A Disclaimer (#2)

It has recently come to my attention (as it ought to have a while ago) that there are more people reading my blog than I like to pretend that there are. When I write my posts, I usually imagine my readership to be either my closest friends or perfect strangers, and not really anyone in between. But since that is clearly not the case and most of you are in reality casual acquaintances, I'm beginning to feel a tad bashful about the way I have conveyed myself over the past few months.

I went back and re-read several posts this afternoon and found myself wincing over some of the more melodramatic phrases and pessimistic outlooks. Certainly the emotion was genuine in these moments, but the posts don't necessarily convey how I am doing on the whole, on a day-to-day basis. I write to process my thoughts, and invariably the times when I most need to do this are days when I am not feeling incredibly optimistic about life. I don't think I'm as depressed as I make myself sound—at least I hope not.

It's a tricky business, writing a blog, especially when it's a blog basically all about me. If it feels uncensored to you, just imagine all the things I've deleted! Still, I should be more careful about what I'm offering to the scrutiny of the public eye. For those of you who haven't interacted with me in person recently, don't worry yourself over-much. My more hopeful moments just haven't been as interesting to write about thus far.

Welcome Back to Your Over-Active Mind

The house is empty and quiet, nestled under the first heavy snowfall of the season. No one is home but me and the dog, and possibly a hawk which found its way into our garage this morning. Outside in the yard, the snow glows a blueish light. I sit with my feet curled under me at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of tea, and watch as it fades with the sun. My FedEx uniform and Barnes and Noble business-casual clothes lie in layered piles on my bedroom floor, shed like snake skin. For once, I do not need them.

This is the moment I have been yearning for these past two weeks, I realize. This is the first afternoon since the beginning of December which I have had free to sit, think, drink tea. Collect myself.

I have not found it to be as restful as I dreamed.

In the past twelve days, I worked every day except Christmas for a minimum of eight hours, more frequently upwards of twelve or thirteen. I woke up at 5 am, worked at FedEx, changed in my Barnes & Noble clothes in the bathroom when my shift was done, drove straight to the mall, worked at the B&N cash register for 7 or 8 hours, drove home, shoveled some food into my mouth, fell into bed, and woke up shortly thereafter to do it all over again. I didn't have time to think. I didn't have time to clean to my room or run. I didn't talk to or see any friends. I barely had time to shower and eat. The primary reason I looked forward to Christmas this year was so that I could sleep in. Which I did. For a long time.

In some ways, despite the sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion, the crazy work schedule was nice. For a long time this fall, my introverted brain has been working overtime, analyzing every bit of my life, turning it over, worrying about it, giving me no peace. The days crawled along. These past two weeks, on the other hand, flew by. I shut down all my unnecessary mental operations and focused exclusively on the task at hand: counting change, scanning packages, getting from one house to the next. All other thoughts blurred into the background. This was especially convenient given that there are a few things I'm trying hard not to think about right now. Each minute of my day was spoken for, so there was no reason to consider how I should spend it. I had no options.

Though it came with its own stressful situations, this time has been a mini-vacation from other less tangible anxieties. A little escape from the discontented parts of my mind. Which is why this afternoon my precious hours of peace and quiet have not been as soothing as I hoped.

It would appear that the refusing to think about certain things does little more than build up pressure, like water behind a dam. And today, the cracks are showing. The leaking has begun. As work hours slow down, I find myself having to face my life again, and I am reminded that I do not always like what I see.

On these days, I feel like a child playing grown-up, playing at being a truck driver, playing at being a cross country coach, a “positive influence” on high school freshmen. My uniform is a costume, a disguise, meant to trick people into thinking that I'm responsible. Today for an interview I stole make-up from my little sister's room in a (probably hopeless) attempt to look above the age of seventeen. I put on my big-girl dress, the chic, black one. And I felt like a fake. Though I may look the part and even say the right things, I haven't got a clue what I'm doing.

Madeleine L'Engle wrote in her book Walking On Water that no one is ever just one age. Though I am twenty-two, I am also eighteen and eleven and five and every other age I've ever been. I carry a piece of each with me. It is the twenty-two-year-old me that is the newest, the youngest, really. I haven't yet learned how to live into my years. I've had sixteen years of experience being six, but only a few months of being twenty-two. There is a lot of child in me still.

And yet, child though I am, I am responsible for my life. These cracks, these leaking fissures, will break open whether I want them to or not, probably for the better, and I can either deal with it or not.

I think my life as it is has finally come to a point, and my refusal to plot a course is becoming a course in and of itself. I just don't want to admit it because it means facing some major decisions and most likely letting go certain dreams in pursuit of others. Though I want to, I can no longer choose not to choose.

Today I had an interview for a “real job,” a salaried, full-time position at a respected company. And it went well, I thought. I know I should care about that because I know I don't want to stay in my current line of work, but I'm struggling to muster up the proper enthusiasm. At present, this job, as “career advancing” as it may be, feels like nothing more than another rope tying me to Grand Rapids, a place where I feel like I'm drowning in water I can't see, which makes it difficult to find the surface. But I'm not sure what I would prefer instead. I'm not sure how I have managed to make life so complicated for myself. It would be better if I knew what I wanted. All that self-examination this fall and I still haven't figured it out.

I'm thinking about these things as I sit at my kitchen table, and now the sun has set and I can no longer see the snow outside, just my own reflection in the window. And I am thinking about other things besides, and wondering how I got to this place and how I will move on.

Merry Christmas

Yesterday I worked 13 hours. Today I worked 12 hours. Tomorrow I will work at least 8, as I will for every day until Christmas. That's at least 70 hours in 7 days. Welcome to hell week.

I guess that's what happens when both your jobs amp up around the holidays.

NIghtdreams and Daydreams

I haven't slept in three days. Not really slept anyway. I've gone to bed, but despite the fact that I'm exhausted and my entire face hurts from the effort of holding my eyes open, I can't slow my brain down enough to switch it off. This happens to me occasionally, as I'm sure it does to everyone. There are few things more frustrating than being drop-dead tired but unable to put your body to rest.


Yesterday I tried to compensate for my exhaustion with a natural supplement. Namely, caffeine. Before my 10 am work shift at Barnes and Noble (and after my 6:15 am work shift at FedEx), I bought myself a grande iced coffee from the B&N cafe. It was well-intended but may not have been the best choice. I think there comes a point of tiredness---especially for infrequent consumers like myself---where caffeine ceases to increase energy level and serves only to induce a kind of rapid-fire anxiety. My heart rate sky-rocketed; you'd think I were a murderer lying on a polygraph test, not a cashier working in a quiet bookstore, judging by the way my body was reacting. I really thought I might faint or black out. Simple tasks like counting change held all the nervosity of a high-stakes rescue operation. I'm not sure I'll try that one again.

