Taking the Plunge: The Known Citizen

Taking the Plunge

I recently received numerous emails from my alma mater asking me to donate money--"any amount!"--before the end of the fiscal year. Although my post-college careers have not been lucrative in any way, I was impressed by my school's fundraising campaign so I tried to resist my reflexive stinginess. Dubbed the "Take the Plunge Challenge," Colgate invites alums to "take the plunge" by donating, offering the following incentive: if 1300 alums donate before the end of the fiscal year, five dedicated (and awesome) administrators have agreed to "take the plunge" in Taylor Lake, a beautiful, albeit bacterial lake that is a central landmark of the school's scenic campus. These administrators listed the reasons why they are willing to take this literal plunge for Colgate--they all strongly believe in the school's mission, faculty, and students.

In truth, I deleted the first several emails I received after reading them. I admired Colgate's creative and weirdly heartwarming fundraising approach, but only from afar. However, after browsing the fundraising website a few times, the marketing gimmicks started working their magic on my precious neural networks. First, there was this picture:




These well-respected administrators just look so refreshingly ...goofy. They want to jump into that gross lake? For Colgate? For students like me? That's kind of ...sweet, I think. As I read about their sincere reasons for wanting to be a part of this campaign in such an involved, quirky way, I couldn't help but reconsider my initial "Bah, humbug!" response. As a result, I decided to take my own plunge--a plumbing of the philosophical depths of my Colgate education, so to speak.

Why Colgate?

I shall always remember the reason that I decided to attend Colgate: a quote from Colgate's guidebook for prospective students. I now realize that Colgate's marketing techniques tend to exert quite the influence on my psyche... In any case, the quote in the guidebook was spoken by former university president, Rebecca Chopp. When asked about the value of a liberal arts education, Chopp indicated that the purpose of such an education is to teach students how to "live a life worth living and create a world living in." This quote, coincidentally set against the backdrop of Taylor Lake in the guidebook, grabbed me. The quote provided me with the space to create a connection between education and a worthwhile life. Furthermore, it caused me to wonder what makes for a worthwhile life and world. Why is a Colgate education so enriching and valuable?

In light of recent news and historical events, I felt that this conversation was exceptionally timely. The questions sparked by Colgate's fundraising campaign--e.g., the purpose of a liberal arts education--are very much connected to the response that is currently demanded of us as citizens of a democratic society. News about the NSA leaks, changed election laws, DOMA, and Prop 8 require us, as citizens and human beings, to think critically about government surveillance, discriminatory voting practices, and limited rights for people who love each other. The question posed by Rebecca Chopp's quote in the guidebook is timeless: What does it mean to live a life worth living and create a world worth living in?

The beauty of that link between education and the value of life is that it is ongoing. We can engage questions about what it means to respond to life now by drawing on thinkers, history, cultures, religions, literature, and research from the past. I recently rediscovered W.H. Auden's poem, "The Unknown Citizen," and I was reminded of Auden's prophetic voice. Although the poem was published over seventy years ago, it is still captivating. Auden is a (posthumous) gadfly. His poem invites us, citizens and human beings, to Take the Plunge to be known, to be heard, and to build a better community:

The Unknown Citizen
by W.H. Auden

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a
   saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content 
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace:  when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
   generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
   education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

                             
 http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15549#sthash.pRvurrJH.dpuf
---

The skinny (since I'm about to hit the hay!): I realize that my time in college was by no means perfect, but I will always thank Colgate for preparing me for this ongoing plunge. (And, to the Colgate Development Office: I suppose your campaign worked, as I end this blog post feeling forever indebted to my alma mater!)

Go to Your Room. And Tango!

Ever since I started working at Boston University School of Theology (and, in hindsight, at every moment in my life leading up to my job here), I have been seeking to define and refine my "theological position"--that is, what I think about God and the manifestation of God (or lack thereof) in my world, relationships, faith, and life. As I sit here at my desk, wondering if my back will ever become permanently slouched from my poor sitting posture, I realize that many of my "first order theological questions" (as Sir Linscott calls them!) are connected to a quote that I often saw etched into the then-brand-spanking-new Ho Science Center during my time at Colgate University: "Why are things the way they are and not otherwise?" According to Wikipedia, Johannes Kepler, the author (speaker?) of the quote, was a mathematician, astrologer, and astronomer-- a key figure in the 17th century scientific revolution. In my mind, the mastermind behind such a quote must have often been lost in thought, questioning the nature of each and every aspect of his life. His questioning is even evident in his portrait:

Clearly, Kepler was a man who questioned the nature of collars, facial hair, and accessories. Above, he appears innocently pensive, but I feel he is also insisting that I question the nature of my own shirts, hairstyles, and compasses. Thank you, Johannes.

