happiness & doubt

"Do smoking and drinking affect your relationship with God?" we asked a group of Muslim boys at the hookah bar.

"Yes."

I've been thinking for months now about what this could mean: what are the implications of such decisions? Why do we directly disobey our own beliefs? Why do we do things that keep us from happiness? What is happiness?

Happy [hap-ee] (adj)

1. delighted, pleased, or glad, as over a particular thing
2. characterized by or indicative of pleasure, contentment, or joy

But what does it really mean to be happy? What does that look like?

I think the boy answered that way because he recognized, as many of us do, that it is easier to do what feels ok rather than what is ultimately good for us. Of course we know that smoking leads to lung cancer and drinking to liver disease, but we do it anyways. Just like how we worry about tiny concerns or eat that second piece of cake--because it takes us out of our fears and into a feeling of --dare I say it?-- peace.

 

In a documentary called Happy, the interviewers ask people in different regions of the world what the most important aim in life is. They all say "to be happy" then go on to describe what brings them joy. I am still amazed by the simplicity of it--a rickshaw driver loving his job and his family, and that is his joy. Why do we find ourselves so wrapped up in nonexistent complexities and still fail to see the simple joys?

 

I have been using happiness and joy synonymously,  but I don't think that is true. I think you can find spurts of joy in the midst of depression, but it is the lasting happiness that we ultimately seek.

And how does God fit into it all? If we ignore the earthly pleasures (be they drinks or worry) and turn to God, will we know happiness? Surely the answer is dependent on what a reader's view of God is, if at all, but speaking from a Christian God perspective, I feel a bit lost over it due to my constant recognition that those earthly pleasures seem to offer more than the silence of God.

 

It goes back to the long-term perspective: what is ultimately good for us. We are taught that overindulgence (note: over) in earthly joys leads to consequences (as stated above: a few examples). We are taught that obedience, faithfulness, & repentance to God promises us eternity. I think the hardest part of that is that it's so difficult to envision this "eternity" when all we know is what we've seen--the current world around us.

 

All of these sorts of speculations fascinate me, knowing that I will never have the answers. I can only believe. How do the questions & the doubts affect my current search for happiness? Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the confusion of spinning circles of "what ifs" and "buts" and "hows" and "whys". It's a distraction that sucks me in like a blackhole, taking over and consuming me to distract from my initial destination of the boundless universe of imagination.

I continuously return to the Rilke quote "love the questions like locked rooms". It's the nearest encouragement I have to love the questions from a distance rather than being enveloped.  Sometimes it's incredibly frustrating: even just the knowing that I'll never know. Sometimes it's totally freeing: it could be anything; eternity could be anywhere or anything--the mystery of the outskirts of the universe.

Will we be happy when we know what's next, or can we learn to know happiness when we accept the unknown?

roads to go

We always walked wherever we needed to go--mainly because the only place we went was to Derek's house, but the notion of "see you in five" has swooped back into my adulthood. I feel twelve again--no car, nowhere important to drive to, yet most of my friends are within a ten minute walk in almost any direction, so when we make plans, it's a simple "see you in five" conversation.

 I have mixed feelings about the whole concept--I love the ability to walk out the door and be with people so soon, yet the thought of living in such a small radius when there is a whole world out there frustrates me.

 Tomorrow, I board a plane for Atlanta. I'm going to a conference for work, and while a few months ago, I was excited--excited by thought of "travelling for work", of visiting a new city, of feeling like I'm "going somewhere", as I procrastinate trip prep, I'm rather saddened by the thought of it all: leaving my dog, leaving my friends, leaving at what always feels like the least convenient time, even though there really isn't anything to hold me back.

 Maybe that's what keeps people living in the same place for years and years or going back to the places they grew up. Are we all just bodies in search of "home"? I recognize that some people were born to travel; they live for seeing the world and never settling down in one place. I thought I could be one of them, but the longer I stay in Seattle, the more it seems I'm supposed to really be here, stay here. I could explore this area for the rest of my life and still not see it all, I think.

And yet, does the notion of "putting down roots" mean anything in a world that is so dynamic, in a market that keeps all residents unsure of where they'll call home for the next year or two?

That NW Bridge

The Vance Creek bridge sits 347 feet above the ground. It's the second highest railway arch bridge in the United States. I was told these stats while sitting around a campfire. I had heard of the bridge--mainly seen it in photos and in this "17 death-defying views list"--but this was the first time it was given a name.

The photos seemed "cool". People standing on abandoned railroad tracks with a vast landscape of faraway (& far-below) trees surrounding them. I expected an easy-going adventure--awesome in its own beauty alone.