Sleep deprivation and anxiety are never a fun combination, even without the added stimulus of caffeine. They often feed into each other, until it becomes nearly impossible to solve one without first solving the other. I don't sleep well, therefore I am anxious about my lack of sleep. I am anxious, therefore I don't sleep. It's a vicious cycle, and one with which I'm all-too familiar.

Strange thoughts dart in those twilight moments between consciousness and dreaming. Unarticulated fears, scene flashes from my day, fabricated images (such as me eating milkshakes in the mall, something which has not happened ever to my knowledge and yet which I caught myself thinking about the other night). I sat up in a panic several times last night convinced I had overslept my alarm, only to discover that it was only 1 am, 3 am, or 4 am. Time moves at an inconstant rate: though I feel my mind has never stopped whirling, somehow several hours pass in the course of 20 minutes. Restless black waters engulf my head. 

It is at times like these that I think of the lake. It is high in the mountains, in a small green valley dotted with white boulders. The water in the lake is warm, and though swimmers are refreshed by it, they never catch a chill. I am alone in the valley, floating on my back in the lake. The blue sky above me is very still, and there is not a sound besides the slight rippling of the waves. Though I put little effort into my strokes, my body stays buoyant, like how I imagine it would in the Dead Sea, except this water is fresh and clear.

 It is not quite accurate to say I am alone. Though I feel the total comfort one can only feel alone with one's own body, I also sense the presence of others---or another. It is both singular and multiple. I cannot see them, but I feel them hovering over me, filling the whole valley with their presence. I feel at once totally free, spreading my bare arms in the water around me, and totally safe, like a child tucked into a warm bed. I feel peace. 

During the nights when I can't sleep, when I can't shut off my mind, I force myself to think about this scene and only this scene. I put everything else in a mental folder and place it on a shelf, and tell myself I can come back to it later. But not now. 

This doesn't always help me sleep, at least not so far. But it does make me feel a little better and slow my heart rate. When I was having trouble with insomnia last spring, a friend of mine told me to imagine a beautiful place and then explore it. This is my own version of her advice.

(written Wednesday, December 12th)

Defeat

I had many people tell me before I graduated from Wheaton that their first few years after college were some of the most challenging months of their lives. It wasn't exactly an encouraging tidbit of wisdom for someone already freaking out about leaving one beloved Kilby House and all the friends therein. But back in the spring,  to cope, I mostly plugged my ears and made naive vows that this would certainly not be the case for me. I simply would not allow it. I would do everything necessary and in my power to avoid the oh-so-stereotypical and painfully cliche "post-grad depression." I would go out and live, get a job, find a purpose. I'm a self-motivated person, I reasoned. I won't let myself get in a rut. Plus, despite what other people may think about my major, I'm totally employable!

Well, people, I am here to tell you that I did not succeed.

It's a little painful to admit, but also a little liberating. Yes, I have joined the ranks of the moderately depressed and mostly directionless post-graduates. Yes, I am in said rut. It's funny, there are a lot of us, but we seem to have trouble finding one another. At least, that's how I feel. 

This is how my day went today, for example: Wake up at 5:30 am, go to work. Spend half the time I'm delivering packages worrying that my mangers don't think I'm a good worker, as if some part of my identity hangs on how fast I can get from 550 Three Mile to 2727 Walker (I swear I'm getting there as fast as I can!). Come home from work, sleep from 10 am to 12 pm. Have bad dreams about hurting someone I love. Wake up and bemoan the fact that it's only noon and I have the whole day ahead of me. Eat leftovers and ice cream out of the carton. Waste time at home. Waste time at the library. Run. Have an emotional breakdown and text my friend asking if I can come to her house and cry. Do so. Feel slightly better. Come home. Shower. Eat dinner. Wonder if it's too early to go to bed.

The sad thing is, this has become not atypical, although it is perhaps a bit more extreme than my average day. I've settled into it, though, and despite the fact that I don't want my life to be this way, I feel sort of powerless against it. I have to tell myself some days, most days, that things will get better. They won't always stay this way. And most days I believe it.

I suppose a change might require some action on my part, though. That tends to be how life works. Unless a dream job in an awesome city near all my friends just happens to fall into my lap, but somehow, I don't see that happening anytime soon. 

It's ok, though. Things will get better, right? Things will get better. We're all going to be ok.

Mr. Ireland

It's always the older men who will strike up a conversation. The tired grandmothers, the impatient businessmen, the polite but distant college-students—these rarely move past the syncopated how-are-you-fine-how-are-you. Not that I really expect them too. When I'm ringing up their books and magazines and sandalwood-scented candles, I understand that most Barnes and Noble customers simply want to pay their dues and leave. I would.

But sometimes these older men will stop and talk. I don't mind, even if sometimes I feel as though I'm being flirted with by someone 40 years my senior, because it's nice to be acknowledged as something other than a credit card swiper on occasion. The men are typically loud, forward, and old enough not to care what anyone thinks of them anymore. They have an air of mischievousness and often an embarrassed wife at their shoulder. Sometimes she apologizes and leads her husband away by the elbow.

Yesterday one such gray-haired man handed me his purchases and asked me bluntly, “Do you own a house?” Apparently, his wife was a realtor, and he wanted to give me her card. (I don't think I've encountered an occupation more card-pushy than real estate agents, by the way. I received at least two this summer. Considering most people mistaken me for an eighteen-year-old—if not younger—I find this a bit unwarranted.) I explained that I did not, in fact, own a house, and I doubted if I would in the near future. A friendly interrogation ensued in which he asked about my education, my jobs, and what I was doing working at the Barnes and Noble in Grand Rapids. We had plenty of time to chat because he had purchased two pairs of reading glasses and asked me to remove the hard plastic tags with a pair of scissors, and I was failing miserably. (Did I mention this was on Black Friday and we were holding up the line?) I was afraid I was going to break the glasses.

When I told him I had a degree in English Writing, he chuckled and said, “Well, how's that working out for you?”

That irked me. Even though he went on to tell me what a great school my alma mater is (“big girl school”, I think he called it), even though he assured me that success would come eventually, and even though he called his wife over and said, “Give your card to Britta, here; she's going to be a fabulously rich writer someday,” I did not appreciate the sarcastic comment. I'm sure he didn't mean it unkindly, but I guess I'm a little sensitive to criticism in that department these days. As I struggled with the glasses, the plastic tags, and the scissors, he looked up at me and said, “You're really not succeeding, are you?”