All jokes aside (unless you didn't think that Kepler picture bit was a joke--then it definitely wasn't), I have been thinking about Kepler and his "otherwise-ing" thought experiments as I brainstorm ideas for this theological position paper. Except instead of asking questions related to my theological position, such as "Why has my idea of God come to be the way it is and not otherwise?" or "Why do I think of religion in a particular way?", I find myself looking up videos of tango performances on youtube and wondering what my life would be like if, instead of never having danced tango, I was inclined, or even ordered, to tango. Stay with me...

This all began in my procrastination, a procrastination that is perhaps rooted in not wanting to delve into those first order questions in such a serious way. "What do I think about the nature of God?" Well, I don't know...it just seems like too intense of a question to contemplate after eating Girl Scout cookies while listening to Third Eye Blind. My mind started wandering, and I began to think about a conversation I had with my co-worker earlier today in which I made it very clear that if I ever marry I would want to somehow execute an elaborate, beautiful first dance with my partner. Then, I started thinking about how much preparation this would require since I am not a skilled dancer. This led me to really think about what things would be like for me if they were otherwise in this situation. What would my life be like if I were a phenomenal, graceful dancer? What would people say? What would people think (not that I care what other people think...)? How would such poise and skill influence my self-esteem? What if I were an amazing dancer in middle school--through the braces, (semi-disappeared) acne, and (ever-present) awkward moments. How different my life would be!

I wanted to make my musings more tangible so I searched "amazing tango performance" on youtube. Ah, the wonders of the internet! As I watched these beautiful (amazing) performances, I started picturing a version of myself that could not be defined outside of tango. At school talent shows, I would be "Katalina, the one who can tango!" I would have started at an early age in this fantasy so I would have quickly become the leading partner. I imagine myself remembering all my steps, not tripping in heels, embracing constructed gender roles, smiling and making eye contact with the audience (and judges) without ever missing a beat.

As I watch the fifth video of amazing tango, the nagging Microsoft Word icon keeps reminding me that I have a paper to write; a fantasy to let go of. I feel anger well up inside me when I realize that my parents could have pushed me into tango. My life could have been soaked with tango; my identity defined by it. Why did my mom tell me to say my prayers before bed? If she would have instructed me to practice tango for a half hour each night instead, things would certainly be "otherwise." I would be critiquing these videos on youtube right now, scoffing at the woman who calls herself a tango dancer with those sloppy turns. The chemistry between the tango dancers would spark memories of my time in Tango Dance Camp in Buenos Aires--which was one big fiesta (to say the least!).

I throw my fists in the air when I realize how limited my life is without tango. The graceful movements, the stage presence, the passion for dance, a longing for the stage, a tango-infused understanding of beauty, love, and partnership...I have none of this because my life is the way it is and not otherwise (*said with fists thrown in the air!*).

Ah, but alas, I must return to my paper--to my thoughts about my theological position. There are so many ways I could neatly wrap up this blog post. I could relate the tango metaphor to my Catholic identity and talk about all of the theological insights I gained from realizing that I just happened to be born into the Catholic tradition but I could have been raised otherwise (in a different tradition or in no tradition at all). My religious identity is just as arbitrary as my lack of a tango identity...what does this all mean?

Or perhaps I could discuss the beautiful "dance" of faith or of theological ideas that takes place in our lives all the time: our experiences cause us to constantly adjust what we think about God, love, suffering, life, and death. The spirit, memories, and tradition of tango never die, but sometimes songs end. Or maybe the tradition of tango will die once it is no longer relevant in a particular context. But still, it serves a purpose; it is a meaningful, beautiful mode of expression; the spirit of tango is transcendent, and transformative. I could pass the torch to my friend, Chihoon, so he could describe his art exhibit from last semester, which beautifully captured the relationship between tango and God: our elusive, intimate dance of faith in this life.

Now that I have just procrastinated another twenty minutes by revealing the ways I could have ended this post, I am left wondering how to actually end it. For the sake of time, I guess I will just have to end this post knowing that we can't always wrap everything up neatly, and that we often struggle to adequately capture our deepest longings and convictions with words...

