sacrament.

Tonight my apartment got sanctified.

I've been reading a book on Sabbath, by Abraham Joshua Heschel, and he talks about how objects and places cannot have spiritual meaning in and of themselves. They acquire meaning by being associated with sacred moments. For a place to be meaningful, there has to be the memory of the Thing that Happened.

And it's not that anything incredibly profound or story-worthy happened. People came. We had butternut squash lasagna and wine and strawberries with ice-cream. We were together. We talked. There were candles burning and lullaby versions of Radiohead playing in the background.

But that's all that needed to happen. A quote I wrote down from Heschel goes, "Sanctify the Sabbath by choice meals, by beautiful garments; delight your soul with pleasure and I will reward you for this very pleasure." The reward I got was the feeling, the assurance, that my apartment is now a place to be, a place where people relax and eat a little and talk a little and rest a little from all the distracting things of life, like work and school. I've realized more than once that this whole thing, of bringing friends together and feeding them, is my version of church now, because I still haven't found a church that feels like church. But this does.

the things that don't make sense.

Oh, the complicatedness of life. And faith. Dr. Wall doesn’t do it justice.

I’ve been reading up a little on Jewish ideas of the messiah. It’s not a simple topic. And in a sense, it is a heartbreaking one. To actually read the accounts—the gathering of the exiles, the recognition of Israel’s God by all the earth, the fruitfulness of the ground, the end of war, long days of peace and prosperity, maybe even a new kind of existence where pain and death do not exist—to read such things, and to think of the thousands of years that have passed since they were written… It reminds of a paper I wrote last year, about how the traditional placement of Eden is in Iraq. Such beautiful visions, so very far away. Is the kingdom near? How can it be?

Obviously, there is much more to Judaism than messianic expectations. But, even without a messiah figure, there is still a strong hope for the gathering of the scattered and the exiled, for life on the land that was promised, for peace and fullness and fulfillment. Surely a good God who gives good things to His children would give these things to His people.

But the history of the Jews isn’t pretty. And the fact of Jesus hasn’t seemed to help them out much. You could argue the reverse, even—look how much persecution has come straight from the hands of Christians, with the convenient reason, “The Jews killed Jesus!” How ironic, if Jesus did see himself as the Jewish messiah, that such things should go on in his name. Can you call such things the birth pangs of the messiah? Or are they just the fucked-up actions and incredible cruelty of men? Of “Christians”.

So what does “Christian” even mean? What does it mean for us to call Jesus the messiah? Messiah for whom? And does our religion have anything to do with anything Jesus actually said or taught or did?

The more I read, the more I see, the more I wonder if the answer is no.

nerd.

So I've been sitting in the library for an hour and a half, listening to Sibelius' violin concertos and searching for articles on the phrase "son of man". I've accumulated a stack of books about messianism and jewish context. I am being sucked back into the rhythm of research and academic life, and I feel myself liking it. Mostly.
There is, of course, the sick thrill of taking an actual, physical book off a shelf in the library, and feeling an involuntary surge of hope that it will reveal some amazing thing, or that the reading of it will cause brain cells to spontaneously grow and swell with wisdom and wit.
There is the pitting of oneself against an article and trying to out-think it, to feel smarter than this published buffoon, whoever the hell he is.

It helps that outside it is cloudy and dull. And, that I haven't started my new job yet and have a lot of time on my hands. And, that I caught a ride to school with my roommate, and I can either keep myself occupied until she is out of class or walk all the way home.

But still. This morning I sat and listened to Dr. Lemcio teaching about the gospel of Mark, and as I listened to him I actually felt interested again in the words on the page. I didn't feel that way last night, when I was quasi-attempting to do homework, but that's beside the point. I think it has a lot to do with tempo, and that has a lot to do with this year as a whole. Sometimes I feel an inner rush, to reach the answer, now, to figure it out, to feel intelligent and quick. But I am learning to take my time. And it isn't that I want to plod along and waste time. It's just that I HAVE time, and few obligations, and I get to use it however I want and however seems actually beneficial to me. Because it's MINE.