I fumbled for an answer. “Well, that depends on what you mean by succeeding,” I said. I thought he was referring to life in general, to the fact that I have a 4-year degree and am stuck working part-time retail. “I mean, I like to think I'm moving forward—”

“I was talking about the glasses, honey.”

I looked down at my hands. “Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess I'm not.” I handed him the scissors. “Do you want to try?”

He took the glasses and the scissors from me and deftly attacked both tags. “I guess I'm just self-conscious about it,” I tried to explain.

He smiled at me. “The best ones always are.”

I'm not sure what he was trying to tell me with that comment, but I suppose it was meant to be encouraging. After he gave me his wife's card and walked away with his tag-free reading glasses, I was left wondering if I should feel complimented or insulted by the conversation. Was he mocking me or genuinely trying to make me feel better?

I guess the bottom line is that he did drawn some sort of truth out of me. I am self-conscious about how theoretically over-qualified I am for both my jobs. I don't consider myself successful, despite the fact that I am employed, well-educated, and have every provision I need for a happy life. It's rather selfish---and a little bit ridiculous---when I step back and look at it. What more do I want? It's only because all my basic needs are met that I have the time and energy to worry about whether or not I'm moving in the "right direction" or how I can discover my "true calling." I think I need to relax a little. 

I'm not the only recent college grad in a situation of over-qualification. So many of my co-workers at B&N are in the same boat. There just isn't a lot of hiring happening right now, especially for degrees in the liberal arts. And that's ok. I'm not going to be in this situation forever. I will move on from here. So right now, I might as well take a deep breathe and soak in the life experience. Because that's what it's all about, right? At least that is what I'm going to keep telling myself.

For example, I've already learned that I shouldn't make a career out of removing tags from reading glasses. 

The Colors of the Morning Are Inside Your Eyes

Sometimes when I am driving my FedEx truck in the morning, if the clouds are right, and if I am awake enough to see it, and if I'm not stressed about late packages, I'm amazed by the sunrise. I ought to be amazed by it everyday. I'll catch a glimpse of pink light in my side mirror, and when I turn the corner the sky just above the tree-line will be lit with these orange and pink clouds and brightening blue sky, and I'll have to ease off the gas pedal for a moment and just soak it in.

I like to complain to people about how early I have to wake up in the morning (5 am!), but I'm beginning to think that I am lucky to have a job that allows me to witness both stars and sunrise, celestial wonders I don't often pause to observe. Yesterday, as I pulled out of Lydia's Uniforms main office (which, by the way, was initially difficult to find because a trailer was parked in front of the address sign—come on, people!), I thought of the words to the song You're Beautiful by Phil Wickham. I even started singing it. That's the other good thing about driving a truck alone: it doesn't matter how poorly you sing, no one can hear you. No one even has to know. Unless you post it on your blog.  

Chaos Theory

I came home to Grand Rapids after graduating from college primarily because I was broke and had nowhere else to go. Though I love my family and have no complaints about the city, it wasn't exactly my first choice. It wasn't exactly screaming excitement. I saw my time here primarily as a holding yard, a place to get my job act together, make a little money, and then launch out elsewhere. I had no intentions to put down more roots. But as one job application after another fell through and my networking leads ran dry, I began to accept the reality that I might be in Grand Rapids for a little longer than I originally intended. I needed that rent-free bedroom. Still, I did not see it as a permanent move, merely a longer phase of transition.

The longer I live here, however, the more I realize that every decision I make either ties me tighter to my current location or keeps me ungrounded, and I can only hold those two movements in tension for so long. Floating in the middle is not helpful, nor is it fun. The problem is, I don't know what I want, and the timing of life does little to clarify things for me. I spent all summer, for example, filling out applications to jobs at publishing houses in several cities before finally giving up and accepting two less-than-glamorous part-time jobs in Grand Rapids. And of course, mere weeks after I do this, I hear back from, not one, but three publishing houses wondering if I'm still interested in a position. Why didn't those offers arrive a month or two sooner? Why did they have to come only after I've committed to staying at my current job for at least another six months? And should I have held out longer and waited? I have no idea. But my life might look very different right now if I had.

That's the thing about decisions. They have repercussions. They limit your options because when you choose one, you have to exclude others. Shocking news, I know. But it's more than a little paralyzing because I don't feel ready to limit my options; I don't feel ready to be tied down—to a place or a job or a community. What if I realize I want something else? Decisions that people make in this stage of life profoundly influence the trajectory of their future. You get a job in a certain place or a certain field, you marry a certain person, and your whole life spins out from that point. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but it often happens. When my parents were newly married, for example, my dad accepted an internship in Grand Rapids. They thought they would only be here for a few years. Twenty-two years later, here they are. Again, it's not a bad thing; I don't think my parents regret it. But it freaks me out. I don't feel prepared to make decisions with effects of that magnitude. I'm worried I'm going to unconsciously settle, like sand sifting to the bottom of a river, and I'm just going to stay here because the effort of moving will feel like too much work.

The reverse of this, however—choosing not to choose—is no kind of solution. Not being tied to anything or anyone, though it offers a kind of freedom, is isolating and ultimately unsatisfying. It leaves me few opportunities to invest in others or for others to invest in me. Earlier this fall, I was operating under the assumption that I didn't need to make any friends because I already have plenty that I love dearly. Sure, most of them live hundreds of miles away, but if I'm going to be leaving Grand Rapids eventually anyway, why should I bother acquiring more? Should it have come as any surprise that I eventually got lonely?

So how do I live fully in a place I want to someday leave? And if a good opportunity comes along that pushes my Grand Rapids roots deeper, should I reject it just because I'm afraid of getting stuck? These are the kinds of decisions for which college cannot prepare you. Who knows what small choices will end up changing the course of your life? Or perhaps influence it not at all. At the moment, most of my decisions, though I attempt to give them thoughtful consideration, feel largely arbitrary. I have no idea how anything will play out down the road. If I were being optimistic, I would say this was an adventurous notion. Unfortunately, I can't always be optimistic. Sometimes I'm just worried.

Maybe I'm thinking too hard about this. Maybe I should just relax and let life happen however it will. But I can't help feeling that I ought to hold more responsibility than this, that I need to be conscientious about the values and priorities that shape my choices. I don't want to live on autopilot. But just how one does this wisely, and without caving under self-induced pressure, I have yet to figure out. I feel unqualified. I suppose everybody is.