'Having It All': Becoming Stronger and Weaker

In light of the "Having It All" debate, I have been thinking a lot about the kind of adult woman I would like to be--and, I suppose, the one that I am becoming. In case you aren't familiar with the controversy surrounding Anne Marie Slaughter's recent article featured in the Atlantic, here's a summary:

Her original article, "Why Women Still Can't Have It All": http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/07/why-women-still-can-8217-t-have-it-all/9020/1/
Blurb: It's time to stop fooling ourselves, says a woman who left a position of power: the women who have managed to be both mothers and top professionals are superhuman, rich, or self-employed. If we truly believe in equal opportunity for all women, here's what has to change...

Interesting, thought-provoking responses:

"Why is 'having it all' a women's issue? by sociologist," Stephanie Coontz: http://www.cnn.com/2012/06/25/opinion/coontz-women-have-it-all/index.html?hpt=op_t1
Coontz: We need to push for work-family practices and policies that allow individuals to customize their work lives according to their changing individual preferences and family obligations, not just their traditional gender roles.

Who said "We could have it all?" by Ruth Rosen: http://www.opendemocracy.net/5050/ruth-rosen/who-said-%E2%80%9Cwe-could-have-it-all%E2%80%9D
Blurb/Rosen: What Anne-Marie Slaughter and so many other privileged women have failed to understand is that the original women’s movement sought an economic and social revolution that would create equality at home and at the workplace...Missing from the media’s coverage of these Mommy Wars are the millions of working mothers who will never have it all, but still must do it all. Millions of women cannot afford to care for the children they have, work dead-end jobs, and cannot begin to imagine living the life of a superwoman. These are the women that the radical women’s liberation movement addressed and for whom they sought decent jobs, sustainable wages, and government training, social services and child care. These are the women who are stuck on the sticky floor, not held back by a glass ceiling.
---

This debate illumines various interpretations of feminism and the extent to which women's goals and ideals tend to be influenced by these intepretations. Responses to Slaughter's article also demonstrate how a woman's socio-economic status can affect her paragon of feminism. Slaughter's 'superhuman' feminist prioritizes independent achievement over solidarity and sisterhood and embraces perfection and efficiency moreso than weakness and vulnerability. In reaction to Slaughter's article, authors such as Coontz and Rosen deconstruct and clarify the historical and sociological flaws in Slaughter's argument. They address the macro-perspective: How can we re-think gender roles so that 'having it all' isn't just a women's issue? What was the original intention of the feminist movement? How does Slaughter's privilege affect her view of feminism?

These articles touched me on a more personal level, though. I value having the opportunity to better understand and deconstruct the institutional forces that shape my decisions and "coming of age" as a young woman, but I often find myself focusing less on sides and issues, and more on something like...John Mayer's lyrical melodies from "Stop This Train": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BTzNX5OMN4.


Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't but honestly won't someone stop this train

For me, the "train" are those institutional forces that can be hard to control and mitigate, the ones that can prevent me from figuring out what I want as an imperfect, quirky (weird!!), sensitive and vulnerable young woman. Slaughter's right: on the one hand, I want power, strength and perfection. For me right now that usually means I want to have an interesting job and stylish clothing; I want to be fit (and tan); I want to gain entrance into the graduate program of my choice; and I want to be a wordly, smart and accomplished woman, which is really more prototypical than uniquely me.

But then on the other hand, I want nothing more than to stop that crazy-ass train that probably made John Mayer grow out his hair, move to Montana, and record his uncharacteristic, subsequent Blues/Folk album, "Born and Raised." He clearly needed to get back in touch with some personal/spiritual roots, and, therefore, don't we all?

I am reminded again of a philosopher I referenced in a previous post, Jean Vanier, who maintains that we become more human when we become weaker. Oftentimes maturity is measured in terms of mastery and control: "I am a mature woman now. I am strong, accomplished, and 'together'. I have a life plan and an efficient, balanced daily schedule." But Vanier suggests that we mature as we find more ways to live at peace with our own and others' imperfections. He believes that "highlighting the universality and centrality of our shared fragility has the potential to unite us in commonality, [and that] the weak teach the strong to accept and integrate the weakness and brokenness of their own lives."

