Seasons of Ending

Three years ago I spent New Year's Eve in contemplation. It was one of the first times I embraced that it wasn't necessary to be happy happy joy joy in a group setting, and I was thinking about my grandmother.

She had been diagnosed with cancer, and no one expected her to live much longer. Months. We hadn't given up on her, but I still knew the loss would be coming, and I didn't know what to do with it or how to handle it. I loved my grandmother, but we never particularly got along. We tried, and we both ended up rubbing the other the wrong way, and after a while neither of us knew how to make amends or try again. It's not that we couldn't do things together at all, we just didn't know how to get to know each other deeper.

And that was a loss.

So on New Year's Eve, late at night, a friend showed a video of a song he loved. It's a good song, and I say now it's a good video. At the time, though, I couldn't watch it without aching and wanting for all the world to cry, tears streaming right there unashamedly and uncontested.

But I don't show "negative" emotions well. At the time it was a stretch for me to curl up on the oversized armchair, chin and arm draped low on the armrest, and ponder life while friends around me continued on unaffected. It was a challenge for me to go to the other room which was dark and empty, cradled by the gaming rocker, and let the pent up aches and emptiness of pending loss seep out my skin and trickle down my face in silence.

I knew I wouldn't be found. I knew my emotions wouldn't change the atmosphere. I knew I wouldn't be comforted.

In a way, I didn't want to be. Because sometimes when comfort is offered it's like a stopper to the raw feelings that desperately need poured out. I need space to ooze, even melt a little, and I don't like dripping on other people, so I close up the window in my wall around me, the window I sometimes open to let the inside air out. It's one-way and it's not a door. I can open it out, but no one can come in. Even with a passing, kind observer, I'm tempted to pull the curtain down so nothing inside can be even seen.

That New Year's Eve I embraced the season of ending that filled my life. I mourned. I stayed quiet. And I cried. I also rose, joined in partaking the sparkling juice, and cheerfully enough wished everyone a happy new year ahead. All the while knowing pain was coming my way.

This New Year's Eve I have realized I'm in another kind of season of endings. Since the past six or so months, I've said goodbyes and until-next-times with nearly everyone I know. I left one place, what had been my world, and came to visit another, finding ways to slowly integrate and learn the local happenings of life and make friendships. But I'm still in the season of ending. I'm still thinking of my home, still wondering if I could make this new place my home, still yearning to find my heart home.

This new year that is upon us will greet some of us like a new puppy, bubbling over with delight and readiness, some of us like a slow grave digger, with reminders of what was and will forever be changed, things that are forever beyond our reach now, and some of us like something inbetween.

This eve, I'm in another season of ending, and I don't feel like celebrating. I feel like pondering, sitting in that poofy armchair, and finding a safe place to cry if the tears will come.

But this time there is no party to seek solace from, no group of friends around when I'm ready to join the crowd again and celebrate.

This time I'm marking the change in the calendar with little more than I give any other day. And that is another part in my season of endings. The friendships aren't gone, but for now, the reach is a lot harder, the rooms a lot farther.

So long, 2013.

The One I Wanted

I saw it in a thrift store, not marked for sale, but I measured it for size anyway. I'd already been looking for a week or two and hadn't found anything good. This one was different, unique, lovely. Old dried gum was stuck to the side, and I was already imagining cleaning it off. It held stacks of old coffee cups which looked like they would crack into each other if you looked at one.

This was a shelf made for books. This was a display. The spines would angle upward to the approaching reader like a heartfelt offering.

I asked if they'd sell. Not interested.

Still thinking about it and unable to find another shelf, I asked again two weeks later, this time with a suggested price. Not interested without a replacement to hold the mugs.

The next week, I bought a shelf for a replacement and asked again.

Not interested ever.

I may have sulked. Later I may have shed a tear (or had a nasty cry for a few minutes) as I put together the replacement shelf for myself.

Sorry, awesome bookshelf. Your destiny is to hold stacked coffee cups nobody wants instead of displaying books that will be read. I wanted to save you, enjoy you, reclaim you for your intended purpose. Take you to my new house the next time I move. But the future I imagined wasn't to be.