Lesson of the day

"Better is a handful of quietness than two hands full of toil and a striving after the wind."

Imagine If

Imagine if everything on earth were miniature. If your bed were the perfect size for a doll house, set with minuscule pillows and sheets, and all your books were tiny, intricate masterpieces, the size of an ordinary thumbnail. Imagine if the trees outside were like the stiff green ones glued to model train scenery—but even better because they are more detailed and unique and numerous. You could peer into them and discover endless layers of intricacy. Imagine if your car were toy-sized and all roads merely little black lines that these toys rolled along on their little toy wheels. Now picture you, yourself: miniature, doll-like, a tiny person with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. You have eyelashes, teeth, a belly bottom—fully formed but almost too small to see.

The pencils on your desk: those are skinny as a needle. Your lamp is a fragile work of art. You are part of a Lilliputian world, and all life has been scaled down to fit. The glass jar on my nightstand suddenly becomes more astonishing. The elaborate pattern of the wallpaper seems miraculous. I marvel at the teensy pieces of jewelry on my dresser. How could they be so impossibly small and so impossibly beautiful?

Maybe the world really is like this. Maybe this is how God sees it. Doll-house-like. Everything gloriously small and detailed and perfect, enough to make him laugh with pleasure. 

My Bonsai Tree Life

The sky is overcast today, and the parking lot of this grocery store is a wet, shiny-black. It has rained nearly every day for the past week. I'm in the cafe, thinking, typing. I've been here a while, but I don't want to drive home yet because I can picture what will happen when I do. I will wander up to my cluttered bedroom and stare vacantly at my books, my bed, my laptop, trying to decide what to do with my evening. I won't feel particularly inclined to do any one thing. I may end up in the kitchen, looking for a snack I don't need or want—some hummus, perhaps, or a cookie—and I will feel aimless, because I am. The cafe is better than that, for now.

Sometimes, living at home and working a less-than-stimulating part-time job can make my life feel very small. Geographically it is small because I rarely travel beyond my triangle of necessity (work, home, the high school where I coach cross country). I spend a lot of time in my bedroom or rambling the wooded trails behind my house, kicking up fallen leaves. Socially, my life also feels small: though I have friends living all across the globe right now, I have exactly two in my own city. I can skype the day away, but that doesn't change the fact that I never leave the comfort of my own bed. I read, I write, I run, I work, I eat dinner with my parents—in short, I do little of interest. The most stimulating part of my day is the hour and a half I spend with the high school cross country team I help coach. My sphere of influence feels negligible.

I picture my life as a tiny dot, yellow, like a speck of pollen. It is small and insignificant against the grand backdrop of the world at large, floating in space, drifting.

Sometimes I wonder what it would take to make my life larger and and shinier and more important. I would need to move out of my parents' house, first of all, preferably to some exciting new city—Denver or Portland or Salt Lake. I would need a new job and a vibrant social life. I would need a Cause, something to fight for to make my existence feel purposeful. I would need to feel needed.

When I really think about it, though, I realize there is no guarantee that any of things will make my life bigger. There is no reason that moving away or getting a more important job will inherently grow my life beyond its shriveled, pollen-speck form. Even with all that space, it may well feel exactly the same size. It may still feel tightly compact, stunted, well-formed but tiny—like a sad bonsai tree.

This is because, as I'm slowly realizing, the reason my life feels small is not because I have not filled it with enough stuff—grand enough or big enough—but because most of the time when I think of my life I think of one thing: myself. My orientation has settled into the human default: inward-looking rather than outward. From this perspective, I am at the center of everything. And how much more limited of a view is it to look inward and find only myself than to turn outward and see the whole world? No wonder my reality feels diminutive.

The problem is, this stage of life—more than most, I would argue—seems designed for selfish thinking. I have no husband or children, no intricate network of nearby friends that rely on me for community or support. I live at home; I'm not passionate about my job. My primary goal is making money to pay off my student loans. There is little about my life that inherently requires me to put others' needs before my own. Of course I can always choose to do this anyway, but there are few consequences if I don't. It is easy to convince myself that no one depends on me, and therefore the only problems I need to worry about are my own.

Occasionally, for fleeting moments, I glimpse a wider, richer life. Mostly this happens when I am running with my high school girls at cross country practice or coaching them in a meet. In those moments, I am outside myself. I care deeply for their physical and spiritual well-being. I want them to run their best, but more importantly, I want them to be emotionally healthy and happy individuals. However briefly, I cease to look inward at my own paltry self and view a world unfiltered by my ego. Ironically, this is when my life feels biggest—when my self is smallest.

G.K. Chesterton said something very similar in Orthodoxy, and my thoughts on this matter are strongly influenced by his own. “How much larger your life could be if your self could become smaller in it,” he writes. It's a catchy little phrase (which of course falls in the context of a much larger discussion—Chesterton was a long-winded individual), but it is so difficult to accomplish. Just how does the post-grad in the under-stimulating work and home environment make him or herself smaller? How do I look outward (and in which particular direction?) when I have yet to discover my “calling” or “vocation”? And what if in turning away from myself I find only emptiness in my immediate environment? What if my life presents no opportunities for acts of great selflessness? Sure, I can send encouraging notes to my friends, I can load and unload the dishwasher, I can cheer for my younger siblings at their sporting events, but those little things feel pitiful when I look at the larger scope of my life, the amount of time I spend thinking about myself.

The other night I spent the evening with friends and family talking about a recent project we had attempted to accomplish in South Africa. As we collaborated on this vision, I felt my horizon grow and expand. I felt part of something larger and aware of the complexities of a world beyond my own. But I am not in South Africa right now, nor will I return any time soon. At the moment, I do not have the means for my influence to literally cross oceans, or if I do, I have yet to discover it. My power is little; therefore I turn first to the needs I know best: my own.

Life is never straightforward, nor are the commands of God easy. Somehow I have to find a way to reorient myself, even if it feels like I will still accomplish little good. I need to redefine “life” and “self” and “small.” I need to be ok with serving in mediocre ways. I need to fight against that voice that tells me now is a time where I am allowed to be selfish and greedy. But, damn—it's hard.

The World On Time

I must begin with a disclaimer. In my employee manual, FedEx suggested that I do so, and as a new hiree, I feel obliged to respect their (its? her?) wishes. They even provided the wording for me, in case any effusions of creative inspiration on my part left a legal loophole big enough for a lawyer to jump through (which wouldn't take much, but in any case, FedEx doesn't strike me as the type which appreciates artistic liberties). So here it is, in all its corporate glory:

“This is my personal blog and only contains my own views, thoughts and opinions. It is not endorsed by FedEx nor does it constitute an official communication of FedEx.” I like it. Short, to the point, efficient.