Upon arrival, we began trekking the short trail to the bridge. My heart began to race inside my chest in a way that I can't recall it having done in quite a long time. I felt like an excited child--naïve in what the world can be.

On the way to the bridge, I had a brief discussion with a friend about heights. It wasn't a fear of heights or even a fear of falling: it was a want to jump, a want to know the sensation of free-fall.

I once sat on a cement wall in Pittsburgh with a friend. We gazed down at the river, maybe 40 feet below us, and I said, "I want to jump." Surprised, my friend said, "I was just thinking that." What is it about these strange heights that call us to plunge into the depth? It's a temptation: into what, I do not know.

Standing on either side of the bridge, I admit, I felt the pull. 347 feet. Though a rather unfriendly landing ground of rocks & trees. Some kids dragged a big branch into the center of the bridge and tossed it over the side. I heard the crack, like a shotgun in the distance. I asked what happened, and a friend described the branch as having "splintered" upon impact.

I'm still in awe of what a God-fearing sense of life this bridge implanted within me. I discovered fears I didn't know I had. I realized that I am not the seemingly immortal child I tend to think I am at heart. I learned that 347 feet is a long way down.

The first end of the bridge seems harmless. You climb a large, metal tube to actually reach the bridge, & then there's nothing to do but cross. With each step, I realized just how frightening this whole concept even was: the bridge is extremely old; the railroad ties are rotting, some missing entirely, some just splintering under my feet.

Something about the height, the lack of railing--open ends with nothing to catch you but the treetops below; something about it all felt like a sort of flying & falling at the same time. Every step left my head swirling, as if I were standing still and twirling. I felt dizzy and confused. If I looked straight ahead, I could feel the height, but if I looked down, the spinning sensation resumed, yet I felt safe because I could see where my feet would land. I tripped once and fell forward, catching myself in a moment of panic. Of course I was going to be fine. I wasn't near the edge, but the feeling of going down introduced the idea to the end to my mind.

When we started on the bridge, I thought I would only go a short distance then come back. I didn't realize that once started, I would have to cross the whole way: the voice within me wouldn't have it any other way, though quivering and frightened. Halfway across, there is a section where the railroad ties are burnt, some gone completely. It was then that I nearly turned back. One missing tie was one thing: two required stepping down onto the steel support beam then back up to the next tie. On either side of the support beam, there was enough room for about two people to fall straight through. I couldn't step down while holding my puppy; my legs were shaking too bad. She was even more frightened than me- she held onto my shoulders with a force (one of these moments I bet dogs wish they had thumbs).

Some high schoolers  were sitting calmly on the other side watching us. One kid -maybe 12 years old-reached his arms across the gap to us. I carefully handed Pickle to him & followed close behind. We then resumed the walk across. The last half was the best and the worst-the best because of the sweet taste of land, the worst because it meant that we, once again, had the full length of the bridge yet to cross.

Friends offered tips to help with the dizzying confusion of walking on the bridge. "Just look straight ahead" (but I need to see where I step!) or the usual "don't look down" proved unhelpful. The best was to walk parallel to the beams beneath the ties where it was blocking off the view below while allowing me to see ahead. The only catch was that it was closer to the edge.

By the time we made it back (though one of the first to hop onto the bridge, I was the last to leave it), I had a resonating quiver within that reminded me that I had never been that physically afraid before in my life. Fear of a what? It was only the sensation of danger, not an actual present threat.

For days after, the thought of the bridge offered that shaking reminder of being alive, like when you pinch yourself to check your consciousness. All I could think was that I wanted to go back, particularly with my nice camera to try to more adequately capture the scene.

Since our visit, the bridge has been officially closed to visitors for a multitude of reasons, mainly that it resides on private property, causing a liability issue for the owners were anyone to be injured on the bridge. I'm glad to have gotten to see it, and while I may not be able to return, I hope to find other views that inspire such vitality in just being in its presence.

 

 

life in the woods

We used to create pretend lives in the woods.

 

The first instances I remember are with my sister. Our first pretend home was the center of a circle of forsythia bushes. They were directly outside of our real home, but it was our own little hideaway. The round bushes seemed to create a wall with a tunnel to enter through. Once inside, it was like we were "big kids" in our own little home, closed in by powdery yellow with an open sky.

 

Our next was the giant pines a little farther up the yard. Pennsylvania really has some great pine trees. These were maybe forty or fifty feet tall with long, thick branches along the bottom, which were great for two purposes: 1) they created a skirt around the tree where we could hide (our new walls) 2) they were thick enough and low enough for us to begin the climb. We'd take turns, each climbing as high as we could (we were always climbing trees). Sometimes we'd lie down on the branches & pretend they were our beds, as if our bedrooms were just on different levels of our house.