I still have a desire to be strong; to 'have it all'; to look good; to feel good; to accomplish great things; and to strike that awesome balance in life and work. Managing certain responsibilities, striving for goals, and contributing to society are also important milestones in maturity. But so far I have also been convinced that one of the hardest things to do is to know that where you are, what you are doing, and who you are at any given moment is always enough. I don't know why this can be so f*@$(*9 hard sometimes, but it really can be (#growingpains). Perhaps to be mature is to love yourself to the extent that others know that there is something worthwhile to be had when they're in your presence--and so that others, in turn, are affirmed in who they are as well.

Good night! :)

Rhymes with Tuna

My culinary creativity is often limited when it comes to lunch foods. I start anticipating the hassle and cost involved with purchasing, packing and storing various foods and so I usually end up buying the same things for the sake of convenience. Or maybe I'm just afraid to take a risk. I have all of these ideas for scrumptious lunches--such as shrimp & avocado tacos, strawberry and walnut spinach salad, grilled steak fajitas with peppers and onions, and exquisite healthy snacks--but I often find myself traversing the same paths at the local Market Basket. I buy a bunch of whole wheat wraps (with flax seeds for extra nutrients), some goat cheese, hummus, Purdue chicken strips and spinach, and then usually also some cheap yogurt and fruit. I vary the kinds of fruits and the flavors of the hummus, chicken, and yogurt that I buy, but I rarely deviate from the wrap/snack combination. I know this meal: it fits in my tupperware; it provides a good amount of energy; and it requires little to no thought at the overcrowded grocery store. I can also usually zip onto the 12-items-or-less line, saving myself minutes upon minutes of unnecessary stress or waiting.

This lunch works for me: it gives me what I need and doesn't cause me any trouble. But then there are those days when everything you ever thought about lunch changes. Like when you are walking over to the office fridge as your stomach anticipates a certain amount of satiation (or lack thereof) and then your co-worker walks in with the Santa Monica sandwich from Espresso Royale. "Temptations don't phase me," I thought to myself; "I know that my lunch is nutritional, economical, and convenient." I open the fridge and the view through my clear plastic containers of mediocrity has never seemed more unappealing or discomforting. Nevertheless, I stand by my decision to embrace my low-maintenance ways. Until the Santa Monica sandwich was unwrapped and unleashed, that is.

I started casually talking to my co-worker as I nibbled on my semi-ripened plum.
       "So, umm..what ya got there?"
       "The Santa Monica sandwich from Espresso Royale across the street," Kyle replied through bites of his freshly toasted everything bagel.
       "Oh, haha," I commented nervously, since my olfactory and ocular senses predicted that my entire lunch schema was about to be destroyed. "Yea, those sandwiches are like seven bucks, right?"
       "Yea, but it's so worth it," he replied casually and confidently. "This sandwich has a layer of guacamole, a layer of smoked salmon, a juicy slice of beefsteak tomato, your choice of any cheese, and freshly cracked peppercorn."

I have never held anything more insignificant in my hands than my tupperware at that moment. I excused myself from Kyle to fill up my water bottle down the hall so that I wouldn't rashly run across the street and spend $7.22 in a fit of passion. But then I returned to my desk and replaced my water bottle with my wallet. I crossed against the light (twice) and then fixated on the lunch menu as I waited in line. Oh, how numerous the options are for a decent lunch! Pastas, salads, sandwiches; fresh ingredients from distant places; varieties in spices, breads, cheeses, vegetables. I don't know why the extensive menu was so novel to me, but 'twas indeed!  (Sidenote: Did my use of 'twas make you laugh here?!)

The menu options enticed me on so many different levels--even psychologically, apparently. I couldn't quite grasp the sandwich title "Rhymes with Tuna" based on the description: toasted bagel, homemade tuna fish, Havarti cheese, alfalfa sprouts, and capers. "Is 'rhyme' a spice?" I wondered. No, that's thyme. Why would a sandwich be called "Rhymes with Tuna"? Which part of the sandwich rhymes with "tuna"? Is there a secret ingredient? An unlocked secret in the way it's made...which rhymes with "tuna"? I couldn't believe how many neural networks I was building just by venturing out across the street and changing my lunch routine. Sandwich discernment was the equivalent of three games of Sudoku and one crossword puzzle for my brain (approximately), and who knows the extent to which this process has affected my soul. I just hope "Rhymes with Tuna" is a slice of heaven rather than the work of the devil. "Kyle made me try it! I had no choice!" <--Me preparing for the latter (just in case).