But to clarify, and because I probably need to set my own boundaries, I shall include a self-composed disclaimer as well:

“This is my personal blog and only contains my own thoughts, stories, and details. I hope no one I work with/for actually reads this, but in case they do, I will do my best to be fair, honest, and to refrain from unnecessary bashing. It is not my desire now—or ever in the future—to offend anyone.” But I hope you will lend me some grace. I'm still figuring out this whole writing-private-thoughts-in-a-public-domain thing. It's more challenging than I thought it would be.

This week I learned how to drive a truck, or more specifically, a FedEx W700. It looks like this, except ours is older and definitely a diesel, not a hybrid electric:

I know, I know. You're impressed.

The one in which I learned to drive also had extra windows and benches behind the driver's seat, for training multiple students. For this reason, the swing courier with the blonde pigtails (I haven't caught her name yet) calls it the FedEx limo. It doesn't ride like a limo though. For one thing, it's very loud; the engine is angry sounding, and anything in the back bounces around like marbles in a tin can. It also, obviously, looks nothing like a limo, although momentary I felt very important sitting up high in the driver's seat, bumbling along down 28^th Street. Until I remembered that I was in a FedEx truck bumbling along down 28^th Street. From now on, I am that vehicle that no one wants to get stuck behind and everyone wants to avoid. I hope I don't get too many angry glances.

Still, a job is a job, and I have no right to complain about it. The other woman in my training class got laid off from an industrial job a year ago, and she seems extremely grateful to be employed at all, more grateful than I am. I can't take that for granted, especially since FedEx is such a well-respected company and the pay is nothing to scoff at. Having a four-year degree doesn't make me any better than the rest of them.

Therefore: optimism. That is the word of the week. A positive attitude. I'm not going to let myself whine about my misfortune in not landing a more intellectually stimulating job. Not yet. Yes, already I feel I have a lengthy list of possible complains about my current work, but who doesn't? Those can come out later, in other blog entries. For now: optimism.  

To the well-meaning post-post-graduates:

When you ask me what I'm doing now that I'm done with college, I have no right to be angry with you. It is a natural question, and it's even possible that you are genuinely curious. (Although if you are not, I suppose it is an easy way to direct what might otherwise be an awkward conversation, so I should still cut you some slack.) In all likelihood, you mean well. In all likelihood, you do not realize the mounting frustration this question causes me, the dread I feel when I see it form on your lips. You hope I have an interesting answer. You probably assume I do.

My response may sound rehearsed, but that is only because I have delivered it about six hundred times before, to other well-meaning inquirers. Also perhaps because I have detached myself from the sound of my voice and hope to skate through this conversation on auto-pilot. Unless I deem that it will take an unpredictable turn, away from the sympathetic nods, the “what was your major again?” question, that moment of silence where you try to think of something encouraging to say—but this is unlikely.

You care about me, probably. At the very least you are being polite and do not intend to annoy me. I should thank you for your concern. Unfortunately, this is not a conversation I want to have, and I may have trouble forcing an upbeat tone. My eyes may shift to the left or right as I look for an escape route. Do not be alarmed. This is not your fault. You are not aware of the problem to which you are contributing.

The problem is this: When you ask me what I'm doing with my life and give me consoling nods or say things like “you'll figure it out eventually” or “you're still young,” I do not feel encouraged. When you say that you are praying this time of transition will be short for me, I do not feel supported. Even the friendly, reminiscing remarks about your own struggles during your post-college years—often these do not inspire me in the way I want to be inspired. Comments like these only reinforce the kind of mentality that I am currently trying to flee, trying to fend off for the sake of my sanity. I do not want to believe that the only way to be happy is to accept the fact that I am not going to find fulfillment in my current stage of life. I do not want to be reminded that this stage will soon end, as though that is something I should be looking forward to eagerly and doing my best to expedite.

Do not tell me that my life is on hold, that I am in a waiting stage, that this too will pass. I know you mean well. I know you want the best for me. But maybe that begins with reassessing the way you view “stages of life” and how and why we progress from one to the next. (Progress isn't even the right word here. Move would be more accurate; it's more neutral.) I do not want to be the kind of person—the kind of person most of us naturally are—that is always looking one or two steps ahead and never at the ground directly beneath my feet. I do not want to delude myself into thinking that once I get my “dream job” and move to the “next stage,” I will suddenly find the fulfillment I was previous lacking. I have to believe that anyone is capable of finding that at any point in their life. And from my short experience on this earth, I have discovered that the much-anticipated next turn rarely offers the amount of satisfaction I desire.

Perhaps I am being overly picky here. Perhaps I am reading too much into the subtleties of language and vocal expression. But I don't think so. I think there is something fundamentally wrong with the way we (both recent college graduates and not-so-recent) approach the months or years that comprise this post-college “phase” and the way that we talk about it. When we assume a level of barrenness in our emotional and spiritual well-being simply because we have yet to “find our way,” we sell ourselves and others short. We should not look at this time primarily as preparation for some future stage. In a way it is preparation, just as all moments are preparation for future moments, but to view it primarily in this light is to limit its possibilities.

I want to live fully now. I want to embrace my job, the people around me, the spaces I occupy now. When people give me sympathetic looks, when people tell me to hang in there, I feel like I'm not allowed to be satisfied yet. I feel like I'm not supposed to be happy until I obtain that next level. But what is that next level? And what if I am happy? What if I am content with my life as it stands, unglamorous as it may be? (Or at the very least, trying to be content.) I don't want anyone to give me an excuse not to look for joy and meaning in the present.

So I admit, I don't want to work for FedEx delivering packages forever. It's not exactly my ultimate goal in life. But I also don't want to define success so narrowly that I assume God can't use me where I am now. It's true that driving trucks doesn't require a college degree in English Writing. But I can use my writing skills in other ways (like this blog, for example), and I'm not going to accept that my identity lies in my career or even—that loaded word—vocation anyways. Those things come and go. If I want to find meaning, it has to be in the only thing that is not transient.

Perhaps you can see now why this conversation often frustrates me. As I seek to navigate the complexity of living, it does not help to be continually reminded that I have yet to “arrive” according to the world's standards. I don't want to care about that. Please don't make me feel like I should.

I can't expect you to stop asking me question about my life and plans. Like I said, I understand that this is a natural curiosity. But maybe you could show more concern for my present adventures than my future ones. Maybe we could both help each other to appreciate the gifts of this day before we look forward to those anticipated tomorrow.