The demon inside me is laughing with pleasure at having absolute power.

In the past I would always hit the point, a few weeks into the quarter, where I wanted to just give it all a rest and take a trip to Portland. And I never did, because I was frightened to death of missing a deadline. But I don't really have deadlines. The thesis will be done when it's done. And if I want to go to Portland, I'll go. Some might say that is a dangerous strategy for getting things finished, and it probably is.

But the thing is, I don't care.

MWAhahaha!

marla makes a change

I started a post last Sunday, entitled "marla gets sacked" - but I decided against posting it. I've told the story a few times, and I'm through with telling it. So let the title be all you need to know. The reality is very complicated, a combination of who I am, who my bosses (well, ex-bosses) are, and the things that happen that are beyond our control but affect our emotions anyway. The owners of Epilogue seem to be having a hard time of it, at least right now, but I wasn't really in a position to help what needed to be helped. And I learned a few things about myself as well, and what happens when I get bored. How sad to be bored after three weeks of a job. It is good that I was fired, because I probably would not have had the courage to quit.

And today I got a new job. It will be at the Tutta Bella pizzeria, just above Whole Foods Market on Westlake, and I am excited beyond words to be working not only at a restaurant (and I've worked restaurants before, so I know what I'm getting into), but one committed to integrity and creating a community of good people around good food. It feels...new. It feels like I'm stepping into something that has a future, not something that is at best stagnant and at worst in the full throes of decay.

It is so nice to feel that your bosses are passionate about what they do, that they have a vision and are moving with it, and they expect you to know and share what that vision is. I think I've found some good people. In all of my soul-searching and job searching, that's been the very heart of what I've wanted.

More to come, I'm sure...

being religious

Lately it seems the only thing to do is be wrapped up in my thoughts. They haven't been the kind of thoughts to share, or maybe they're just becoming harder to put into words. In spite of that, because of that, I have to try.

Autumn is just beginning and the leaves are starting to fall and for some reason it feels more like something is being born than dying. Something I thought did die. Last year I found myself heading towards the thing I'd feared for a long time--the loss of any kind of belief in God, and the numbness of no longer caring. By the time I walked down the aisle at graduation, I was convinced it was gone, the only thing left was to get used to the fact, and feeling nothing about it was both a relief and the biggest disappointment of my life. That was the part that saddened me. I couldn't pick up a book on theology, couldn't stand to read the words. They wouldn't sink in. They didn't mean anything, didn't make any sense. Ending my college career was a relief. No longer would I have to strain to write papers that would have some kind of integrity without really giving away the full truth. And what even was the full truth? I didn't believe, and I didn't not believe. I was tired of wrestling with my questions, and with the conception people had of me, and how it didn't match what I knew of myself. The only thing I knew was that I didn't know anything. I couldn't prove God, even to myself. I couldn't be certain. I was tired of trying.

And still I couldn't leave. Still I was drawn to church, and sat in stillness, and wrote prayers to whoever was or wasn't listening. And knew that church was the only place I was fully honest. My feet carried me to communion, and I took my questions in hand and ate. It wasn't a choice. It was a realization that there was nothing else for me to do. And when I couldn't read Christian theology, I read Hindu scriptures and the Tao te Ching and Life of Pi and realized that I was still thinking about God, about Ultimate Reality and what it means to be human, all the time, all the time, and I didn't want to do anything else.