Needless to say, I ordered that sandwich with (polite) pride and gusto, as if I were ordering my family's homemade brew at the local pub. "Rhymes with Tuna on a toasted whole wheat everything bagel, please; to go; K-a-t-h-e-r-i-n-e (never reveal your real name); thank you!" Five minutes and seven dollars and twenty two cents later, the sandwich was stacked, wrapped, and handed off to me on the other side of the counter. Two jay-walks later I returned to my office with a smile, a sandwich, and a new outlook on lunch and life.

My bagel bliss was an experience of truth, beauty, and goodness. If I never questioned Kyle about his lunch, I would have never been exposed to the savory sandwich. He unintentionally upended my concept and routine of "Monday-through-Friday around 1 p.m." and permanently bedazzled my idea of lunch. As a result, I may end up indulging more--spending more and eating more--but I will also have more enriching experiences. In the half hours that I choose to eat lunch at Espresso Royale I will feel more alive and spirited; life will have more potential and meaning.

At the same time, though, now my Purdue chicken wraps and carrot and almond snacks will seem plainer, less appetizing, and more often unsatisfactory because I will frequently be comparing them to whatever magical recipe it is that rhymes with tuna. If I make this a somewhat regular routine I will also have less money to indulge in other uplifting outlets--or perhaps I will just have to seek newer, less expensive outlets in order to keep a balanced budget. If I were to overanalyze my life decisions, I could begin to wonder if I value a sandwich more than a trip to the beach or a charitable donation, or if I care to research more about my food options so all of my choices reflect my commitment to certain values, and thus my closeness to whatever it is I believe is true, beautiful and good (e.g., justice, health, solidarity, love).

I think joy is one of the simplest, most wondrous emotions, but it can often be complicated and seemingly diminished by comparisons and ethical considerations. If I enjoy my sandwich exceptionally so today, will I enjoy my other sandwich less so tomorrow? Varying routines often helps enhance such experiences, but these efforts can also plateau. Additionally, it's easier to enjoy your sandwich sans cost-benefits analysis, but such considerations are important in the long-term and for the community. My Purdue chicken is cheap and convenient, but I'm not sure how those chickens and the Purdue workers were treated, and they are all fellow community members. It's not joyful to think about these things, but it's important to consider the joy of others--and the long-term and indirect effects of our own experiences and decisions.

But then there's me and my sandwich, man. The perfectly toasted whole wheat everything bagel; the juicy tomato; the unique blend of carrots, red onions, and tuna fish seasoned with capers. The Havarti cheese. The "Rhymes with Tuna"/Espresso Royale lunchtime experience. Pure joy.
---

I meant to just write this post about my sandwich because it was extra delicious, but my stories always take weird twists. Out of time for this post, but comments are welcome!