Adult Children

Today after church I went to a lunch reception for a friend of mine who is a missionary in Thailand. There wasn't enough room at our table for all of my family plus the two other families who had joined us, so my mom said, "Well, how about this? The grownups can just move to another table and you guys can stay here." By "grown-ups" she did not mean me or my fellow twenty-two-year-old friend. Somehow we still got lumped in with the twelve-year-olds at the kid table.

"Yeah," I said, as they got up to leave. "Because Bethany and I aren't grown-ups so that would make sense."

My mom caught the sarcasm and apologized. We laughed it off. But the comment still irked me. Even though I know my mom meant nothing by it, even though I know she acknowledges that I am an adult and usually treats me as one, I felt undervalued. It's hard to be mature when maturity is not expected.

Living Under My Parents' Roof

I live under my parents' roof. And on their floor. And in a bed that belongs to them. I use their hot water, their electricity, their washing machine. I eat their food. Sometimes I steal sour gummy worms from my mom's secret stash above the KitchenAid. I drive their cars which guzzle their gas which they pay for with money from their jobs. I use their wireless internet and their toilet paper (and it's the nice kind, not like the sandpaper stuff my friends and I bought in college). When I mail letters, which I do often, I take stamps from the drawer in the office.

When I was little, I didn't think twice about this. But now the cost of it all is weighing on me.

I'm twenty-two years old. Twenty-two. When I was in high school and I thought of myself as a twenty-two-year-old—well first of all, I rarely stopped to think of myself as that old, but if I did—I pictured apartments and classy blazers and herb gardens on a window ledge, probably in some trendy urban neighborhood near my purpose-fulfilling job. Mostly the vision was a blur, but I know for certain I did not picture my parent's house, a FedEx truck (did I mention I'm starting work for FedEx in a few weeks?), or a floundering social life. I did not picture my brother's old blue bedspread, my little sister's raspberry shampoo, a precariously balanced bank account.

But for better or worse, college graduate that I am, I live with my parents and my younger brother and sister in the same neighborhood I played in when I was eight. I'm not the only one of my friends in this situation, but in this case, a sense of solidarity is not particularly reassuring.

I've discovered that it's awkward to be an adult but live in the house in which one grew up. I'm not sure if my parents know how to handle it either. How much do I help with chores? Should I pay some sort of rent? Do I still get $10 when I mow the lawn? I'm grown up now, I suppose, and my parents took off my leash a long time ago, but in some ways I feel like I've voluntarily put it back on. I'm trying to be a child and an adult at the same time, and it's not working. I keep accidentally reverting to the maturity level I had the last time I lived in this house full-time, back when I was in high school—fighting with my siblings, holing myself up in my bedroom, leaving my unwashed cereal bowl on the kitchen table. Maybe things will improve once I start working full-time in October. Maybe when more is expected of me, more will be delivered. But at this point, I feel like a less-social version of my 17-year-old self.

These are times when I don't mind constantly being mistaken for a teenager. Because if I were a teenager, people wouldn't expect me to have my life figured out, or at least have a solid start on it. As it is, I'm almost embarrassed to tell people I've graduated from college. I dread their inevitable next question: “So what are you doing now?” The true answer is more complicated than the one they want from me. Simple responses given to such questions are rarely entirely honest. How can they be? People don't ask desiring to hear the whole story, particularly if it is depressing or involved. So sometimes I let people assume I'm still in high school, because it's better for both of us that way.

This strange child/adult dynamic is something I'm going to have to figure out, though, because it doesn't look like I'm going to be moving out any time soon, not as long as my parents are willing to have me and I still have student loans to pay and a nearby job. It's the right financial move right now, as unglamorous as it may be. I know this and so do my parents. So unless I want to be moody and miserable for the next year or so, I need to learn how to live like an adult in my childhood home. I need to re-imagine my city and my house to fit my current stage of life.

I think I also have to learn that it is ok to be dependent on people at times. No one was meant to walk life alone, and if family, friends, or even strangers want to aid me as I stumble my way through this transitional time, who am I to scorn their help? There are a lot of people out there smarter and more experienced than me, and it would be foolish to doggedly insist on doing everything myself. So if my parents want to help me in this way, by offering their home rent-free, giving me the gift of additional time to figure out my next step in life, there is no shame in accepting it. In fact, sometimes refusing to receive such an offer is a symptom only of pride. A friend reminded me of this once when I complained about my distaste for accepting other people's money and my desire to provide entirely for myself. “Britta,” he said, “sometimes people give us things that we don't deserve, but we have to learn how to accept them. That's what grace is. We can't earn everything that is given to us, and we shouldn't try to.” He's right, of course, and I've been reminded of his words time and again over the past few months. So often I think I need to earn everything that is given to me, but if I earned it, it wouldn't be a gift. It wouldn't be free. Learning how to accept the graces of others is a first step in learning how to accept the grace of God.

So maybe growing up, in a counter-intuitive way, means learning how to be dependent again. Dependent in a proper sense. Not needy and ungrateful and helpless, but humbly accepting the fact that I need the help of others and knowing that I probably never will nor should be in a position of absolute autonomy. Financially, maybe, but not in other ways. And there's no shame in that. God designed us for community after all.

I don't plan on living in my parents' home forever, nor do I have any desire to. Obviously it is important for me to learn how to support myself on my own dime in the not-too-distant future. And I want to do that; I want to be more independent. But right now I need to accept the gift my parents have given me, be grateful for it, and find a way to embrace my life.

I feel twinges of guilt and self-scorn sometimes when I think of all that my parents are doing for me and how little I'm able to contribute to the household. I still have trouble unashamedly telling people I live at home. And I definitely haven't figured out my new role in the family with two younger siblings still around and in school. (Do I go to family events? Are my responsibilities the same?) But I'm trying to accept these graces. Because even if I were living on my own in an apartment somewhere, even I were married or in a secure job, this would still be a strange period, a time of learning about myself and what I want and where I want to go. Just because I haven't physically left the house yet doesn't mean I'm not moving in a direction.

This is real life, I remind myself. I'm not still waiting for it to begin.

Observations from the Detroit Airport

There are people crying here. A surprising number, although maybe it shouldn't be surprising because airports are stressful places. I've cried in an airport before, more than once.

A lot of classy-looking business people. Men in suits. Women in pencil skirts and heels. Lots of heels. I don't quite understand this. The women look awkward, like top-heavy storks, as they pull along their suitcases.