I'm not sure if I can call myself a Christian. But can I really call myself anything else? Two days ago I sat on a pew and listened to a liturgy and knew that my present is the sum of my past, and Christianity is the only religion I have known. It is my native tongue, and however I seek God now, I can't turn my back on the thing that has taught me to think about God at all, has given me what small experiences I have had that I have dared to call sacred. It is hard to stand on the inside of something, to have known it for so long, to see its faults and the things you wish you could change or erase. It is hard to finally admit that the tradition you have known didn't fall out of the sky, that it was made by human beings who didn't know much more than you and who all had deep and regrettable faults and sometimes did unimaginably cruel things. It is hard to accept that we are really just groping in the dark and the darkness itself is inside of us. And yet. I find myself flummoxed by the mystery that surrounds me and the human desire to express what we cannot explain, and I have to give it my attention. I have to take it seriously, look at it fully, knowing I don't know. And I need the community of people trying to do the same. I believe in the thing I have no adequate words for and no rational understanding of. I can't stop myself, can't beat it out of myself, and the only thing to do is be grateful that I am not the only one.

"After mystery comes suspense. After suspense, comes romance."

Today was my first day as the new shopgirl at Epilogue books, People's Pick for the Best Independent Bookstore in Seattle. They offered me the job on Monday, but I was pretty sure I had it in the bag right after my interview on Thursday, and I thought long and hard about it until Tuesday, then impulsively called and said yes.
Because, really, chances like this are limited to a very short period of your life. By which I mean, when I'm thirty, there's no way I could take a 30-hour job at 8.50 an hour with the blithe thought that if worse comes to worst, my parents could help me pay rent. Part of me thinks I should feel more ashamed of refusing to join the real world, now that I have four-years of private college under my belt. But, hey, I still don't have a degree, so what's the problem?

I think what pushed me over the edge, to say yes, to jump into the future of being as poor as ever, was the interview I had yesterday for an "Executive Assistant" position. During the two minutes I waited in the reception area, three different people asked if I wanted coffee, and one even said, "Are you sure?" In the interview, they started pulling out those questions, that we all hate, that even interviewers probably hate, that come straight out of a circle of hell, I'm pretty sure. "Describe a time when a challenging situation arose and you implemented a solution." That's actually the only one I can remember, they were so boring. The kicker was when they asked what my restaurant manager would say about me if they called him, and after an awkward pause I decided to just come out and say it: "Well, actually, he died." More awkward pausing. But however well and badly the interview went, and in this case I really couldn't say which it was, I realized something. Even if it was a "gateway" job at a well-known and well-to-do company, I couldn't respect it at all. It would be the kind of place where I would look around me and think, "Why are all my coworkers throwing themselves into careers here, spending even their Saturdays doing things that just, well, things that the world might be better off without?" And on top of that, putting so much effort into projecting the image of "professional" - wearing uncomfortable and boring clothes, making forced chit-chat, never using profanity, never showing personality. I don't know how to explain this fully, but there was an absence of...reality, somehow. It just bothers me when things seem forced. It seemed like the kind of place where nothing spontaneous ever happens.

And something spontaneous did happen, the second I walked into the bookstore. It felt like the right place to be. The suspense of not being employed is over. Let the romance, of having the job every Seattleite wants, begin.

in gratitude to my failure

It's 3:44 in the morning.

It's hard to believe that it's been over four months since I Fell Apart, since every plan I made fell through and I found myself incapable of doing what I had told everyone I would do. I came to the point of letting go. I was going to leave Seattle. I didn't. I was going to start a life in the Real World, with a job and responsibilities. I couldn't.

I stayed. I stopped. I lay still.

And now, all I can do is remember all the times in these past few months where I have been flabbergasted by the people who surround me, sometimes people I've known since the beginning of college, but I'm just now starting to know them. Or people I'm just starting to befriend now, and I should have done so years ago.
And why has it taken me so damn long?

Something happened when I graduated. I stopped fearing being honest. I gave up on maintaining appearances. And mostly, I've had to learn to be honest and to give up image-control with...myself.
In high school, I used to make lists of things I wanted to do. In college, I started making lists of what I wanted to be.
Now, I've stopped writing lists at all.

Because there's no one to impress anymore. There's nothing to distract me from facing myself. There's no place to run. There's nothing to chase.

In the stillness and the darkness, when all things cease and there is nothing urgent to do, when there is only time and no restrictions on how to use it, Truth starts seeping up from the ground. If you just stay still, low to the earth, it fills your hand.