From the MySpace Archives...

Life is Story
The best thing about life is that it's a story. It's filled with main and minor characters who grow and stagnate and affect the plot and react to the environment and make happy and make hurt your internal state. All the good stuff of a story is available to life… its just a matter of whether or not we make a good story out of our lives. Brittany always said she liked to imagine herself watching a movie as she walked thru her life. That's valid. Keeps me from getting buried under the storyboards. Above it all. Outside the maelstrom. I think that's valid. It is motivating to pursue a good story for yourself and others. Life needs to be reminded that it is climactic and poetic sometimes, lest we get petty and sedentary. I want to live a story. So I do.


Good Things
It is good to slow down to a pace in which I can embrace classical music and occasional NPR. It is good to be efficient and accelerated at work, yet able to take in stride laxity and indulgence from co-workers. It is good to fall in love with a puppy– a creature that is humble and devoted and kind. It is good to like the people I spend my time with, rather than to long for picture perfect long distance friendships. It's too easy to fictionalize or romanticize; reality is where I am and I would do well to make the most of it. It is good to wear enough layers and the right fabrics to be comfortable in winter weather. It is good to sleep for 12 hours sometimes and 4 others- rarely 4 though. It is good to get lost in an art museum, and buy tickets to see live music. It is good to become entranced by endorphins and music while working out or dancing. To slip into The Zone. It is good to tolerate the frustrating aspects of others, and to always love them, to show forbearance. It is good to respect God, and ask for forgiveness for how thoroughly I have misconstrued Him. It is good to hope He comes back and shows me who he really is. It is okay to feel that this is a deeply personal interchange, and feel sad that such an experience is overtalked in Christian culture. That most aspects of relating with God are cheapened by their overexposure to fluorescent lighting. It is okay to be me, be here, be now, and have my eyes on the horizon.


Malawi
My Africa was not Peace Corps Africa or village evangelism Africa. It was like moving to NY from Florence and renting an apt in Little Italy. I lived in Little America, Area 49, Lilongwe, Malawi, Central Africa, Earth. The principal of African Bible College Christian Academy let me use a classroom at the school and hang out with Jr Highers from 22 different countries. Lebanese Nadine, Korean Anne, Taiwanese Sandy, South African De-Wet, Nigerian Blessings, Malawian Sithembile, American Jon-Jon, Australian Esther. We read YA novels and painted flowers and danced to Tchaikovsky. For a whole year. Five days a week. I got paid even less than the Peace Corps. But I lived in a house with my own bedroom. Brighton fixed my garden up. With a Ficus and Papaya trees and Maize. Edina cleaned the house which is odd. But she loved me for giving her money every month and I loved her for remedying my non-dishwashered-kitchen. Every Wednesday night the 50 American staff living on campus with me hung out at the Chinchens, eating homemade desserts like NoBakeCookies. We talked about the Old Testament and prayed for dying African babies and families at home in America and ABC college students running out of tuition money. Some nights I played cards with the campus kids. Or ate Kraft MacNCheese with Cari. Or stargazed on the soccer field with Amanda. Or watched Alias with MJ on her laptop. It rained a lot in my Africa. So hard that I couldnt teach over the sound of a monsoon pouring all over the tin roof of my classroom. So we would crowd around the windows and watch the storm. They were beautiful, the storm and the children watching. Once a tiny tornado danced across the roof of our classroom and ruffled everyones papers. I slept with earplugs because the birds called so loudly. And I woke up at 445am to exercise because it was too hot and sweaty to do it at any other time of day. The sun was so hot. I didn't drive. I rode in cars whenever someone would invite me to tag along. We would drive to ethnic restaurants owned by people from India and Ethiopia and Taiwan. Or we would drive to Lake Malawi and swim with fishies or camp. And we went to village churches and orphanages and homes. Sometimes. Not enough. I dont miss Malawi. But I hope one day I will. For now I will learn  to be me again.