 

(Now that I think about it, my sister always begged my dad for a treehouse. We sort of got it after years and years of piece by piece construction. We spent one night in it (still unfinished), and that was it. Never got done. But that's okay because I think we were better off for it because we had better times living in the trees because a treehouse isn't a wooden structure built among trees--it's just trees & an imagination.)

 

I have no idea what I thought as a four or five year old climbing those pine trees. The memories come in small snippets of questionable truth. Picturing me up in the pine feels like we were pirates, climbing the highest mast to lookout for intruders. I guess that's partially true--we never wanted to be found.

 

Yet a smidge farther up the yard, there was a small opening between clumps of trees that was its own cove, complete with…you guessed it--a brilliant old clawfoot tub. By brilliant, I may mean covered in dirt & algae and filled it the greenest water and the occasional turtle.

 

As I'm writing this, I’m realizing that is becoming more a list than a story of our many play-venture homes in the woods, barely touching the details of each. I'll settle for a few more before making my point.

 

There was this place we called the picnic area--a spacious opening between the trees where my family had set up picnic tables, a barbeque, & everything else necessary for a party. However, by the time we took to playing there, it had been long out of use and falling apart: a shadow of its former life.

 

At the far end of the clearing, a large beam sat propped on poles--a few railroad ties broken & balanced in their own little Stonehenge. We used to climb on the tie and use it as a balance beam, though I think its intended purpose was to be a serving table for food. Over a dip in the landscape, near the thickening woods, a small rotting hut sat full of pots & pans & random kitchen utensils. Sometimes we would go in there (usually on a dare) to sneak around for something for our pretend homes.

 

The picnic area was great for our play-pretend because everything we needed was already there. When the area was cleared away, we scraped our way deeper into the woods to build a new house. We’d graduated far from our old homes in the woods where we just played pretend that the trees were walls & rooms & living utensils--for this one, we took a level & made our best twelve-year-old attempts to create flat ground out of the hill. We then laid down plywood: floor complete.

 

Living up the road from a junk yard, we decided we should go rummage around for some other household items. We settled for one tire, which we rolled all the way up the hill around the bend, down & up another hill & back into the woods. We dug a hole and placed the tire over the hole: toilet.

 

Derek's parents had this little plastic garden wagon. We would fill it with utensils & snacks & attach it to Derek's wheelchair for him to tow it back into the woods for us--the beginnings of yet another woodland home.

 

So there we were: us & our play-pretend homes with our play-pretend lifestyles and our play-pretend futures.

 

I went camping last weekend. I snuck away a few times to just sit in the woods alone. There was a "primitive campsite" back into the woods--just a small open clearing, big enough for a tent. It wasn't occupied, so I'd go & sit on the small stone bench. Looking up: the break in the trees; looking around: the rustling, moving stillness of the forest; listening: silence, silence & birds in swooping whistles.

 

These are things I haven't experienced in a while. I've missed them. It all feels so familiar; I wished I could lie down in the grass & pretend that I was in one of our play homes in the woods. I actually did try, but it didn't take long to realize just how far removed my current life is from all of that--city, noise, pollution, solitude. I think that's a major downfall to being an adult: even when you try to imagine your life as different, it's all of the current intricacies that keep you bolted down in what is real.

 

I began to wonder if I would ever again have a home in the woods. I tried to imagine a career scenario that would allow it. I've often dreamt of living Annie Dillard's solitary writing life in a cabin in North Puget Sound. I don't know how to make that happen; now, after living so deep in the city, I’m not sure I could. Like how I wanted to live alone in the desert and am now beginning to realize how crazy of an idea that was for me in particular.

 

The idea of life in the woods again feels distant & impossible, like the prospect that one day I would have a husband & children. The truth is that I don't know what I want. I know what I've had and what I've loved, but I cannot say with certainty what I want. This is a strange place for me --yes, me, the girl with the evolving 5-year plans. Maybe it's just today.

 

I soaked in as much of the silent time with the trees as I could. Those moments are extremely rare these days, so I sopped it all up like our campsite did the rain, & I packed myself home to return to the present, the city.

crossfit

As anyone who has talked to me in the past month knows: I’ve joined Crossfit. What is Crossfit? A cross-training workout facility where trainers challenge a group of people to push themselves to use muscles they didn’t know existed. We do a lot of weight training. I now know a ton of terms & lifts that I had never heard of: dead-lift, push-press, squat-thrust, and so on.

After day one, I realized how horribly out of shape I am. I entered the class with the mentality of: I can run two miles and manage through two hours of yoga; I’ll be alright.

