The Inevitable Religious Blog Post

I consider myself a Catholic. I was baptized into the church when I was born, and continued on, with the guidance of my parents, to celebrate my First Communion and First Reconciliation. Then, when I was old enough to make my own choices regarding the church, I chose to be confirmed in the Catholic faith as well. When I get married, it will be in a Catholic church, because anything else just wouldn't feel right to me. I identify with Catholicism as a way of celebrating the gifts that God has given us, and as a model of how to treat others, and even beyond that, going to church and reciting the prayers and participating in the same services that I grew up in is a source of comfort; it's a place, physical and spiritual, to return to that will always be there with open arms, and in today's fast-paced, ever changing world, that's something not always easily found.

Still, I don't go to church every Sunday; I believe gay marriage should be legal; I take the Lord's name in vain more often than I'd like to admit; and sometimes, I even eat meat on Fridays during Lent.

Some might label me a "Smorgasbord Catholic", picking and choosing from the "buffet" of traditions and beliefs of the church, and I suppose they'd be right. But you see, I believe that the fundamental law of any religion is to love, accept, and help one another; to follow the Golden Rule, and to treat others as you would want to be treated. The God that I believe in doesn't shun you for your sexual preference, or for eating meat, or for sleeping in on a Sunday morning. The God that I believe in loves you unconditionally, so long as you always keep Him in your heart, and do your best as a human, and therefore fundamentally flawed, being, to live your life in His image.

I've never witnessed a miracle, or seen an angel, or won the lottery, and despite how much I've prayed for it lately, I haven't received some undeniable sign from my mom that she's up in Heaven, happy and pain-free and watching over me, always. In fact, quite often, when I pray, I feel a disconnect - like I'm saying the words, but I'm not really sure that God can hear me, because I often find it difficult to reconcile the God in the readings of the Old and the New Testament with the God in my life today. However, there is one week each year when that all changes, and that time is upon us once again.

Holy Week.

To be honest, at the beginning of Holy Week each year, my first thought is usually something along the lines of, "Fantastic. 6-10 hours of church in a four day span. I really don't wanna do this." But then it's Holy Thursday and we're washing each other's feet and celebrating the Last Supper and sitting vigil with the Eucharist and somehow, it all becomes real; that we're remembering Jesus' last night on this earth, and the terror and sadness he must have felt over what was to come. Then comes Good Friday, when he is nailed to the cross. At my church, they actually hammer nails into a cross during the reading of the Gospel and with each blow of the hammer the sound of Jesus' sacrifice for us echoes in my chest and shakes loose a year's worth of pain, and anger, and sadness, and frustration, because really, in the face of something so big, what good does holding on to any of that do? Then comes the Easter Vigil, started in candlelit darkness until He is Risen, and we sing Alleluia and praise Him for His sacrifice and His miracle. And all of this, every single moment of this week, is an emotional journey equivalent to a thousand steps across a desert that leaves me exhausted and yet, paradoxically, more refreshed and secure in His love than ever.

Maybe you're rolling your eyes right now, or preparing a diatribe regarding how ridiculous it is that I believe these things, and that's okay. I can see the argument for evolution, and maybe the Bible didn't get everything right; maybe, even, the stories in the Bible are more figurative than literal. I'm not here to convert you to Catholicism, or any religion for that matter, and I will never be a so-called 'Bible Thumper'. Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, or lack thereof. And the leaders of our church may not be perfect, but they are only human, and they are trying. Still, I am thankful every day to my parents for raising me in the church, and for giving me the option of choosing to believe in something that is greater than me, or you, or anything on this earth or even in this universe, because it gives me hope. We were only given this one life, and what a sacrifice it took for God to give it. Every year, every day, ever hour, every second, is a gift, and it's a gift that I've too often taken for granted. I love this time of year, because it reminds me to be joyful, and to remember that I was created in His image, and that I am loved, and that I am never, ever alone.

Hebrews 13:5
Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said,
"Never will I leave you;
never will I forsake you."

And at the end of the day, I think that's something worth being grateful for.

Happy Easter, everyone.

I Do What I Want

I've decided that I can't put deadlines or demands on my genius so I am doing away with the Friday Top Five... which is good, I suppose, because I haven't gotten around to posting on Fridays for the past, like, 13489120312 weeks. Maybe that's an exaggeration, but that's okay; I can exaggerate if I so choose because I do what I want. Hence, the theme of todays brief, albeit arguably hilarious and insightfully revealing, blog post.

