a creature of habit and I like it, so why change a good thing. Here are some random things I notice along the way:

• There are two cute little houses on Tustin Ave., that when I first started running here about 10 months ago were nothing more than foundations. Now they are live-in-able. That's incredible to me, having spent the better part of a decade building my parent's house in Oregon. Guess things move faster when you have more than a part-time contractor (my dad) and a couple of teenagers (my brother and I) working on a building.
• Open garages are funny to me. I like to peek in and see what people like to do with their spare time. Some people, apparently, just like to clean things. There's one garage in particular whose shop-vac I am constantly tempted to run away with. It's very big and industrial and it even has rollers for the easier rolling up the street and using to clean my car. I'd return it, I promise.
• Another open garage that intrigues me is the Woodworker's. This old fella is constantly sawing, hammering, sanding and talking to his cats. It smells like sawdust and sweat and childhood memories. He always waves at me, and it's one of my favorite houses along the way.
• I don't understand people with large yards and no flowers. Why would you waste a yard with concrete or crab grass or anything but flowers?
• I also don't understand people who keep their blinds closed all the time. How can you stand to be in the dark on beautiful days? And don't you know that looking in is how we get entertainment when we run by?
• Eventually I get out of the neighborhoods and into the Back Bay Wildlife Preserve. This is where I spent much of my childhood, imagining that I was exploring unknown wildernesses, rollerblading, bike-riding and rambling to my heart's content. I still get deja vu sometimes.
• There are a few wealthy people on the hill above the bay who own horses and ride them down the trail. Smelling the distinct horsey smell and hearing the clop of their hooves raises a longing in me I can't describe. Sometimes it makes me homesick and lonesome, sometimes it fills me with euphoria. I always watch as they go by and I'm sure they think I'm just another "slicker" staring out of idle curiosity.
• Men are friendlier joggers than women. They almost always nod, women almost always glare.
• Whenever I see someone running with their dog, it makes me want one. Until I see them stop to clean up said fuzzy pet's business. Then I'm glad I don't have one.
• I think being pushed in a stroller must be the most relaxing thing ever. I have yet to see an even halfway alert baby on the trail. I really wish I could go back and try it, because every little chubby face I see looks supremely content.
• I love my iPod shuffle. Best $75 I ever spent.
• When I finally head back towards home, I run by a house wherein resides a misbehaving little boy named "Danny". His mom is always yelling at him, and I feel like I'm in trouble. Every time.

Muddy Waters

I have fought with myself long and hard over this. I’ve never thought of myself as a work-a-holic, but the strange stagnation of unemployment has assured me that I am one.

When I look through my old journals and into my dreams, I see so many longings. Some that could have been allayed by simply doing something rather than staring misty-eyed into the dusk - some that are just vague longings that I still fear to capture - lest they poof away like a spritely fairy in my hand.

I am always thinking that something should change - that I would be better, more creative, that I would be more beautiful, if only - fill in the blank. As I look back at my life, these mere 23 years, I’m increasingly convinced that all of my blanks have much less to do with my success than I give them credit for.

I have also realized that I am far too focused on my success in the first place. Greatness is not to be grasped. While I suppose it’s accurate to refer to myself as a work in progress, am I relishing the work or just hanging on, hoping, straining and longing for progress - the end result?

I am always gazing around the bend, never content to drink in the joys of this moment, this sunlit stream, these pauses for laughter and reflection. Without even realizing it, I heartlessly rob myself of today because of my lust for tomorrow, and don’t grant myself the pride of a job well done because I always think I could have been better.

I have fought for inspiration for months now. What was once a clear-flowing stream has become a muddy trickle, so full of weeds and contradictions that I’ve grown tired of even looking for the source, the spring-water, but have simply turned my back, leaving my fields to parch and my soul to burn.

I feel so inadequate, even admitting to people out in the world that I aspire to write. “I think I’m kinda creative,” I say with a shrug, and think condescendingly of the many nights I have sat and stared at a blank sheet - or worse, given up completely and zoned out to the mindless blare of the TV.

Every night that I have failed to create I find it harder to go on. I recently read somewhere that men most of the time already know what they are thinking or feeling, and talk about it only to communicate if they feel it’s necessary, where as women often don’t know why they think or feel something and talk about it to figure it out. I suppose I do this from time to time, ( I was recently informed that I talk a lot - I suppose “a lot” being relative.) But I think the deepest part of my “self-discovery” to use a disgustingly narcissistic word, comes from a deeper place than my tongue. Writing and art - for all its challenges and the self-loathing that it inevitably produces - reach the deepest parts of me. I can find places there, with my journal or trusty laptop, that I couldn’t find without sitting down at the blank sheet and opening a vein.

Because of this infernal desire to be perfect, to succeed at the cost of contentment, the blank sheets have piled up and the simple joys of doing what I was meant for has dwindled down. The blank sheet pile has gotten more and more daunting, the water’s gotten muddier, the parched field is looking increasingly desert-like and I am blaming every circumstance and my own ineptitude for what really amounts to a lack of courage.