All of my strength was living falsely in my mind. The day after the first class, I walked around like the tin man: squeaky & stiff. As I stumbled down the steps with straight legs, my friend asked what was wrong with me. “I worked out…”

I believe in taking care of the body (while recognizing that I often don’t). I dream of getting into the best shape of my life—these are my twenties! Didn’t the Greeks & Romans view the twenties as the “prime” of life? In our modern age of sitting at a desk all day, accomplishing that perfect figure is quite a challenge.

During my month (so far) at Crossfit, I have…

·      dropped a training bar because my boobs were in the way

·      fallen on my butt while jumping back from a squat

·      hung frozen on a pull-up bar because I was afraid of the support bands

·      bruised my knees doing “girl” push-ups

·      been out-run & out-lifted by a pregnant woman

·      laid on the floor because I didn’t think I could move anymore

·      grunted while lifting weights (weird!)

I have also…

·      (run a 400m, completed 21 kettle-bell swings, & 12 ring rows) x3 in 13 minutes (my first personal fitness test!)

·      learned how to do a handstand (I can’t quite balance yet; actually far from it)

·      become a master bear-walker

·      made new friends!

·      developed discipline in going to class at 6am twice a week

·      been deeply encouraged by trainers & classmates

·      learned how to lift weights properly: not the machine kind, either! (we use barbells & kettlebells (still trying to force that term into my memory: cow bells? kettle balls? cow balls? Yikes…))

Sometimes I wonder how I got to this lack of fitness. I went from being crazy skinny in high school (with no strength, of course) to –let’s just admit it—chubby in college & now. I’m excited to be learning how to have a figure defined by muscle rather than bone or fat. (I hope I can say the same in a few months when I hopefully start actually shaping up! But let’s not be vain…)

At the same time, the whole experience is extremely humbling! My smart-ass, strong-mind mentality only goes so far. Naturally, I come in at the bottom of my class quite often. I wouldn’t call it admitting defeat, but it’s certainly admitting that I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I’ve measured strength on life experience and sitting through long tattoo sessions. Now I am in a place where I have to admit my weakness in order to get stronger.

Month two: here we go.

technology

Technology. I’m torn. Some days, I think it is the most helpful thing; others, I want rid of it entirely.

I aspire to the simple life. These days, I wonder if that’s even possible. A while back, I got rid of my smart phone & tried my best to pare down to some form of simplicity. I did a lot of knitting those months (I really do just love to knit, though).

One day, I had this odd realization that technology may actually be in our favor. Working in marketing in the tech industry often has me convinced that it’s all just business and economy. However, with all of the talk of “cloud” and “connected devices,” I’ve started embracing it all. When I come home, all of my devices really are connected. I can access my photos or documents from anywhere (or at least I would if I knew how to do it right; I’m still working on it). It’s actually magical: I can find simplicity in having this easy, unified life.

Shelves & shelves of books (or in my case magazines) can live on a single device. While I adore the comfort of books & have yet to fully adopt the Kindle, I appreciate the archiving of Poets & Writers and The Atlantic; I can search my notes & highlights & back-issues. Magic.

I can store & organize all of my writing in a single ½” thick device rather than wasted trees. I can look up anything from anywhere using internet on my phone.

Am I the only person who is still amazed by this? We have so easily adopted into the tech culture that we tend to forget how insane it really is.

Yet I still resist: for fear of losing what I probably never had having grown up in a world where the internet always existed in some form. I prefer to ask someone a question rather than “Google” it. I prefer to, of course, read a book in-hand rather than press a button to get to the next page. I prefer to find my way by getting lost rather than listening to a mechanical voice tell me the “convenient” way. And I am torn between typing up writing & writing by hand.

Think about the technology in your life. Is it a nuisance or a God-send? Does it simplify your life or make it more complicated?

I’m constantly seeking balance; to embrace where it actually helps & to push away where it shuts off human contact and interferes with life experience. Here’s to typing away & posting words from my fingertips to the internet.

counting blessings: a walk

Sometimes the adult life catches me by surprise: the simplest things. Today is Friday, & I have no plans. As I walked Pickle around the block, on the way home from the dog park—our usual route—I realized what a free evening really means.

We reached the corner a block away from the apartment. To my right, the sound whispered dusk’s light up the street, calling me there. To my left, home beckoned me in. The rest of the weekend promised free time. What should I do? Where should I go?

Freedom suddenly struck me as a real thing; I could do anything, anytime: no questions asked. I could just keep walking; I could go in & read a whole book. I could just stay in bed. For now, my only purpose is to be.