I did a lot of ridiculous things this week all in the name of doing what I want.

Monday, well, Monday was actually pretty normal for me, which was disappointing. I blame jet lag from last week's trip. It's hard to be amusing when you're exhausted. Moving on.

Tuesday, I woke up to a note on my car saying I was parked in the wrong spot, which is funny, because it's been my assigned spot for almost two years now. The place that I live is notorious for not having their shit together. So, I did the mature thing; I crumpled it up, threw it on the ground, and flipped off the office staff. From my apartment. No, they couldn't see me. It was symbolic. Shut up. Five minutes later I decided to be an adult, so I picked up my phone to call the office to resolve the issue... but the important thing to note here is that I almost didn't. Cuz that's just how I roll.

Wednesday, I wore this badass, fluorescent, wolf/Native American-themed shirt that I bought at SXSW last week to work, pictured again below for your continued enjoyment. When I saw it, I fell in hate with it...it was so awful that I had to have it. I wore it to work, and then I put an asset tag on it both so that no one could steal it, and to further elaborate the level of its awesomeness. Of course, I made sure to accesorize with fluorescent bracelets and a bright pink tank top just to make sure its obnoxiousness did not go unnoticed. It's ok to be jealous. It's pretty amazing.

 

Thursday, I didn't feel like cooking dinner, so I bought a block of sharp cheddar cheese (the fact that it was sharp cheddar is very important, because if you're going to eat cheese, why would you bother with medicore flavor? I mean, really, people), a box of Wheat Thins, and a bottle of Asti aka The Dinner of Champions. I finished the bottle of Asti during the course of the evening, which really isn't that surprising. The "I Do What I Want" factor involved the fact that I didn't cut the cheese up the way that a normal human being who manages to function successfully in society would. Instead, I just unwrapped and then proceeded to take bites directly out of the block of cheese (small, lady-like bites of course) like a boss. I handled my dinner this way partially because I was lazy, but mostly because it allows for the maximum cracker-to-cheese ratio... and also, because I live alone, and I don't have to share, and this way, if someone breaks into my house in the middle of the night because they are craving cheese, they will be super pissed when they see the bite marks that clearly mark that entire block of cheese as mine.

THWARTED AGAIN, CHEESE BURGLARS. YOU WILL NEVER WIN. (That's a thing, right? Cheese burglary? No? Well, it is now.)

Today, well, I wrote this blog post, which is really just ridiculous... but the day is still young, and I'm heading out with some friends tonight, so God only knows what the hell kind of shenanigans I'll get into with a few drinks in me.

Because, well...I DO WHAT I WANT. Mic drop. Word to your mother.

Secrets

I read somewhere once that when you're a writer, a real writer, it's in your blood; that putting words to a page isn't as much of a pastime as it is a necessity. I don't know if I would consider myself a writer, per se. What I do know is this; as I live through each day, each experience, each moment, and all the cascades of emotions that come along with them, they sit like jagged stones inside of me, shifting to lay heavy on my chest and catch in my throat until it feels like I'm choking and the only thing that makes it easier to breathe is this. Here. My fingers tapping furiously against the keyboard or wrapped around the solid length of a pen as it scratches and mars the page until it's full and I am empty and I can finally, blessedly, exhale.

Sometimes, when I sit down to write, it's for a purpose; a business e-mail, an essay, or in an attempt to make you laugh. But more often than not, I do it for me. I do it because I have to. I do it because, if I don't, I'm afraid that I'll drown in the words and feelings swimming around inside of me.

I've tried to blog a few times this past month; I wanted to give you all something fun, something lighthearted, but every time I sit down, all I can connect with are the things I try so hard to hide, and my deepest, darkest secrets come tumbling out in an avalanche of confession.

Like how often I am bombarded by both literal and figurative pieces of my mother left behind, and how they still cut me to the core so swiftly that I'm left stumbling; the hurried curve of her handwriting on a bottle of vitamins she'd purchased for me, instructing me how to take them; the smell of her perfume on a stranger passing by; strands of her hair in the hairdryer that I inherited; the sound of her voice on a forgotten voicemail; the photo of her, my sister and I next to her statue of Mary that is the first thing I see when I wake up each morning and the last thing I see before falling asleep each night. How six months later, on an almost daily basis, I still mindlessly pick up my phone to text her for advice or comfort, and in the moment that I realize I can't anymore, it's like losing her all over again.

