Category Archives: Musings of the Mind

An Important Lesson

Photo on 9-11-14 at 2.29 PMSo the other day I failed a quiz. Completely and utterly failed it. For me, a competitive spirit, that was hard. I took one look at the statistic questions and knew I couldn’t do it. In my defense, the teacher hadn’t even assigned homework on the material covered in the quiz. So I sat there and turned my mind towards the questions I could answer. “God, calm my nerves” was my prayer. Fighting back tears I tried to do what I could until my professor came over and said, “You’re out of time.”

The funny thing is, I have don’t think I have ever failed before. Not in school. Not in anything. Sure, I’ve messed some things up, but I’ve never failed. One of my job interview questions was “tell me about a time you’ve failed. What did you do about it and what did you learn from it?” I didn’t really have a good answer. I guess I do now. Well, I failed a test because I didn’t do the homework because it wasn’t assigned yet. I studied like crazy. And I learned to ALWAYS overachieve. Okay, maybe not overachieve, but work hard.

Honestly, I think this failure was a good wake up call. A call saying “Hey. Yeah, you’re smart but don’t slack! You can still mess up. You can even fail. But you can get back up again.”

Ixtapa, Mexico

About a week ago, I went on my tenth vacation with my grandparents, brother and cousins. Shout out to my grandparents who have taken us all from the time I was six. I’m so thankful for the opportunity they gave me to travel. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have been very many places. But I’m thankful for something even more important: the opportunity they gave us grandkids to get to know each other. My cousins are like my siblings. And I’m so happy for the relationship I have with them.

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We ended the ten year streak with a bang: Mexico. We stayed at a Club Med resort in Ixtapa on the Pacific. Needless to say it was beautiful, and don’t even get me started on the food. Amazing. We met people from all around the US, France, Canada, and Mexico (wasn’t expecting that last one, were ya?). Plus I got to do one of my favorite things: the trapeze!

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But a resort really isn’t my scene. I knew this from previous vacations, but it really stood out on this one. The third day there I was actually rather upset. Not angry, but sad and confused. You see, I didn’t fit in with any of the people I met. Their lives, their goals, their way of talking was so far from what I valued. Yeah, some of them were fun, but I felt completely out of place. It wasn’t that their conversation made me feel uncomfortable, but I didn’t know how to contribute. I mean, what was I supposed to add to their stories of getting drunk and the parties or clubs they’ve snuck into? So on that third morning I took my journal and found a nice spot on the beach to think.

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I also was pondering a question that one guy had asked me the night before, “So what is your friend group? Like what category do your friends fit in and how do you play into that?” I wasn’t sure how to answer because I had never thought about it before. I think I said something to the effect of, “I think all my friends are clever in one way or another. I respect their opinions, and they make me change.” That is true, but I wasn’t sure how I fit into the picture. I wasn’t sure who I was in my friend group because some of my friends are polar opposites.

So I thought. After about an hour on the beach, I realized why I was feeling so awkward around these people at the resort, and who I was with my friends.

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I was used to being the “crazy” one. I’m the most wild. I dance the craziest. I’m not sure how to describe it exactly, and if you were to ask my friends, they could very well disagree, but to me that is the role I play. I didn’t even realize I played a role until then. I guess I like shocking people. I feel comfortable shocking people. I get a sort of high off of it. But I wondered why. I figured, when it comes down to it, I like being different. The reason I felt so uncomfortable at the resort was because I no longer was in the role I was used to playing. I was the conservative one for the first time in my life. I was the one who didn’t do things or wear things. I wrote in my journal that day, “Is it true that if I just wore a bikini people would take me seriously?” Because me and my tankini over here feel like we were being excluded. So in Ixtapa, Mexico, I was faced with a decision. Either I changed the role I played or I played up my role. I could decide not to wear a tank top underneath shirts that I thought needed one. I could say things, ask guys for alcohol, grind, and kiss more than anyone else there. That’s what it would take to stay in the role I was used to. I didn’t want that, though.

IMG_0203Different. That’s what I wanted to be. Drinking and flirting was not different. Okay, I thought to myself. So what do I do? I’m not going to be the shock factor here. Then I realized that being different and shocking people are not the same thing.

Different for something. That’s what I needed to be. Anyone can act differently. Anyone can pretend to be anyone they wanted to be or as interesting as they wanted to be. But that’s a fake identity. I needed to be different for a reason. I couldn’t change who I was depending on who I was with. I couldn’t stay in the state I was in. I was changing. The world was changing. What could I be that would always, no matter when or where, be different and interesting and slightly scandalous?

Then it hit me. A Christian. Duh. Well actually when it happened it was more of an “Aha!” than a “duh” moment for me. No matter who I talked to, an identity in Christ would always be different. What is more interesting than some one who goes against what the crowd is doing and fighting for something more? What is more scandalous than a relationship with God?

A Christian. That was what my identity needed to be. I said “duh” earlier because ever since I was little that’s what I was told by everyone in my circles: Christ should be my identity. But it was then in Mexico that I realized what that meant. First and foremost, I decided to be a Christian that week.

