"QED."

I think it was Martin Luther who once said something like, "I have so much to do today, I can't afford not to spend three hours in prayer."

Yesterday, I:

--Rushed through my "quiet time," or "devotional time," or "Jesus time," or whatever you kids call it these days.

--Spent the whole day stressed out, tired, and frustrated.

--Got almost nothing done.

--Ate approximately eighteen thousand more calories than I should have.

Today, I:

--REFUSED to rush through my devos.

--Felt calm, light, and happy pretty much all day.

--Was *very* productive.

--Had over 500 calories left at the end of the day.

Now, I have this mental picture of Martin Luther standing over my shoulder saying, "QED."

School

In my nearly 22 years of life, I have attended:

1 Preschool,
5 Elementary Schools,
3 Junior High Schools,
3 High Schools,
1 Community College, and
2 Universities.

That's 15 schools.

My four years at Azusa Pacific University constituted the first time in my life that I spent four years in one place (school wise). And even that was fragmented by the fact that I studied abroad one semester (hence the second of my two universities).

So maybe it's not altogether that strange that, unlike most of my friends, the thought of APU starting the new year without me was devastating. I went out of my way not to know when exactly that was going to happen—it would have been so pathetically like me to have checked the APU website—but, of course, I was foiled by Facebook. Everybody and their mom was on Facebook wishing their friends a happy first day back at school, and celebrating the fact that they themselves were exempted from those proceedings. So much for the best-laid plans.

Then, this past weekend, I went back to the APU campus for the first time since graduating in order to spend a couple of days with one of my former roommates and meet with a professor. I stuffed my backpack as full as it would fill and I got on a train. I don't know what I expected would happen when I went back to APU for the first time. What did happen was that, when I arrived and saw dozens upon dozens of people I did not recognize, I was hit full force by the knowledge that APU has really and truly gone on without me, and this fact weighed heavier on my heart than my overstuffed backpack on my shoulders.

I ought to be used to saying goodbye by now; I've done it more than most people my age—as my list of schools will testify. But I'm not. Every time I say goodbye, my heart hurts... and this time more than previously, or so it seems. Why is that? I wish I knew. And here, at the end of round one, it's Questions 1, Answers 0.

Compare and Contrast

It has been four months and seven days since I graduated from college.

Since then I have:

Written over 15,000 words of my novel,
Presented a paper at an academic conference (by myself),
Told a friend that I was in love with him,
Woken up most mornings to the sound of Stephen Fry pretending to be my butler,
Sent my best friend of nine years off to a foreign country for nine months,
Realized a dream by singing 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic' as a solo in church,
Created a beautiful acrylic collage / painting,
Gone back to work for my dad,
Played countless games of cards,
Read several books I wasn't assigned,
Nested back into my old room in my parents' house,
Employed "tough love,"
Sent out a pant-load of thank-you notes,
Seen several good movies,
Visited Pismo Beach, Dodger Stadium, and the Griffith Observatory,
Been fed by Scripture and the encouragement of numerous saints,
Laughed so hard that I couldn't breathe,
Wept so hard that I couldn't stand up,
Held on tight to every scrap of faith I possess.

Since then I have not:

Figured out how to be an adult.

I know that I am where I am supposed to be.
I know that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing.
I do not know how to be here, doing this, and also be a (good / functional) adult.
I do not even necessarily know what that means...
...or how to feel about the fact that I don't know.

At least life after college and life during college have one thing in common: then as now, I tend to have more questions than answers.

What's it to Ya?

There's a song by Bob Rivers called the "What's it to Ya Chorus." As I understand it, Mr. Rivers does a lot of silly songs, or re-lyricizations of previously existing songs. Remember the Carpenters' version of "Sleigh Ride"? Bob Rivers has a version called "Flu Ride" where they'er basically trying to channel Karen Carpenter... with a fever and puffy sinus cavities. No joke.

The "What's it to Ya Chorus" (yes, based on G. F. Handel's 'Hallelujah') goes like this:

(http://www.themadmusicarchive.com/song_details.aspx?SongID=17770)

Ok. Hold that thought.

I have this tendency to feel that, for every infinitesimal decision I make - sometimes, right down to what shirt I put on in the morning - there is one right answer, and a million wrong ones. Even believing, as I do, that God is sovereign over everything, the analytical part of me snorts derisively at this, but it happens to me over and over again. Yesterday, for instance, I was trying to finalize my schedule for Fall 2008 classes, and I kept feeling like no matter what I did, I was going to end up with a "wrong" class. And of course, my "gut feeling" about which classes were right or wrong changed every five minutes. I mean... I want to be open to the movement of the Spirit - if there's some reason why I'm supposed to take x or y class instead of p or q, I want to be attentive to that, right? But I'm going insane! Eventually I threw the towel in and just did what made the most sense to me, but I swear, some day this tendency of mine is going to break my brain (just like Jim and Pam did to Andy with 'Rockin' Robin').

