Being Educated by "Educated"

I don't usually read bestsellers. At least, not while they are still on the bestseller list. The main reason is that I don't feel any need to jump on the bandwagon. The other big reason is that I don't think to put myself on the waitlist for soon-to-be-published hot titles, and once I notice the new book, the hold list is way long. So I don't bother.

But I have friends who recommend books. In fact, they're professionals when it comes to suggesting the next great read. How can I help but get excited? So I put myself on the list for Tara Westover's memoir, Educated. Homeschooled girl from strict religious family makes it big in academia, despite not having any formal instruction in history, science, or math. How did she break free to enter university? How did she manage to earn multiple degrees? How did she overcome her extremely isolated childhood?

When I listened, engrossed, I found the audiobook was more of a horror story. Over and over, I perched on the edge of my seat. "Run! Run from the house before the crazed ax murderer catches up with you! Get away from the giant metal-eating behemoth machine before it crushes you! Tell someone about your brother slamming your head into the wall!"

This is a story of abuse. So much abuse, for so many years. The breaking free was not so much about education, although that certainly was her ticket to a completely different world. As is so common for people who experience domestic violence, it seems impossible to sever the ties that bind them to their abusers. That is the horror of this story. And that is the reader's opportunity for education.

"Honey, I found the problem with the dryer..." (Part Two)

"The dryer won't work."

Uh, oh. Golly, I just did my nails, and they're looking good. Now, I'll have to risk chipping them as I take the dryer apart to see what needs fixing. Horrors!

A few years ago, something happened that was eerily similar... here is a link to that post. That time, it took a while to find the source of the problem -- and what a creepy surprise!

If you only judged the obvious common denominators in these posts, you might think that I should never do my nails again. Nail polish leads to dryer malfunction, right? Nah. It's been five years between troubles, and I've had pretty nails many times in between. 

I think it's time to look for a new color. After all, what could go wrong?

Breaking News: Adaptation May Be Key to Survival and Sanity!

I met someone yesterday who had very high, very specific expectations. He wanted personal assistance with details related to an application on the library system's website. NOW. And he was not at all pleased that I could not deliver what he saw as his distinct need, in the manner that perfectly suited his expectation.

We all build ideas of desired outcomes. Sometimes this is completely necessary (isn't this chicken supposed to be fully cooked?) and other times it's best to adapt and adjust based on a new reality (the brownies collapsed, but they taste still taste great!)

What does it take to recognize that a change is required? How much reality must be experienced in order to be willing to shift one's vision? There are many, many stories in the Bible that illustrate this point. Times when things appeared to be headed in one direction, but then God communicated an entirely different plan leading to an unanticipated outcome.

Being a people-pleaser at heart, I am pretty quick to change direction based on what I perceive to be the needs of others. That's nice, except when I really was on the right track and let myself get derailed by popular opinion. Some of the people whom I most admire are strong, firm in their convictions, rarely swayed by mood or whim. That's good, too. There are times to change, and situations in which it's best to stand firm. Reminds me of that text adapted by Pete Seeger...

     There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven -- 
     A time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones;
     A time to embrace, and a time to shun embracing.
     A time to search, and a time to give up as lost;
     A time to keep, and a time to throw away.
     A time to tear apart, and a time to sew together; 
     A time to be silent, and a time to speak.

So, some planned outcomes must be pursued to full completion, and some must be altered. My job is to listen to the One who advises, encourages, directs, and occasionally gives me a shove in the right direction.

Oh, and about that person with whom I had the unfortunate interaction... Well, I'm sorry I couldn't meet his perceived need in the manner to which he'd like to become accustomed. Maybe another time?

My First Tattoo!

I am afraid to make up my mind. I'm a perfectionist.

These two statements form the foundation for my reluctance to get a tattoo. There may or may not be biblical reasons against permanent body markings, but I'm not going there. For me, it's my personal hang-ups. How could I choose something to place on my skin forever?

It would be impossible for me to choose a design, first of all. Should my tattoo be an image, or text? If an image, realistic or artistic? If text, what words and what kind of font?

Then there's the artist. Allowing someone to permanently  ink me would require my complete trust in that person's competence, artistry, and commitment.

Most serious of all is my tendency to dig at my own imperfections. One might call this obsession. When I write, I edit... and edit... and edit... until I choose to hit "send" and walk away. When I knit, I plan on making two or three dry runs at a project until I'm satisfied that it looks good enough to continue. When I draw, I compose geometric figures, because I cannot replicate the intricacies I see in my mind.

If I were to get a tattoo, I would obsess over it, learning every dot and line. Measuring, comparing, evaluating detail upon detail, until I realized the flaws. And the next logical step is to see only the flaws. I'm afraid I would hate the whole thing, just for the sake of one millimeter of ink.

On the other hand, random imperfection is the silent asset of the greatest artistry of all: God's creation. A mountain is beautiful thanks to the jaggedness of its ridges. Towering Douglas fir trees are not mirror images of one another. One bird has more red plumage than its siblings.

