Actively Inactive

Mormons place a lot of importance and stress on the word "active." We are, after all, supposed to be "active" in several nebulous, important, and diverse ways. We should be "active" in the church, "active" in our ward (which I consider to be nearly two different things), "active" in our communities (whatever that means), "active" in politics, education, and anything else going on that we can influence, "active" in world affairs, "active" in our lifestyle, "active" in family history, "actively" preparing for the next world, "actively" studying the scriptures, preparing for an apocalypse, and bringing our families closer together, as a single, I am to be "actively" looking for and preparing for marriage, and, the most pressing of all, we should be "actively" engaged in a good cause. (In retrospect, that sentence should have had a lot less commas and a lot more semi-colons. I guess I wasn't editing actively enough.) With all of that, we start amalgamate guilt from the dozens of things we feel we are not doing actively enough. Each little dollop of gooey guilt gradually contributes to a large mass of guilt whose single sources are untraceable, and which rises and falls and globs through our psyche like wax in a lava lamp.

For example, I love blogging. I love putting my thoughts into words and feeling like they are expressing something. I adore getting comments, and the people who comment. I actually consider myself an active blogger; I blog more often than most of my friends, and I spend time everyday reading my favorite blogs. Since the blogging awards just came out, I've added about six more blogs to my google reader subscriptions, which means I now have 102 unread posts to get to. And I'd like nothing more than to curl up in a pool of sunshine with some hot tea and my labtop and my itunes and my laptop and read all 102.

But whenever I read these fantastic, award-winning, awe-inspiring blogs by people from around the continent, I start to feel like I am not "active" enough in my blog. I don't take fantastic pictures, I don't have children, cookbooks, ranches, or skills to write about. I don't remodel my apartment. I don't have advice to give people. I'm just a 25 year-old-single English teacher who reinvents herself every two years or more. Most days I just don't have anything to say.

But those blogs. Those beautiful blogs. Those blogs that say so much, make me think, cry, wince, foam at the mouth, and become so well-read that they actually create a community and bonds around people. How I wouldn't love to have one of those.

So. I'm going to at least take a step forward. I hereby declare that I will do the following things to be more active on my blog.

I will

Link to it on Facebook (wince, shirk, go hide)

Post more pictures that I take myself and fewer from Getty Images.

Actually post opinions on things, even if that means you start to think I have bad taste and am an idiot sometimes.

Talk more about the things going on in my life and what I think about them. In other words, downgrade the level of privacy. (wince, shirk, go hide). That may mean you end up in my blog from time to time, or that I might be a jerk. I might mention religion, dating, friends, skating, climbing, yoga, the weather, and other sensitive topics.

Post more often.

Work more on the layout, um, sometime.

Wow. Now I've intimidated myself. But I want to become a better writer, which means I need to write more. I've already started journaling much more, and now it's time to write things other people might read, even if there are only about five of them. And I love each of them dearly.

So, I'll be seeing you more often.

Accomplishment

As of this morning, I have paid for more than 50% of my car. My original goal was to have it paid off in two years, which isn't going to happen. It turns out that $16,000 is a freakin lot of money, but I'll still have it paid off early, if only about a year and half. If I continue to pay at my current rate, I'll own my little Yaris in another 18 months. Sigh. If I completely neglect my savings to get out of debt and don't spend a lot (something I'm getting increasingly bad at), I could get it paid off three years from my first payment.

But, all things considered, it's nice to have the amount of my debt down to only four digits. A five digit debt seems to have a strange effect on my heart rate and the amount of moisture on my palms.

A First For Everything

“[Name], I’ve had it,” I said, speaking softly and without a single ounce of patience left. She’d used it already by calling out, whispering, talking, balancing a pencil on her nose and encouraging those around her to do the same, refusing to whisper when she was asking a question when the room was supposed to be silent, etc.

Less than five minutes later I pointed to the door and said, “Get out.”

“But, no! I’ll—“ she protested.

“Get out.”

She left.

And it was much quieter. Fifteen minutes later I was able to unbend my scowl and smile at the rest of my students.

Return of the Inner Five-Year-Old

(5 Year-Old-Me made her first blog appearance in this blog from years ago. It should be mentioned that the intervening years have served to change the "that" that 5YOM wants, and to give my 5 year old self a potty mouth. Also, my internal dialogue has gotten rather petty.)