The (Unfinished) Parable of the Extreme Skier

“He must be Nordic,” I thought to myself as his long blond hair glistened in the sunshine, set against the backdrop of the arctic terrain.  His features were physically harsh but spiritually soothing: an Anglo-Saxon jaw, icy blue eyes and 6’4” muscular frame brought power to his tender gaze, congenial smile and graceful gait. His image and persona created an interesting paradox—in my mind, that of a Viking and a saint: a white man capable of conquering, exploiting, pillaging and pummeling, but ultimately choosing to align himself with the marginalized, the earthly, and the immaterial. 
            For seven years Alec worked as an immigrant rights activist, advocate, and educator in a Christian hospitality house in El Paso, Texas, a city that straddles the westernmost border between Texas and Mexico. On a daily basis he provided nourishment and counsel to impoverished and vulnerable Mexican immigrant populations: orphaned children and elders, distressed parents, eager workers. Que es lo que usted busca? Alec would ask his fellow housemates; “what is it that you seek?” In the Gospel spirit of service and solidarity, Assumption House, located on the fringe of El Paso’s biggest barrio, has been home and sanctuary to thousands of refugees and homeless poor. In this community there were no mojados, no aliens; strangers were greeted and treated as kin. Alec tilled the land and shared meals with these seekers, and he tended to them: he accompanied them to various social service agencies; he listened to them; he translated for them; he respected them. Alec was an integral part of the mission of Assumption House, a community dedicated to transforming their understanding of what constitutes more just relationships between people, countries, and economies. 
            Each year Alec was affirmed in his commitment to Assumption House—to his faith in his work. But during the summer of his seventh year in El Paso, Alec’s mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and he decided to return home to Colorado to accompany her in her illness—and to reconnect with her after his seven-year absence. Nestled on a slope of frosted evergreens and mountain peaks and amidst luxurious ski resorts and cottages, Snowmass Village, Colorado contrasted greatly from Alec’s former El Paso home.
            Back at home Alec helped care for his mom, and he worked part-time shifts at “La Luna” Ski Resort in exchange for permission to ski on the trails during off-peak hours. Having grown up in Snowmass Village, Alec possessed the skill and confidence to navigate the treacherous land on skis. His stay in Colorado was a return to his home, to his mother, and to his passion. His daily routine: steel-cut oatmeal at 5 a.m. with a side of energizing calisthenics, a swift grab of his skis and equipment, and out the door to hit the slopes. His time with the wind, the sun, the ice and the potential and limits of his body was both meditative and thrilling.
---
            …I’m not sure where I should go with this story. Perhaps some mystical creature or elder sage who works in an old ski resort on an abandoned path poses a question that causes Alec to wonder if extreme skiing is as meaningful and important as his work in El Paso. I chose Snowmass Village, Colorado as Alec’s hometown because it has a famous course for professional extreme skiers. I wanted Alec to train intensely for this competition, and I wanted to experiment with unique adjectives to describe the endorphin-induced highs that resulted from him following his passion. Then I would pose the question: what is the place and value of such pursuits? Maybe Alec’s downfall would approach as his fame escalated in extreme ski circuits—and as his reflections on ultimate meaning deepened in light of his mom’s illness and of his El Paso memories.  The (hypothetical) climax: Alec is at the starting line atop “Pitkins Point,” the fictional apex of the Snowmass Village extreme ski course. Two lights are reflected off of the icy path in front of him: that of the sun (perhaps a metaphor for God or something ultimate) and that of the thousands of photographers preparing for his exhilarating descent. Alec is inundated with memories of his now deceased mother and of the many people he helped in El Paso. He wonders: are there greater goods to strive for in this life? And even: does God exist? What would He want for and from me [Alec]?
            The horn is about to sound. The lights are still glowing and flashing as Alec’s thoughts stir anxiously. Is there a path he must choose? “Beeeeeeeep.”Alec instinctively digs his poles into the snow, propelling his body down the mountain with gusto. What happens next? Does he fall and injure himself in a way that corresponds with whatever realizations he comes to, providing readers with a clear-cut “moral of the story”? Does the author (moi!!) emphasize Alec’s internal experience of the championship race, which symbolically reveals that life is about the journey, man. That Alec’s worrying about whether one path or way of thinking is more meaningful than the other is not necessary; how can it not be right to pursue your passions completely in an effort to live a fulfilling life? …But even in light of the tragic suffering of the world?
            Maybe instead, the [ridiculously good-looking] author of this short story decides to leave readers with a cliffhanger. Perhaps Alec wins the race by a ton or by a hair; or he loses the race. And then the story ends describing the scenery: the look on Alec’s face; Alec’s subsequent comments to reporters; Alec’s gaze into the dually meaningful sun…his “tender gaze, congenial smile and graceful gait”? (The steel-cut oatmeal churning in his stomach since 5 a.m.?) Does Alec still fit the image of both a Viking and a saint if he dedicates his life completely and entirely to his newly rediscovered passion for extreme skiing? Does this matter at all—in terms of the hypothetical storyline and/or in some different, transcendent meaning of the story?
            It’s 4:19 p.m. on a Friday and work is slow!!! Now I understand why authors (and “seekers”) often employ deus ex machina endings to their stories and questions. It’s hard to stay engaged when wrestling with life’s complexities. Example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZ0epRjfGLw.

…..#weirdestpostever
#iwonderifanyonewilleverreadthis
#31moreminutesleft!!!

Ballin'

I have been itching to buy a basketball for months since there is a hoop across the street from my apartment (and since this song gets randomly stuck in my head sometimes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-3Ds1p5r48).  There's just something about the sport that's so expressive and nostalgic for me. I love that I always played on these very imperfect "Catholic Youth Organization (CYO)" league teams. I have so many memories of having to guard opponents with awkward protective eye gear, "trendy" sweatbands and matching braces. By seventh grade I had joined a more competitive travel soccer league in order to "prepare" for high school soccer, but basketball was always pressure-free and, frankly, hilarious. Having younger brothers, I had a gender-role-crossing level of aggression for my age; that is, I actively sought to steal the ball from my opponents (and I may or may not have fouled out of a game once or twice). In an amateur middle school league, this is quite the exciting move. Or at least my mom made it seem exciting even when I'd consistently miss the breakaway lay-up: "GO KATHLEEN! WHO LET THE DOGS OUT??!"