Or how, for longer than I'd like to admit, I'd been walking that fine line between friendship and something more with a man for whom my craving for physical proximity often seemed like an annoyance, and for whom my requests to spend time together often seemed like a chore to be crossed off an exhausting list. A man who wasn't the type to readily proffer the compliments or kisses or emotional intimacy that I've come to realize that I both want and need in a relationship. A man who often left me staring at my silent phone and feeling so very, very small. How none of this makes him a bad person; he just very clearly couldn't, or wouldn't, entertain the thought of love, and yet, for too long, I stayed, fighting tirelessly, because I wanted to be the reason behind his smile, the same way he was the reason behind mine. How I still climbed into bed beside him even after I realized all these things, and how, in those awful, sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why I couldn't be enough, I felt more alone than I had ever felt on my own. How I was not in love with him, but I still very firmly love him for everything he is and everything he is not and all those unfilled spaces in-between, even knowing that him and I, together, are a memory, an experience, a hurt that will heal but a lesson that will not be forgotten.

And how, during the last night that we spent together, I curled up against him and breathed him in deep, counting the tumultuous beat of his heart while trying desperately to commit every minuscule detail to memory... and when he wrapped his arms around me, in that moment, the world burned so brightly that I had to close my eyes or risk being blinded and I thought to myself, broken or not, this, right here, is what makes life worthwhile. 

How, although at that point it wasn't as much about losing him as the loss in general, since I had never really had him in the first place, that thought, and that moment, almost tore me in two.

How I dream each night in vivid colors and feelings, so crisp that I can almost taste them bursting on my tongue like that first exploding bite of an apple, of all the things I've ever wanted; and how, when I wake up every morning to realize that they were only dreams, that realization turns into a bitter lozenge of sadness and loss rolling around on my tongue. How I've come to learn that just because I never really had something in the first place doesn't mean I can't miss it frantically; that I won't feel its absence like the indignant phantom pain in a lost limb.

Or how I'd been living in a fog of apathy for far too long, watching life pass and wondering when I would have the courage and the energy to become a part of it again; wondering when my smiles would start to feel real instead of an attempt at reassuring myself and everyone around me that I hadn't changed. And how, when I boarded the plane for Austin last Tuesday morning after a few very emotionally charged weeks, that all changed; how I watched the tips of our wings kiss the smoky oranges and pinks of the sunrise and thought, for the first time in forever, I can't wait to see what the future has in store. How thrilling it was to finally believe that maybe, just maybe, it would be better than all that I was leaving behind, and how that single spark of hope was, somehow, enough.

Austin is a beautifully chaotic city with the uniquest of inhabitants who, paradoxically, all seem to find joy in the same thing: honoring their deepest passions by breathing life into them instead of trying to hide them, the way so many of us do because we are so terrified of the uncertain. The city just pulsates with the joy of these people whose fingertips are tripping up against the wildest of their dreams and when you walk down its streets and brush shoulders with its inhabitants you are changed, somehow, for the better. No one is out of place there, and as I stared up at the stars that warm Friday night, stars that were stubbornly visible even in the midst of the city lights, life started to make just a little more sense. I was exhausted, and hungry, and sunburned, but I never wanted to leave. I wished I could hold on to that feeling forever, that I could bottle it up and carry it with me so that on the days that I couldn't find my way to happy, it would be there waiting for me; that full-to-bursting sensation that you feel when you finally find the place, emotional or physical or spiritual, that you really, truly belong.

I know now, after almost 30 years, that I am stubborn. That I learn best through trial and error because right or not, I am impatient, and I want instant gratification. That this often leaves me trying to fit square pegs in round holes, all in the name of time, which more often than not, leaves me disappointed. I know now that time... and life... are not things that can be rushed, and that when something is meant to happen, it will. I know now that I had to make so many mistakes so that I could learn to recognize what I don't want, which will allow me to shift my focus, finally, on to what I do. I can see now how far I have come, into a career that I love, and about to move out into my own space for the first time... no parents, no roommates, just me and all of the endless possibilities that the future holds. I understand now that I am a work in progress; that I'm not quite where I want to be, and thats okay, because whether it's one step or ten, I am making progress each and every day.

And besides... it's the "getting there" that's the fun part.