Disconnected, at last

(The Prelude: "Blogging is Not for Sissies") I have made journals into the dumping grounds of the emotional scurf that I want to rub off before writing anything truly good and worthwhile. Essentially, they are my emotional land fill. So beginning a blog that is non-land-fill-y is kind of difficult for me. A blog is like a journal -- something I expect no one will read and something into which I pour my rather useless, meandering thoughts. Besides, having now a head cold, my thoughts are perhaps even more useless and meandering than ever. But here goes.

(The Fugue: "Don't Worry This Is Not a Treatise on Postmodernism") Into the vapor of my currently infected mind entered the idea of Past. I heard my Lit professor's voice in my head: "Postmodernists believe that this age in which we live marks a complete separation from history and the past." We are not only out of touch with the past as it really was, Postmodernists say, but also the past has very little to do with us anymore: so many events that we will never even know about have shaped us, and so much has changed within the past century that these changes make the past essentially useless.

I've always hated the idea of separation from history. I was the nerd who remembered such random details about historic events that I could rattle off facts like: "The Indians taught the Pilgrims how to grow corn by planting fish in the field with the corn." (Now there's an important item to remember if you're ever on Jeopardy.) Somehow history seems too important to let go of. Too important to cast off like the husks of the corn that the Pilgrims grew. History, whether we understand the full picture or not, has shaped who we are and why we are who we are, not only as nations, but as individuals.

On the other hand, personal history is something I've always wished I could be more Postmodern about. Not just my own history -- which I kind of enjoyed, expect for the long shorts with high socks I used to wear all the time, the memory of which I wouldn't be sad to part with -- but the history of those I interact with on a daily basis. What I mean is, sometimes people change. Sometimes they change quickly, within the course of a couple years. Sometimes hope enters the vacant room of a person's heart and throws out all of the crap that the person was previously using to fill his or her heart up. So why is it sometimes so hard to let go of the crap? Not to keep bringing up garbage analogies, but isn't holding on to someone's past wrongs kind of like going out to their dumpster, grabbing the hairball that they pulled out of their shower drain, and saying: "Ha! I knew your shower drain used to be clogged! I knew it all along!"

How much of a right do I have to tell my friend that their past wrongs are still scarring me? Do I have any right at all? I mean, maybe I do. Maybe the fact that once upon a time -- perhaps even before they knew me -- they said they hated brunettes gives me a right to be a little bit pissed that they were/are the brunette-hating type. Maybe I have a right to suddenly be a little bit suspicious that they will one day become the brunette-hating type again.

Or, on the other hand, maybe I should revoke my right to even say, "I forgive you for once hating brunettes." Maybe I should simply say, "I'm glad you are who you are now. How fantastic."

Maybe I should let the hairball lie. What do you think?

If you're out there, and you're reading this, and you don't have a clue what I'm talking about: Congratulations. You must be forgiving enough or Postmodern enough to simply let other people's baggage roll right off your back (if you even let it roll onto your back in the first place).

If you're out there, and you're reading this, and you get what I'm talking about, then I have one of two responses for you:

1) Thank you for giving me hope that I am not the only one who holds onto grudges that I have no right to hold onto. Thank you for thus encouraging me to let go of my bitterness over the baggage of other people's pasts.

Or

2) I'm sorry that I ever judged you or withheld the forgiveness that I never even had a right to give or withhold. Your past is your own, and it is also your past. And as someone who sucks at being Postmodern, I nonetheless would like to say that your past mistakes are as separate from me as I believe you are separate from them. They may as well never have existed. Your drain isn't clogged anymore. And you are fantastic.

Orange Peels

They say it's good to slow down, take time to "eat the orange," as it were--enjoy the present, little moments of life without worrying about the past or the future. Good advice. The only problem is that this semester I've learned that eating the orange can sometimes be confused with eating the orange peel. I'll stop being abstract: many times I managed to think so much of my own present moment that I paid little attention to future ramifications or even to the people around me that might be affected, forgotten, or hurt by my own indulgence.

I don't have with me a ready solution, nor even an apology. I am only here because it is midnight and I find myself unable to sleep. Heaven knows I should be tired after a semester of late-or-all-nighters, relational battles, intense academics, and spiritual darkness. Somehow, though, all of these leave me in a state of mild insomnia. I figured getting something out, jotting a word down and engaging in the all-too-American process of self-analysis, might help me to sleep easier in the end. But none of this seems very important now that I sit down to "pencil" it out.

The only things that seem important now are these:

-The soft snores of a 3-month old child in my parents' bedroom.

-A slender bouquet of purple mums from dad to mom on her twenty-second Mothers Day.

-The shucking sound of pages turned as my sister reads to fall asleep. (The promise made by that shuck shuck shuck that family is near.)

-Family.

-Five Frescas chilling in the fridge, waiting for tomorrow.

-The vibration of an incoming text message spelling out the words: "I love you."

-Unshaved legs. (There's significance in that, women: unashamed to be the way God made you.)

-An empty box of Kleenex.

-And thus, catharsis.

-Bavarian sugar cookies.

-"A smoldering wick He will not snuff out."

Anyway, they say that most of the nutrients in an orange reside in the peel. I look back on this semester with relief that it is over and that I can close that chapter of my book and never open it again; yet I also look back with relief as I understand how God can use even my sin and selfishness to purge me of the same, to teach me His grace, and to give me a glimpse of Jesus who wore that sin written on his skin and that grace written on His heart.

Like I said, not offering solutions. Only: maybe now I'll sleep.