I couldn't save you.

And instead I got the substitute that was never meant for books. But it will do for now.

It's ugly. And not what I wanted.

But it has books on it; they're no longer stacked on the floor. And my room looks like a room.

 

I Still Have One Sign, Part 2

The conclusion from Tuesday's Part 1 post...


It's easy to give up. To one who can always reason that there is still hope, despite emotions that cry otherwise, it's frighteningly easy.

Each time I ripped down one of my notepaper signs, "Don't be afraid to dream," "There is still hope," "For this room," I was disgusted, torn to the core, and saw no way for my circumstances and problems to be overcome or turned into good things.

I still knew the promise that all things in this life actually work for the good of those who love God (Romans 8:38), and I still knew that nothing is outside of His allowance. And, how many times have I called him the Perfect Author, one who thankfully does not need a second draft to the story He writes and has written?

But it still hurt. And knowing that this hurt was part of God's plan actually made me mad. It's what contributed to feeling that I was betrayed by Him. I knew I hadn't been, but I couldn't wrap my mind around it, and my heart was so wounded that I was afraid to trust Him with it.

The memory of being there still brings tears to my eyes.

I had no idea how this would work for anybody's good. And, actually harder to deal with, I had no idea how I was supposed to dream big again. With such a resounding "No" to my hopes, and in a season of events that were fairly close together, how could I expect a "Yes" someday down the road for another dream?

What happens when the hero throws out his memento of love and hope? Usually something outside of him has to happen or arrive, or he'll just walk away and give up on his goal. What's the point in going after it when it's lost and destroyed? Someone else has to ignite what's left of the fire of hope in his heart or he will smolder as embers for the rest of his life.

For us that other, the something or someone outside, can come in many shapes, sizes, sounds, you name it, but ultimately they're all guided by the Maker of Life. I don't know what the process looks like; I'm not even sure what it's been for me, though I know it isn't quite over. But life is filled with little joys, little bits of restoration, and blessings still in every step. I know God is still in control, no one usurped His authority even for a second, and I know He is faithful and still good. And I know I don't deserve His tender love, but He offers it every day, even when I say "I'm mad at you."

I don't know why my dreams couldn't happen, but I do know we were still able to make part of the original trip, and it was very much needed and a blessing. And I know that my brother, sister-in-law, and niece are back now, and I'm glad to have them. I don't know why there are budget constraints that won't allow for transforming my room into a much needed sanctuary, but I do know that my room won't always be like this and I can still make positive changes now. I don't know why my faith and trust needed to be tested, but I do know that I will continue to trust God even when I'm hurt.

And I do know that blessings rain down. Some look smaller than others, but all are gifts. Right now I'm in the midst of so many possible blessing opportunities that I don't know what to do with myself to navigate from one to the next. As of the moment of writing this post, there are so many that I may even need to pick and choose between them (and maybe, just maybe, I can have them all). Back when I was so hurt that I tore down those hopeful papers, I had no conceivable idea that anything like this would happen to me ever, and certainly not just a few months later.

I haven't replaced the old notes on the walls, but I still have one left, and I think it's going to stay.

"Make it what you dream."

 

I Still Have One Sign, Part 1

I'm guessing I'm not the only one who puts inspirational signs, posters, decor, whatnot up in their homes. Mine just happen to be quick marker notes written sideways on lined notebook paper and taped to the walls. Classy.

But I tore them down.

I am a person who loves life and has big dreams and hopes, but I'm easily discouraged. So, my head knowing better than my heart sometimes does, I put up four signs on said notebook paper. Three cascaded to form one long message: There is still hope, For this room, Make it what you dream. And one I put on the opposite wall: Don't be afraid to dream.

I'm not sure of the order of things anymore, but I know that I ripped down the "Don't be afraid to dream" sign after I found out we weren't going to make it to Arcata to visit my brother, sister-in-law, and niece while they were living there. I felt betrayed by God and couldn't hold on to a reason to maintain big dreams. This would be when I wrote the post on mourning.