Eighth grade basketball was the ill na na. I was in a league with a few friends from soccer, and we were all playing on two soccer teams, six or seven days per week. After intensely structured practices with international trainers (#NYsoccer), we'd let loose in a local basketball league that included players from 5th-8th grade. I didn't fully grow until junior year of high school, so it was nice to have a developmental advantage for once. I still remember how exciting it was to play in a packed gym and to hear the impassioned words of Coach Alan Krause, a 4'10" retired deli owner and youth basketball enthusiast. The games were sloppy and awkward, but real and fun. No pressure, no...high school scouts, no angry parents. Lots of characters. I remember the last "official" game I ever played: ten seconds left, two close friends from soccer on the opposing team, championship game, down by one point. My fourth grade teammate (who slipped under the radar for the 5th grade cut-off) scored her first basket in the last minute of the game. She and her mom started crying, but then we had to remind her she couldn't celebrate with her mom until after the game; this was serious stuff. Back to those final ten seconds...My two fingers were jammed, but I was driven. In reality, I probably had one partially jammed finger, but we'll stick with two. Nine seconds left. I towered over the sixth grader under the hoop and grabbed the defensive rebound after a shot from the opposing team ricocheted off the rim (or maybe she shot an air ball, who knows?). I just remember dribbling towards our side of the court with intensity and then getting fouled at the three point line. I missed the first shot; Coach Krause cringed. I didn't know it then, but this was the last competitive basketball game of my life. Or maybe I did know it then? My mom was silent (a rarity). Three seconds on the clock. I made pretend I had a superstitious pre-foul shot ritual because that made my moment seem more dramatic. I spun the ball and took a deep breath. Swish. First shot in. My mom screamed; Coach Krause did not. He knew we were only tied, and he did not want to mess up my fake superstitious ritual for the second foul shot. I spun the ball and took a deep breath again and banked it in. Still three seconds on the clock but no 5th grader or 8th grader could pull something off in that amount of time, and everyone in the gym knew it. The only thing they would be pulling off was their pinnies (I think I just tried to trash talk...).  Coach Krause went nuts; it was the last game he would end up coaching, as he told us after the game. That moment was so important, imperfect, and sincere. In hindsight, I feel really bonded to my mom, my friends and their moms...and, even to Coach Krause to have shared that experience with them. My mom especially; we would get such a kick out of the players, coaches, and crazy antics of the game.

So I have been wanting to buy this basketball because the sport has always been fun for me. I also used to attend basketball camp at a local high school during the summer, and my brothers and I played in a local summer league. No pressure; mostly games instead of practice; fun drills. It was also a way to meet new people and accumulate more free T-shirts. Lastly, I have so many memories playing basketball outside with my little brothers since we had a hoop outside our house. I remember when I used to foul my brother and he would call it I would say something like, "This is street ball; there are no fouls in street ball." But yet somehow I was still able to call fouls on him... We also used to take shots from faraway--from "downtown, Jimmy Brown." Or there was the time my brother thought the hoop was too low and then my mom somehow confirmed this after shooting an air ball: "Oh yea, there is definitely something off with this hoop. I can tell."

My love for the sport came full circle when I worked in a middle school last year in San Jose, California. Each day, I supervised several recesses and activitiy periods in which I played "knock out" or shot around with the students and some teachers. The school even hosted a mock "March Madness" tournament. The students took it so seriously; their whole school cheered them on. The games mattered; hustling mattered; team names mattered. And it was still all in good fun.

In any case, so back to this basketball I bought. Basically, I just broke down one day and bought it. I say "broke down" because I kept thinking it was a silly purchase since my roommates aren't interested in playing. With whom would I play? Fourth graders? (Again?) But Saturday was the perfect day for some bball. It was hot, and I had two hours to kill. The nets on the hoops had been fixed, and no one else was playing on the court. I threw on some gym clothes and headed outside. Talk about a walk down memory lane. Or more like a sprint. I got so excited and nostalgic I ended up running "suicides." I also found myself sprinting to the ball to try to save it before it went out of bounds: I would sprint to the sideline, abruptly stop, reach out and grab the ball, and tuck it in as if I just saved the game by keeping the ball in my possession. I wouldn't be surprised if I motioned the "time-out" signal when this happened in the corner of the court...