A middle-aged woman in floral next to me complains about layovers and how she'd always rather pay extra on a ticket to avoid them. Such a hassle and waste of time. This is a foreign concept to me. I can't image paying more for the convenience of anything right now; that habit has been beaten out of me after four years of college tuition and no spare change. I'm flying to Connecticut from Detroit, but I have a layover in Chicago, which means I go directly west before going directly back east. I also don't get in to Hartford until midnight. About as inconvenient as you can get. But it was the cheapest ticket, so of course I bought it. I didn't even consider otherwise.

I watch a tall man with a cane check his luggage. He is wearing a gray sweatsuit that matches his facial hair, and I decide I like him.

There are a lot of those little carry-on suitcases with four wheels that glide across the floor with a soft buzzing sound. The softer the buzz, the more important you are. Briefcases seem to be made now with a zipper that allows them to slide down the handle of these carry-ons, securing them firmly on the top. It is the look. Those who have it appear self-important. They know they look professional. They do this all the time, fly. It's just business.

I have to wait for three hours in front of the luggage check in a black leather chair because you can't check your bags until at most four hours before your flight leaves. Yes, that is how early I am to the airport. Another example of how cost trumps convenience. This was the only time I could get a ride to the airport, which is two hours from my house. (There is a closer airport, but it is smaller and too expensive for me.) Time is the one commodity I have more than enough of.

There are lots of iphones and ipads out. People sitting, looking busy, alone.

A girl, probably about my age, has just walked past, doing a poor job of concealing the fact that she is crying. Two women next to me get up. “You look like you need a hug,” one says. The girl nods. They each give her one. She says something to explain her tears which I can't hear, although I think it has to do with her boyfriend. The girl and the women do not know each other. The women sit back down and the girl continues on her way, anxiously chewing the straw of her fountain drink. I want to be like those women someday, able to give a hug to anyone who needs one.

As soon as I check my bags, I am going to need a long walk. Sitting too long with a laptop on one's legs causes them to fall asleep. There is a security officer riding his bike through the terminal. That looks like I fun. I want to do that.

An old woman with hairpins has come to pick up her sister. Her sister is old also and cannot walk well, but she refuses to use a wheelchair. “So stubborn,” the woman says. “I don't understand why some people can't just accept help.” Another woman to her right nods in agreement.

Fifteen more minutes until I can check my bag. Good thing, too, because I have to go to the bathroom, and wheeling both of these monstrous red things through the bathroom door is a pain in the neck. Of course I'm not allowed to leave them unattended. Otherwise they might think I'm a terrorist.

A woman in a black suit has black spiked hair and wears too much blue eye shadow.

Later, once I'm at my gate, a Navy officer (or some such other military person—I can't tell, but he's decked out in lots of medals and badges) sits next to me. I hear a familiar tune that reminds me of long childhood car trips and look over to see him playing Mario Bros on his Nintendo. Across from me a man with long gray hair and loafers eats McDonald's fries and talks to his business partner on the phone. The fries look good, but I hate buying food in airports. Money—once again.

(Now the Navy officer is reading a book. It is entitled The Blinding Knife, and the bookmark is a card from one of those Pokemon/Yu-Gi-Oh/Magic games.)

On my first flight I sit next to a guy named Damion who is in a philosophy doctorate program at the University of Michigan and started a conversation with me because he saw my Margaret Attwood book. Also possibly because he thought I was cute. I like to flatter myself sometimes with such thoughts. He has black-rimmed plastic glasses, big eyes, and wears a striped sweater. Classic academia.

Damion tells me about his philosophy studies and I nod my head and pretend to understand because I get the impression he thinks I'm intelligent and I don't want to disappoint him. He loves the fact that I'm writing a novel and read good literature. We talk about Raymond Carver and Hemmingway and Steinbeck. I hope the man on the other side of me is listening. I hope he thinks we're smart. When Damion asks me to join him for a quick bite to eat after we land before our connecting flights, I feel a little uncomfortable because he doesn't know I have a boyfriend. And maybe he doesn't care? But it's too late now.

Before we part, Damion gives me his card and tells me to send him a link to my blog. I think to myself, shoot, now people are really reading it, and it had better actually be good. I wonder if there are any previous posts I should delete. I also remember how he strategically asked about my last name. Even if I don't email him the link, he'll probably be able to find it online.

Between flights, at gate B9, the smell of McDonald's is overwhelming. All food from McDonald's, no matter what you order, milkshake or hamburger, smells exactly the same. In a soothing tone, a woman's voice repeats over and over, “The moving walkway is ending.” Once every three seconds. Until it is no longer soothing. But no matter where I sit at this gate, I can hear her.

A woman with a small brown dog watches TV and strokes the dog's neck. The dog looks embarrassed, if that's possible. Like it doesn't want anyone to see it being pampered by this heavy woman with sparkling earrings and leopard print flats. I wonder the story behind this dog. I wonder if this dog is the woman's best friend and if she's afraid to leave it home alone or at a kennel. I wonder what she does if it has to go to the bathroom in the airport or on the plane. Does it pee in its little carrier bag? Does she hold it over a toilet?

On my second flight, the man next to me is happy I asked to take the middle seat between him and a skinny man in a track jacket. “I'm just glad a tiny person like you is sitting there. I was worried that mad gab on the phone was going to ask. Did you see her?” I tell him not to worry, I'm quiet. He says, “That's not what I mean. You know what I mean.” I do know what he means. He thinks she's fat and annoying. This phone lady walks by a minute later, chatting about the number of carry-ons. My plane buddy turns to me. “See?” he says scornfully. I do not like this man. He is mean, and he wants me to be mean with him. When a woman with large breasts walks by, he stares at her chest. Actually, I'm not totally sure that he does so, but it appears that way, and I look at him intentionally, expecting him to. It will only further justify my negative opinion on him. During the flight, he pays the $5 for wifi so he can play with his ipad. He orders a vodka tonic. I knew he was going to.

Myself, I play solitaire on my laptop. I don't have a very good win percentage, but I swear I'm getting dealt bad hands. I play probably eight games and don't win a single one.

A Scene From My Home This Evening

My father to my dramatic twelve-year-old sister: Honey, you really need to go upstairs and do your homework now. It's too distracting for you down here.

Sister (suddenly upset): No, I can't study by myself! I hate that. It's too lonely.

Father: Well, eventually you're going to need to study alone. What are you going to do when we're dead and gone and you're in grad school?

Sister (looking aghast): That's mean!

Father: How is that mean?

Sister: Grad school is for people who can't get jobs! (Storms upstairs to her room.)