I think "For this room" came down after I hit a figurative wall regarding the state of my literal wall. Budget just wouldn't allow for some of the high hopes I'd built in my mind. Cleaning out, finishing an old project, painting the entirety of the walls, added trim, finishing the door. That might be when "There is still hope" came down, too, but I don't remember. Seems like it stayed up a little longer, but I don't remember then what would have wounded my heart enough to crumple it up, angry tears clinging to my face, and toss it.

You know those moments in movies when the hero is so disgusted or discouraged that he throws out some sweet memento of his family, or the gift from his love? Up until now I'd always had the reason in my mind to think the hero would regret that decision, how could he do that, doesn't he know he'll want it back when things get better?

Now, I understand. We truly don't always hope that things will get better. We might believe that life will continue, but that doesn't mean we think it'll ever get better. And so the memento, the encouraging word, the piece of hope represented in an object finds a direct one-way ticket to the dumpster. It's worse than the Monopoly card "Go Directly to Jail."

It's a horrible place to be. And it's very real.

Can you relate?


My thoughts will continue in a couple days...

 

There Are Times

There are times

when the phone rings late

and I hear the tears

before I know anything else

When all I know is a friend’s hurt

and with her I ache

a chance lost

a hope drowned

a truth buried

With her I cry

wishing somehow

to take the weight away

to stem the bleeding

to apply the balm

But my temper flares

when I hear how she was hurt

and I’m ready for war

like a mother bear

God help me

I need to remember

You are in control

You offer grace

to those who don’t deserve it

including me

And I look back at my friend

my sister for years

covered with fresh and dried tears

and inside I break

and with her I weep

The night drags dark

but together we somehow know

we somehow still hope

the night will end

a new dawn will shine

and we count the hours

until then.

Public Domain Image

 

The Hunger Games

www.checkthefilm.com

 May The Odds...

The Hunger Games. A popular book, trilogy, and now movie. I have a lot of thoughts on the books, and I'm still somewhat processing the movie. It's a big story. And it's also not. What makes it great? What makes it not? And what do we do with that?

I have no idea what to tell you to do with the books, movie, or overall story. I don't know what to do with it myself. All I can do is share some of my mixed thoughts.

For starters, it's brilliant. No, really. The books, in first-person point of view, show us an intimate, in-depth look at a world that feels like the Great Depression + nuclear war aftereffects + ruling politics gone terribly, terribly wrong. And since it's in first person, we get just about every single thought and feeling that Katniss experiences. (I even used it in a paper I recently re-found as a useful book for examining the reality of facing one's own death.) And the use of present tense amplifies the immediacy and intensity of every. single. thing.

And the movie is a pretty great adaption of the story from the print media to audio/visual media. The actors portrayed their characters spot on. The additional points of view of the gamemakers, President Snow, and Rue's district fleshes out the world with things that wouldn't have translated from the book otherwise. The core conflict of the games is lived out. The subtext conflict of fighting corruption is shown a little more than in the book.

Some things in the movie were a little weird, like the crossover of worlds when Katniss has delusions from the Tracker Jacker venom. And, honestly I was really looking forward to the visual portrayal of Katniss' costumes, Cinna's masterpieces...and was disappointed. They were nice, but for me a little of a let down. And we didn't get to see Haymitch's character arc as clearly, even though we saw him working behind the scenes (a nice touch). But all in all, those things 1) aren't enough to detract from the movie as a whole and 2) are a part of the media.

It's Good, Or Is It?

It's a compelling story. Katniss obviously has a lot of determination and bravery. Peeta carries his compassion with him into the arena. Rue and Prim motivate Katniss to action. Haymitch...well, Haymitch is one of my favorite characters, sweetheart. He actually has a defined arc of character growth. The worlds are clearly distinct, and the complications are simple enough to follow while still making things interesting and hard for the characters. So what's the problem? What bothers me about the book and movie?