The point? I would really like to ask that part of my brain (or am I really talking about God? Gah! I don't know!)

WHAT'S IT TO YA?

I hope I'm the only one who's THIS CRAZY... and I wish someone could walk up to me and translate what's going on in my head when I get like this.

At the End of the Day

No matter how much I enjoy going places...
No matter how restless I sometimes get sitting around the house for a day...
No matter what exciting things have happened to me...

...there is something absolutely incomparable about coming home again.

I feel it after even a day away.

And when I arrived, home waited:

a bit rough about the edges,
containing much that is broken,
tangible and intangible,
and full of memories,
good, bad and indifferent.

It has not always been my home.
It will not always be my home.
But tonight, there is no where else I'd rather be.

I Spend a Lot of Time...

I spend a lot of time:



1. Looking for justification, or vindication, or eradication. I want to be told that I am right - especially if / when someone else is wrong. Shouldn't I be loving people?



2. Longing for the fulfillment of various dreams. I get so caught up in aching for the future that it poisons or distracts from the present. Shouldn't I be grateful for what I have now?



3. Blaming others for my problems. If only she would... if only he wouldn't... if only they could all... or else calling myself hideous names for the ways I've screwed up. Shouldn't forgiveness have a place in my life?



4. Making lists. But I don't think there's a way around that.

I don't know what it says about me that I can write it all down and at once feel more comfortable. I hate the idea that if I'm too comfortable, it must mean that, from God's point of view, I must be doing something wrong. After all, the people that God really used were drawn outside their comfort zones. I guess I have been outside my comfort zone - even this last week. But not in major ways. Not really. Over all, my life contains a great many comforts and luxuries. Part of me feels guilty - and the other part of me reaches out instinctively to turn the music up.

How do I fix all this? How am I to be any good to anyone with this plank in my eye? Forget plank, actually. More like a redwood. More like the whole damn forest. The trouble is, I don't actually want to remove it. I want to want to remove it. But for now... I'm comfortable.

I spend a lot of time being comfortable.

A Whale of a Tale

I want to have a blog that is actually intended to contain public posts (unlike my LJ account) because I figure if I want to be a writer I'd better get used to people reading my stuff.

Not that I really expect people to read this, actually... more that they can. On LJ, I put "Just Me" under the "Who Can See This Post?" category almost every time.

I considered naming this blog "A Whale of a Tale..." but then there was this weird thing where the blog name couldn't match the URL because the URL was taken or something... my NyQuill kicked in an hour ago so I'm not terribly with it right now... so I went with Han Land, because it rhymes and I was able to have a matching URL with that one.

But the phrase "A Whale of a Tale" is running around my head. This may be because my friend was recently singing that song... it may also be because I've thought about whales a lot this year. It's a little strange, but here's the thing: whales are large mammals that like to eat a lot. They like to swim and don't like for people to mess with them, and you wouldn't like them when they're angry. So far, whales and I have a lot in common.

But nobody looks at a whale and says, "Gosh, that whale could afford to lose a few pounds." Whales are super graceful even though they're huge. They're whales - they're supposed to look like that. Why can't people have that attitude about human beings? I know the argument only goes so far, and of course there are health issues that go with being overweight. But it's something I've been thinking about recently. I'm not saying that being overweight isn't a problem. Trust me: I'm not saying that. I guess what I ultimately mean is that whales don't feel shame about who / how they are. I do. I wish I knew how to just accept certain things: for instance: "These are my flaws. Everybody has some - these just happen to be mine." Then the cynical part of my brain thinks, "Okay, fine. Let's say I were to accept that fact. What are other people thinking about this fact?" I've heard it said that no one thinks about your shortcomings as much as you do. Is this true? When I walk into a room of normal people, am I the only one who feels awkward about the way I look? Do I really want to know the answer to that?

Probably not. Because I think about other people's shortfalls plenty often. Mostly, I think, because it distracts me from my own insecurities. So when I wish other people would get their acts together, what I need to do is to choose to give them some slack. Maybe then, in a way, I can make a step towards giving myself some slack in my turn. Does that makes sense?

Oy ve. "Vulnerable, party of one? Your table is ready."
Hence the reason why most of the time, I'm the only one who gets to see my LJ posts.