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The tank tops stayed on. My swear free language stayed the same. I said no to the shots. And I decide not to participate in the skinny dipping. And I had fun. Not because I was shocking people, though I did probably confuse several, but because I knew why I was acting differently from all these people. I had fun because I actually made friends instead of making out. I had fun because I gained the respect of people and learned new skills. I had fun because I listened to people tell me stories from around the world. (I do have to say that I was totally the best dancer there, though.) The small group of people that I actually had some form of respect for noticed that I wasn’t the same. One guy, Santiago, even told me, “You’re different from all the other girls.” It must have been a good different because he and I along with my cousin Ean hung out most of the week.

Life is easy when you know who you are. And life is amazing when Christ is who you are.

Of course, the next question is “how does one live in Christ” but that’s for another time. I’ll write a post on that when I have some kind of an answer. Or I’ll write one to get some sort of an answer.

Here’s a video of the trip I put together:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2d8z3XPGFDA

The Art of a Conversation

A few weeks ago, we had some house guests. I’ve known about this family for a while, but I didn’t really know them. Anyway, the parents and their youngest son came up. He’s my age and so I had the job of “entertaining” him. This proved a very hard thing since he probably only said a total of 15 words the whole 17 hours he was here, most of which consisted of “yeah”, “sure”, and “uhuh”. Talk about awkward.

But that encounter got me thinking about conversations. I believe that being a good conversationalist is a necessary, but rare, skill. I’ve never found it hard to talk to people — unless it’s like talking to a statue. But lately I’ve felt slightly off when I talk. I first noticed it at a wedding. I had the opportunity to be assistant photographer to my friend. That involved a lot of meeting people and talking. I was confused as to why I felt like I was having a hard time talking to these people. After some thought, I realized what was happening: I was a good conversationalist — for a child. A child is expected to coherently state opinions and express ideas. Once that is done, ta-da, good job, you are a good communicator — for a child. However, if you wish to master the art of communicating as an adult you must coherently state opinions, express ideas and ask about the other person.

You see I was used to saying things like this to adults: “Yes, I really like that band. They have a good sound and their lyrics are meaningful,” and then wait for them to ask another question.

So I started practicing this: “Yes, that band is really meaningful to me. What songs of theirs do you like?”

That’s it. Just asking questions. Passing the baton, and taking an interest in their lives.  At Escape to the Lake, I started conversations. I asked questions. I got to know adults — maybe even more than they got to know me. It was a good exercise. But I have a ways to go.

 

Hair

When I was 12 I wanted a pixie cut. You know, cute, short and risky. Well my hair dresser gave me a bob. And I hated it. I totally hated it. I felt awkward and worse, little. People actually assumed I was my age instead of several years older. For a 12 year old who was already the youngest in her friend group and family, it felt like the worst thing ever.

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Yes that liner was for my peacock costume.

So I grew my hair out. I let it grow grow grow. Slowly but surely, as my hair grew out people would guess I was a little older. More people would talk to me or ask me to dance at social events. Granted, it probably had more to do with the fact that I was older, started wearing makeup, and got my braces off; however, it felt like it was because my hair was longer. About a year and a half ago, I finally considered my hair “long”. And I didn’t want to change it. A sense of security came with my long hair. It was part of me. It was a strange status to have: “the one with long hair”. I felt empowered by it. I could look at other people and think I wish I had this or that of theirs, and then think “but I have longer hair”.

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A lot changes in 4 years. Yes it was quite possible that it was me that became more interesting and less awkward and not my hair. I started to realize this. And then I realized that I was letting my hair control me. I was making it too much a part of me. Making it an excuse to put down others. Making it an excuse to make myself feel better. Because my growing up processes including growing out my hair, I felt connected to it. So I started thinking of cutting it.

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But still I didn’t want to look younger. And then one day I thought about it and realized that I didn’t care if I looked my age or younger. I don’t care if my other hair cut was better. It was time for something new.

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I’m having wayyy too much fun with it. Pretty spiffy curled too, eh?

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The Importance of No Answer

So I’m actually writing this because I haven’t written in a while and so I feel like I should have something to say. But truthfully, I don’t have much to say. Normally I write once an issue has been resolved or an event is over. But this time everything is still unclear. I find myself left with questions.

What is love?

What is this the time for?

Who do I want to be?

Who am I now?

Why are things that seem wrong right and vice versa?

Is it ever wrong to ask how someone is doing? 

Is it ever wrong to care?

What is most important to me? 

I am stumbling around trying to understand these questions. I’m tempted to say some of them can’t be understood or answered. But that doesn’t mean that the questions are wrong.

I easily get frustrated with confusion. I don’t like guessing. I don’t like it when I have no plan. I want a level of certainty in my life; so questions without answers bother me. I tend to internally freak out and shut down when I don’t know what to do. Normally this is when I do what I should have done in the first place: I ask God what to do. But then, more often than not, there is silence. Why does there have to be silence? So this time I didn’t ask God to make all the confusion go away. I didn’t ask Him to show me how my life will play out or how I should act. This time I asked Him for peace.

I don’t understand it, this peace. But it’s there even though there is no “reason” for it. It defies nature and it defies my ever important feelings. But it’s there.

I like knowing things, but sometimes knowing isn’t what’s important. Without confusion, how can we learn faith?

So here I am writing. Completely confused. Unsure how to carry on. Stuck in a predicament. And  here I am — at peace.