It took much persuading to convince my sister that my dad had not, in fact, attempted to insult her. Where is she getting her information? And is she right? I, for one, am a wee bit jealous of my college friends who get to spend another couple years delaying their entry into the world of mediocre jobs and student loans and terrifying amounts of free time. Grad school provides direction. Now I have to create my own.

I'm still deciding if I like this.

Blank: A Work of Flash Fiction

During her lunch break, while she sits in the stifling heat of her rusted white volvo, Ingrid Anderson, age twenty-three and one month, draws a tiny black star on the skin just above her navel with her pen. She has no particular reason for doing so, except perhaps that as she was untucking her green Oxford button-up from her khakis she happened to catch a glimpse of her pale white stomach and it looked unnaturally blank.

Behind her, across an acre of shimmering asphalt, the Maple Valley Health Administration Building rises in five stories of reflective black glass and steel. Very new and very modern. Ingrid works in the middle of the second floor with the other temps and can see none of these windows, just the mauve fabric wall of her cubicle and the sheets of paper which she is supposed to transcribe into the new digital database. Ron Pierson. DOB 6-14-1953. History of diabetes and heart disease. Currently prescribed Glumetza, 500 mg, twice daily. Etc.

Ingrid leans back in her seat, closes her eyes, and considers taking a bite of her mealy Granny Smith apple: the only thing she has for lunch today besides a little bag of dry cereal because she didn't have time to make a sandwich this morning and that was all she could find to grab in her—that is, her mother's—cupboard. She can feel sweat surfacing between her shoulder blades and beneath her arms and wonders vaguely if it will stain her shirt. On the seat next to her is a thin white envelop postmarked from Whitmore Graduate School. It has been opened so carefully that if someone were to glance in the window and see it resting casually on the fake leather they would never notice the slightly rough top edge or see the tell-tale sheet of paper on the floor beneath the passenger seat. They may not even see Ingrid, who after three months on the job has learned the art of being invisible, blending in with her office chair or her car seat or the blank walls of the cubicle mouse-maze, because maybe if no one notices her, maybe even she will forget that she works here, that she is shuffling in the line of the unskilled labor force, widening the time gap between college graduation and her first “real job.” Because she is in the real world now and better make the most of it.

But none of this matters because only a fool would wander around peeking in car windows in this weather, and in nine minutes, Ingrid's half-hour lunch break will be over and she will tread back across the radiating heat of the parking lot, scan her employee card at the side door, and climb up the stairs to her mauve cubicle where she will enter information about Esther Godwin's recent hysterectomy and Kevin William's health insurance, which she is not to disclose to anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances.

There on the second floor, Ingrid will sit next to Patrick, one of the other temps, who still has a year left of college and who talks like a philosophy professor, slowly and deliberately, as though everything he's saying is a profound reflection on human existence, even if he's just telling Ingrid that the photocopier is broken. And Ingrid will sit in the faded office chair that is permanently stuck on the lowest height setting so her shoulders barely rise above the plane of her desk, listening unwillingly to Patrick ponder about post-it notes and what is the plural of pancreas and how indecipherable is this doctor's handwriting. And slowly, she will feel herself sinking, pushed down by the steady drone of the air conditioner, flattening into her chair because gravity has suddenly become too much, has increased three-fold or ten-fold, and her arms and fingers and head have been filled with sand and are impossible to lift. At that point her eyes will slide out of focus and no longer be able to read the words on the screen, which is now nothing but a square of white light; the stapler and paper clips and pens around her will blur and dissolve into the grayness of the desk and the mauve cubicle walls will lose all texture, as will Patrick and Ingrid herself. For ten blissful seconds she will think of nothing but sleep.

Until Ingrid becomes aware of a growing pressure in her lower abdomen, reminding her of the many cups of coffee she drank that morning. And so with a monumental effort she will place her hands on her knees and stand up, remaining for a moment hunched over the desk, not yet able to fully shake off those iron shackles of gravity. She will point her feet towards the bathroom, and they will carry her there, weight and sleep evaporating slowly like steam from her back. The mauve cubicles walls and the forest green carpeting will regain their distinct textures, until Ingrid can see each coarse, individual thread in sharp relief, the reality of the office breaking back in.

The bathroom is large and clean and has an automatically dispensing air freshener that smells like rotting flowers. Ingrid will enter a stall, untuck her shirt, unbutton her pants, and set free the coffee before walking up to the sink to wash her hands, doing her part to “keep our work environment healthy and happy.” For a moment, she will stare vacantly into the mirror, then, hands still wet and soapy, slap herself across the face, twice. Right cheek then left cheek, lips slightly parted like she is about to scream, a sudden glint of desperation in her eye.

Is this my life? Will Ingrid speak out loud or will the roar come from inside her own head, the words pounding against barriers of skull and skin? Is this my life? Louder this time, or at least more forceful; Ingrid will realize that her knuckles have turned white from gripping the edge of the sink. Then the words will recede, slowly, like a wave.

When she emerges from the bathroom and sits back at her computer, her cheeks damp-darkened like sidewalks after rain, she will turn to Patrick and ask whether he is aware that she has a star tattoo above her belly-button.

And Patrick will look at the girl who has never volunteered personal information once in three months and say, no, he didn't know, and for once have nothing more to add.

Then Ingrid will nod to confirm the veracity of her statement, sit in her broken chair, and spin around to face the computer screen and the health insurance policy of Robert Saganski.

But as of yet, that dam has not been breached. Ingrid Anderson, age twenty-three and one month is sitting in her rusty volvo, staring at a Granny Smith apple and feeling sweat trickle down her torso in a growing network of rivers and tributaries, wondering when her life is going to start.

Honey, you'll appreciate it when you're older

Today I was mistaken for a high schooler. Twice. That makes about the 22nd time in the past month.

This is real life.

My Life's Mantra

I have this taped to the mirror in my room, on a sticky note on my laptop desktop, and on a piece of paper I use as a bookmark. I read it several times a day. I have it memorized. I send it everyone I know who I think will appreciate it. For this season, it's my life mantra.

"How many gifts from God will justify trust and thanks? Are the pressures of life stronger than the call to be wise? Show me an adult with the courage to fear differently. Were college loans and healthcare costs and rent and singleness intimidating? Yes. Would fear of these things be the source of my life's intention? Oh no. I'll get a job. And I won't hate it. I'll pursue health, and I won't begrudge the maintenance. I will be in the company of fellow shadowaries and not be underwhelmed. No one will notice me and no one will tell me what to do next, and I won't feel passed over. I decided it, that year, with resolve."
- taken from Prof. Leah Samuelson's chapel message, Wheaton College, February 2012