Yes, there's the whole body-image thing. Talk about hang-ups! But I am learning to accept myself as I am, not arguing with my Maker or trying to bargain with Him to remove this trait or those few inches. Either my physical being matters not a whit (because it's the spiritual stuff that endures), or the stuff that bugs me is allowed to help me to practice patience and graciousness.

          For Thou didst form my inward parts;
          Thou didst weave me in my mother's womb.
          I will give thanks to Thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
          Wonderful are Thy works,
          And my soul knows it very well. 

I have a pile of my mother's DNA, and a touch of my father's, but I have been crafted by the Master and it's all good.

Oh, and my tattoo? It's just a temp, a free henna opportunity that I get to smile over for a couple of weeks. See how it blends perfectly with my random freckles?

henna, drying

 

henna, top of wrist

What's Back There?

I'm always curious about how things work behind the scenes. The first few years doing football stats for a 4A varsity team, I spent every pregame time agog at the field-level view of preparations. The few stage productions I've been involved in were fascinating literal behind-the-scenes experiences. I love singing in the church choir and looking out at the congregation, watching their responses to the service. And, like everyone, I sometimes wonder what "they" think of me or "us". Don't you?

This morning, I picked up The Unlikely Disciple: A Sinner's Semester at America's Holiest University, by Kevin Roose. This young journalism student from a famed secular university wonders what like is like at, of all places, Jerry Falwell's Liberty University. What better way to learn about it than to go under cover and enroll as a student? I'm only a few chapters in, but it's a compelling read and I have to find out what happens. For once, I'm not going to skim and skip ahead in the story.

Because Kevin is not an evangelical Christian, will he be able to pull of an imitation of one? Can he keep his language acceptably clean, and will he be able to adopt the right amount of Christian-sounding jargon to fit in with the other students? Do I listen to what other people say, or am I too wrapped up in judging how they say it?

Are the "real" Christian students really, uh, real? Are they genuine folks, or are they cardboard cut-out facades with no depth of character? How long will it take Kevin to spot a fake? How do people view me -- shallow and conniving, or solid to the core?

If someone discovers Kevin's identity as an impostor, what will their reaction be? Will they ostracize him, out him, or will they pity him? How do I judge people, and how does that change how I act toward them?

One of my strengths as a codependent is a drive to be likable. I shrink away from anything that someone could find distasteful in me. Ugh. Let me rephrase that. My greatest weakness is that drive to be likable! It's tricky to balance those things that should be staunch convictions while also needing to be accepting and understanding. Most people do what they do, not to be bad but because they feel a good reason to do it. Some of those actions are bad, a few horrific, but many just happen without a lot of rationalization. I'm out of my depth in theological terms here, but I hold that mankind is predisposed to be selfish, and therefore makes selfish (and sinful) choices. It should go without saying that I'm in that boat with everyone else. It would be silly for me to deny this.

Am I real? I hope so. At least, I'm trying to be.

Thanks for listening.

Great Weekend + Wonky Computer = Blogging Frustration

This past weekend gave me enough new experiences for two or three solid posts!

Unfortunately, my main computer is having major problems. I haven't uploaded my photos yet, and I don't want to post without sharing my pictures. Besides all that, it's been a very busy month. Excuses, excuses. I know. But it'll be worth it when I get these gems written and published here.

In fact, I'm so convinced that the posts will be worth your reading time that I'll give you your money back if not satisfied!


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This offer applies only to individuals whom I have paid to read the Dog's Blog. Money-back offer not available in states whose names contain at least one vowel. Refund may not be given in actual cash. Please address complaints to no one in particular, and stay tuned for blogging fascination in this space once day soon.

Blackie's Perfect; Rufie's Trouble

Blackie is old. She cries at the bottom of the stairs, needing to come up from the basement to go outside, wishing we'd install an elevator for her. But back in her prime, she was a frisky gal. She never did like to play fetch, but she let the boys dress her a couple of times, and she always wanted to be where the action was. When she would escape, she'd go across the street to roll in horse manure. Ah, simple pleasures.

Rufus is young. He loves -- lives -- to chase tennis balls. He routinely fits two in his mouth, and can bat a third ball around with his paws. Christmas for Rufus is a brand-new bag of balls, given all at once. Ohmygoodness, such excitement! But there is one thing that can distract Rufus from a game of fetch. The neighbors have cats, you see. And cats run when you chase them. Did I mention that Rufus is quick? He caught one of the cats last month. He got hold of it, and the injury was serious enough that the neighbors had to put their cat down. This week, he chased another one. We're working on getting a fence put up, and soon.

I keep reminding Blackie how perfect and wonderful she is. She has always been kind and gentle and good, even when she could run like the wind. After all, the dead rabbit in our yard was never tested for her DNA. And who knows how far the wind carried those chicken feathers before we found them in the flowerbed.

Wow, we sound like terrible people. We are working on completing the fence. And we need to protect our pets from the coyotes who share the neighborhood wetlands.