I missed a bunch of shots, but I also made a bunch. Sunk them. Nailed them. Swished them. Banked them. Most people prefer the "swish" of the net, but there is something beautifully harsh about the rim-rattlers. "I shot that with force, and I knew I was going to make it!"...I thought to myself. I'd make one shot and do a little nod: "Okay kadd, not bad." A double nod for making the second shot: "Eighth grade ain't too long ago, aye? Still got it!" Third shot in and I want to point to people on the street: "Did you see that? That was the third shot I made. Six points, baby!" It's a good thing I did suicides to keep my ego in check.

In any case, I really wanted to write about the experience because it sparked so many memories. Sometimes I wonder if I lack certain "rich" memories because I was often a really studious, rule-following kid and our family didn't have any cultural rituals or family traditions (weird reasoning). But things like basketball, soccer, Irish step dancing, Catholic schooling, camps, and all the characters and crazy thoughts and observations in-between return me to myself and to those unique, meaningful, imperfect, fun experiences that have formed me and will always be a part of me.

This song has nothing to do with basketball, but, much like basketball, it reminds me that life is good :): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWDPcz-xWqQ.

"Vocation": A Global Perspective

I spend a lot of time wondering (and worrying about) what I want to be when I "grow up." How can I channel my skillz into the ultimate career? Or, from a faith perspective: how can I best use my gifts to serve others? We see this emphasis manifested in career centers, discernment retreats, lectures, career counseling, etc. One can become obsessed with finding the perfect job: what degree will get me where I want to be? What kind of profession allows for the ideal work/life balance? If I want a family, how can I make x career work (and still maintain my feminist ideals)? What salary level do I need for my projected lifestyle choices? People consider similar questions in the act of faith-based discernment, for they are relevant to real human anxieties.

Sometimes I try to eliminate my "practical" concerns when discerning how I can be the the most loving version myself. For example, I have always wanted to work in South America. I have a desire to drop the paper-pushing and 40 hours of sitting, and I think I would be more inspired by exotic flora and fauna than the pigeons and industrial buildings across the street (no offense, pigeons!). There is something romantic and exciting about taking such a risk, and that can render other choices safe and boring. Furthermore, office culture can seem exceptionally disconnected from that which is real and human (no offense, laptop!).

But what I have only recently realized is the extent to which my view of "vocation"--whether secular or faith-based--has been limited by my particular experiences. My sage-like friend, Micah, pointed out that my vocational anxieties stem from something that most people in the world don't have when it comes to careers: choice. Agency. Control. In this light, the question at the heart of discernment is not, "What am I called to do?" Perhaps this is still an important question to ask, but it cannot be the ultimate question since it is a question of privilege and it only applies to a limited number of people. Instead, Micah suggests that vocation ought to be centered on "being" instead of "doing." Who am I called to be? How am I called to live?

Of course, practical concerns and aspirations ought not to be neglected, but this perspective challenges anxieties that stem from "doing" and "achieving." Personally, I find it difficult to focus on questions of 'being' after having become accustomed to a routine. I often evaluate the present in terms of what I'm  'doing'; I am immersed in a particular job; I am in a transitional phase of life. How can I all of the sudden focus on "being" and self-improvement in this realm of life? I can read some Thomas Merton and consider enrolling in a course about Paul Tillich (check!); I can try to be more intentional about bringing life to the workplace and to my relationships (maybe I'll bake pumpkin bread next week and smile more?). But sometimes it's hard to break routines of thought and ways of being. How does one have a "conversion" of being given the oft mundane reality of the day-in, day-out?

This post is charged with the faith-based language of 'calling', but I intend for it to apply to secular, career/life decision-making as well. We have good days and bad days, but what does it take to transform our everyday selves? How can we best seek to focus on that which is most real and human, and, thus, important? In general, change can spring from an array of things, such as: Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, love (encounters with and experiences of), travel (I prefer somewhere pigeon-less!), prayer/contemplation, yoga (?), mentors, new relationships, opportunities, education, etc. But I wonder: is something deeper or more specific required to change the way one 'is' in the world--and to sustain that change?

The call to be a person of integrity--to be consistent, whole and loving no matter the place or circumstances--is demanding and profound. I am convinced, though, that it matters most.
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Props to tschmall for sharing the inspiring (and related) reflection below (!):

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.