I don’t have the courage to sit down and write something less than amazing. I am afraid to dip my hand into today’s flowing stream and not compare it to yesterday’s or tomorrow’s, or to bask in the joy of “my best” - at this moment, anyway. No, I cruelly hold myself to the best ever - my best ever. I have to do more, be more, write more - and when my longings are more than my capabilities, or a little more mud gets into the stream than I was hoping for, I lack the strength and courage to dive in anyway. Why can’t I create something a little off-balance? Why can’t I spend an hour writing and let it amount to nothing more than this?

This is not the stuff of great novels. It is not even something that is particularly lucid or inspired or even well-written. But it is awakening.

Something within me has stirred in these last few months. I have realized my inability to live up to my own expectations, and after several wrestling matches with my personal angel, I have learned this:

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.”
~John 15:1-6

Isn’t that beautiful and freeing? It’s not my responsibility to be great, I have no one to impress, no future or past to live up to. I am abiding. To abide is to reside in, to sojourn. These are words of rest and peace and contentment, not contention and perfection.

So today I make a promise. I am abiding. Today. This day’s sunlit stream, this day’s tasks, this day’s challenges, this day’s creativity. Knowing that as a lone branch, all of my striving is pointless, but as a branch connected to the Vine, I am of great value.

All of my blank pages, all of my hopes, fears, and longings are connected to that Vine. That is where I find my contentment and the courage to face the less-than-perfect - the muddy waters.

A Tale of Two Jobs ...er, wait, it's been more than that...

Ah, college. When you're in those dear old halls of higher learning, all that seems to matter is the getting of great grades and getting out. We are assured regularly that as soon as we step out, beyond our campus - with our funny-looking black hat and hard-won diploma in hand - we shall want for nothing. Great jobs will fall from the sky, and employers will be dying to hire such bright and shining new grads, with a gleam in our eyes and the world at our fingertips.

OK.

So maybe nobody ever said exactly that to me, but subconsciously, however much I talked the tough talk of a hard-knock life, I expected something awesome to just kind of... well... happen.

So I packed up my little couch and endless pictures and punching bag and memories, and waved a tearful goodbye to House 9... knowing that as much as it hurt, something great was just around the bend. A year and a half later, I'm still straining to see around the bend, and still hoping against hope for something great.

Today I am stuck in the middle... in-between my heart and my wallet, my dreams and what makes sense, the idea of a career versus being fulfilled in daily life. None of these questions have been answered for me. I have found with certainty what I absolutely do not want to do with my life, (Thank you, LA Times...) but beyond that, I swing strangely between the desire to do something great and memorable, and the simple desire to get off early enough to go kayaking before sunset.

This week I'll be making a choice about which direction my life goes. I know that I'm being rather dramatic, but I believe that all of our little choices affect the big picture. I also know that He hasn't led me this far to leave me... and no matter how many other jobs I take, or where this bend leads, I can rest in knowing that, ultimately, I'm not really in charge here.

And once you get past the scary part, that's actually a comforting thought.

The Wonderful Thing That Is Escapism

The TV blares the evening news from the next room, informing us all of the earth-shattering new discoveries that exercise is good for you and politicians lie. My cell phone goes off, again, reminding me that I am not as hard to find as I wish, I hear the teenage girl next door giggling to her boyfriend, and the neighbor’s dog lets out a lonesome howl that was rather pathetic a month ago and is now just annoying.
When I leave the house, I am reminded, (as though I could ever forget,) that I share this place with a gersquillion other people, and some of them aren’t very nice. They honk and do the one-fingered “California wave” (haha) in the car, glare at you in line at the store, and talk loudly on their cell phones in public places, as though you really want to hear about their “f***ing ex”.
I’m a country girl at heart, so sometimes I get a little over-stimulated by so much noise. Sometimes I just need to get out and away... which is why Monday (Labor Day) was the best day EVER.
As the aforementioned country girl, I am also a total morning person, so I was really excited to start my day relatively early with a big travel mug of coffee and a pretty drive to Dana Point. Adam and I loaded up his kayak and went to Dana to rent one for me... and proceeded to spend the next couple hours kayaking from Dana Harbor, out beyond the Jetty (and into some pretty big swells, mind you - Thanks, Henriette.) and back in. A couple of guys from Adam’s work and small group came too, and it was beautiful, sunny, idyllic... and balm for my poor over-stimulated soul.
After having our kayaking itch sufficiently scratched for the day, we had to have fish tacos. It was just the thing to do, after having been on the ocean all morning, to feast from it’s bounty. :) And oh holy jeez. Pedro’s Fish Tacos might just be the best I’ve ever had. After a full tummy and the lull of the FedEx Cup... (Adam likes to watch golf, which to me is the equivalent of watching grass grow - but nice to nap to.) I promptly fell asleep.
However, we couldn’t sleep for long with the knowledge that the Pacific Ocean and its accompanying sandy beaches were waiting all of a block away - soon we had towels, magazines, sunglasses and a body board in tow and were headed for more sand and surf.
After enough hours in the sun and salt on our bodies to make us human jerky, we headed back home for showers and clean clothes and the Bourne Ultimatum, which was a fantastic finish to one of my all-time favorite book/movie storylines. Thank you, Robert Ludlum, for being a genius, and thank you, Matt Damon, for being insane. Wow. I had been waiting for this for a while, and it was so very worth it.
So that was my Labor Day. Probably the best 12 hours of the whole summer.