I do not need to ask permission. I am not a slave to time. There are no restrictions. Do you feel it? How liberating! We are blessed to walk the streets & lie in bed & just be.

solitude

A few years ago, I thought I wanted to be with someone, but his answer was no. I know that’s common, but his reason stuck with me, one word: solitude. It took a few minutes to find that word, but when he did, he knew that was it. Solitude. As a generally extroverted person, I didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to be alone?

It’s taken me until recently to understand.

We were on a hike, some friends & me, and as usual, I lagged behind. About six miles in (the tail end of a loop trail), I realized that I didn’t mind hanging back. I soaked in the shade of the Redwoods and breathed in the green. I could see no one ahead of me on the trail, no one behind. With the quiet of the woods around me, I kept going at my pace. To me, hikes aren’t the time for timing to beat a personal best.

After being consumed by the regular chaos of city living, I realized that one moment was what I longed for: to be truly alone. (I admit, it was weird at first to hike without my dog, but honestly, do you know what it feels like to be truly alone?)

Sometimes it’s easy to feel alone when surrounded by people. In the city, you can walk up the street & not talk to anyone (rarely, albeit) and feel like you are the only person alive—the rest of the passersby are part of the surroundings. Have you felt that?

I just wasted about twenty minutes trying to find a single word, but it’s a word that means the realization that every person around you is simultaneously leading their own life with their own emotions, feelings, needs, beliefs. The notion crossed my mind occasionally over the years, but my first memory of it was at a gas station in Utah. It was my biggest solo trip. The man at the pump across from me had deep lines in his face, though he could not have been more than fifty. It suddenly occurred to me that this man had lived 40+ years before this one moment of our lives crossing. Have you ever thought this about your co-workers? Your boss? I think about it at work the most: all of these acquaintances, but we are all human, at our core.

It’s funny to think that we are different. We live off our experiences and become so indulged in our own lives that it’s easy to forget that everyone else’s lives are just as complex. They go to bed at night. They get hungry. They feel sad. Sometimes remembering this is the only way living on the other side of the country from my family makes sense. Life does not stop in Pennsylvania just because I am out here. That’s why it’s always different when I go back; that’s why people call with news: life is still moving, even when I am not there to witness it.

Sometimes the complexity feels like too much. Sometimes I wish it would slow down (how many times have I wished it would go faster?). Sometimes I wish I could go back. But the pace is constant, along with change and intricacy.

I think that’s why we all need moments to be alone. This is my season of understanding solitude.

Solitude can often be confused with prolonged singleness. I’ve mistaken it myself, wondered why I am single, why that person chose to be single. There is a difference. There is a tiny knowing somewhere that solitude is a choice, that even when the opportunity to not be single presents itself, the direction to take is apparent: solitude.

That is where I am. While there are moments of doubting that, there are more reassurances that this is where I am supposed to be. I am grateful to live alone (with the company of my pets).

As I flip through pages of Rilke on solitude in Letters to a Younger Poet, I realize this topic is just beginning. I’ll leave you with these excerpts from Rilke:

“There is only one solitude, and it is vast and not easy to bear and almost everyone has moments when they would happily exchange it for some form of company, be it ever so banal or trivial, for the illusion of some slight correspondence with whoever one happens to come across, however unworthy…But perhaps those are precisely the hours when solitude grows, for its growth is painful like the growth of boys and sad like the beginning of spring. But that must not put you off. What is needed is this, and this alone: solitude, great inner loneliness. Going into oneself and not meeting anyone for hours- that is what one must arrive at. Loneliness of the kind one knew as a child, when the grown-ups went back and forth bound up in things which seemed grave and weighty because they looked so busy, and because one had no idea what they were up to.”

and

“And you must not let yourself be diverted out of your solitude by the fact that something in you wants to escape from it. Precisely this desire, if you use it calmly and judiciously, as a kind of tool, will help you to extend your solitude over a greater expanse of ground. People have tended (with the help of conventions) to resolve everything in the direction of easiness, of the light, and on the lightest side of the light; but it is clear that we must hold to the heavy, the difficult. All living things do this, everything in nature grows & defends itself according to its kind and is a distinct creature from out of its own resources, strives to be so at any cost and in the face of all resistance. We know little, but that we must hold fast to what is difficult is a certainty that will never forsake us. It is good to be alone, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult should be one more reason to do it. To love is also good, for love is hard. Love between one person and another: that is perhaps the hardest thing it is laid on us to do, the utmost, the ultimate trial and test, the work for which all other work is just preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, do not yet know how to love: they must learn. With their whole being, with all their strength, concerted on their solitary, fearful, upward beating hearts, they have to learn to love.”