5 Year-Old-Me: I want that.

25 Year-Old-Me: I know, but you can't have it.

5YOM: Go to hell. I want that.

25YOM: Look, it doesn't make sense! Do you have any idea how badly that could turn out?

5YOM: Chicken.

25YOM: Infant!

...

5YOM: But I'd be happy.

25YOM: It's not that simple. Sure you'd be deliriously happy but if you look at it long term--"

5YOM (Interrupting): Blah blah blah blah. Live a little. It's not a bad idea, it's just what your mother would call a smart decision.

25YOM: Exactly! And that's what growing up and become a better person is all about, learning to make better decisions instead of easy ones.

5YOM: So growing up is learning to be unhappy/discontented most of the time and to work really hard while waiting for some future time of possibly greater happiness that may or may not ever arrive?

25YOM: Exactly!

5YOM: Call me crazy, but that's not just not smart, that's a dumb idea.

25YOM: You don't understand!

5YOM: Neither do you. You're just saying all that stuff to sound grown up and 'cause you think you should. Hypocrite. Now let's go get what we want.

25YOM: We can't.

5YOM: Why the #@&$ not?

25YOM: For all the reasons we've talked about a million times.

5YOM: You're an idiot.

25YOM: You're a crybaby.

5YOM: Buzz kill

25YOM: Clown

TOGETHER: Jerk!!

(silence)

5YOM: I want that.

A Toast

Gravity and I have known each other since the day I tried to lift my head by myself as a baby, but our relationship has never been a close one. Oh, we didn't have any hard feelings, and worked together through the years to get me walking, running, and sometimes dancing. But we still had our miscommunications. Especially about ice, the location of the last step on the stairs, and how high tree branches that I had climbed were. Gravity takes some careful footing to get a long with, and I tend to use my foot for putting in my mouth in social situations instead. Repeatedly, gravity would catch me flat-footed, if you'll pardon the expression.

Years went by, and I accepted our neutral relationship as a fact of life and ceased to think about it. It never occurred to me that a closer, more friendly relationship with gravity could be achieved. Gravity was not a friend nor an enemy, it was just a law with compulsory obedience.

Then, nearly two years ago, I put my foot on a skateboard for the first time. If I'd paid closer attention, I probably would have seen gravity sit up and start watching me. It watched those first few rolls and falls curiously, waiting to see if I meant it. Over the past year and three quarters I have discovered that I did. Gravity and I are working much more closely these days. We play games together, jumping, landing, turning, falling, learning. It teaches me things, like how to fall with out hurting, and how to use gravity and momentum to fly on wheels. I've learned how to treat it with respect and care. We get together and ride down ramps and zoom up the other side, giving and taking and sharing and figuring out what's possible. Gravity is strong, consistent, supportive, and an infinitely patient teacher. The more skilled I get, the more fun we have. I wish I’d gotten to Gravity sooner. No one ever told me we could be such good friends, and I’m not sure I would have believed them if they had.

A month and a half a go, I put my hand on a climbing wall again. Climbing is another game with Gravity. Gravity is not what pulls me down when I climb, but what lets me hang on holds if I find the right angle. It lets me swing to the next foothold and I borrow some to brace a foot on the next wall. In his book, How to Climb!, John Long refers to climbing a wall as the “choreography of ascent.” Climbing is a long, slow and romantic dance with gravity. These days, I hang out with Gravity more than just about anyone else.

Gravity and I are no longer just coworkers; we're teammates. Gravity is no longer the force that holds me down, it's the kite string that lets me soar, dip, and fly. Gravity is not a cold and confining prison, pinning us to the unforgiving ground. It is not a force to be conquered or vanquished; it’s a power to respect and befriend. It cannot be commanded or coerced, but it will gladly let you and help you do all sorts of amazing things if you are willing to train yourself to do them skillfully. It is not a dragon to be slayed but to be ridden, not as master and beast, but as a working companionship.

So, lades and gentlemen, raise your glass to my newest best friend, Gravity! Then, throw the liquid into the air and watch Gravity turn the drops into shining, shimmering, diamond marbles on the way down.