1.       As much as the characters distaste the concept of the Hunger Games to begin with, they follow through with it, not even really trying to stem the symptoms, much less trying to stop the problem.
2.       It's a rather draining read or viewing experience.
3.       Katniss' defiance is mostly accidental.
4.       And there is a distinct lack of hope. Throughout. Even the happy ending (in the book) has immediate hopelessness and loss to it. (The movie's happy ending felt like, "Yes, we 'won.' But it wasn't enough.")

And that last one, even more than the others individually, gives me pause. Put these all together, and by the end of the story, whether book or movie, I feel hollow, even dirty. I feel like I have been torn down just about as much as Katniss has been. But it's not because I've literally gone through everything she has, and it's not because I relate with her 100%. I like her okay, and I understand a degree of where she's coming from, her motivations, and her actions. But I'm very different from her and get frustrated along the way.

What Kind of Message?

It's not a happy book. Not every book has to be happy; I get that. But the "no hope" laced throughout and coloring the ending is, I think, damaging to people. People need hope. It's damaging to me. I need hope in order to get up in the morning. This work of fiction tends to sap it from me, translating into real life where I interact with real people, oozing a loss and hopelessness through my actions by taking root in my thoughts and feelings.

What is the message of The Hunger Games? What do you take away from it? Can you see how things could be better (and if you can, why couldn't/didn't the author?)? Is it a warning story? Watch out, or this will happen to our world (it is, after all, futuristic United States of America). Is that Suzanne Collins' goal? Is that enough?

Now we have to ask what we do with the story. It does get us to think, I'll give it that. Where do our thoughts take us?

And Happy Hunger Games

There are many more things I could say about The Hunger Games. Things I like, and things that concern me. And I could continue on into Catching Fire and Mockingjay. But for now, I think this is plenty.

Do you have a reply for my concerns? What are your thoughts on The Hunger Games, both book and movie?

Lament

Some mourning takes place in public. Some mourning takes place in private. Some mourning takes place in silence.

Mourning won't last long if the thing wasn't that important. It won't take long if the loss wasn't that great.

I wanted breakfast at the Braums. I got there fifteen minutes too late. I was looking at the breakfast menu, trying to pick an option, and the lady at the register told me they weren't serving breakfast anymore. But I didn't want lunch. It was too early, and I wanted eggs. That was emotionally disappointing, and I passed on all food, just getting coffee.

I was also some sleep deprived and stressed, which made it harder to process the "loss" of what I had hoped for. But, really, it was what my granny used to call an "oh well." It was small potatoes. It wasn't long lasting. It was just eggs, and I'd already eaten some cereal at home. I'd just wanted more to eat. Oh well.

But when the loss is a dream, a deep desire, a long nurtured wish, losing it, or (in some ways worse) giving it up, the pain runs deeper. Owl City says dreams don't turn to dust, but I've known more dreams crumble to powder than I care to count. Often, I no longer want to make or hold onto dreams, because I figure they'll just be heartrending losses down the road.

I used to be such a happy person. My reason then for not dreaming big was that I simply didn't know what to aim for. Now, I fear cynicism taking over. I fight it, but I know it's creeping up on me a little more with each disappearing desperate dream. (Sometimes I catch myself pondering if Christians should even have dreams and big aspirations...but that is another layered can of worms for another day and perhaps place. Let's have coffee sometime.)

When a dream is lost, I'm left empty. I wonder where the pieces are and how do I pick them up. Someday I'll figure out what to do with them if I can ever gather them all without dropping them through my fingers.

I mourn quietly. I brush it off around others. It's not worth your time. I'll process through. But sometimes a quiet whisper of, "I've been there, and I know this hurts," would soothe my soul.

Sometimes it's okay to hurt. Pain and loss isn't fun by any means, but it is something we face, and it shouldn't be shunted to the side.

But in the meantime, I'll stay quiet. It's safer to hurt without salt near the cuts. It's safer to wipe my own tears than risk scratchy fingers or long nails on my face. It's safer to bleed internally.

Sometimes mourning takes place in silence.

~~~

How do you mourn a dream? What do you do to pick up the pieces and make another one?