Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Blog

From what you were before.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 6 comments link this post

I was out for a walk late this afternoon. I've had a few days that haven't been so great for a variety of reasons, and needed to clear my head.

On the ground near the edge of the walking path, amidst all the fallen leaves of faded green and yellow and light orange, were two red leaves.

I picked them up, running my fingers over their smooth surface, drinking in the beauty of their color and marveling at the fact that they had been green -- the opposite color -- before they were ever this rich red hue.

You can change from what you were before.

The thought came instantly into my head.

You can change from what you were before.

This seemed a morally neutral statement, one that could be both hopeful and hopeless depending on the change and what came before it. For the time being, it was a hopeful thing for me, though I am aware that even good change brings bits of pain as you shed things you very much wish to keep.

Like leaves falling from the trees, going from green to red.

Labels: nature, observations, personal

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The raven.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

The difference between
aloneness and loneliness
is the raven.

Sometimes he feeds you
and sometimes
he drives you crazy.

Labels: cartoons, personal, poetry

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About finishing.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Somewhere, I became more about finishing than speed.

This realization set in the last mile of the 5K today, when I finally found myself running on my own and settling back into the pace I'm used to running from training. All the rest in my group had long gone up ahead and I figured I'd hear the usual "we're sorry" and apologies once I crossed the finish line. I felt a bit guilty about that; I don't want to be a person who inspires others close to me to apologize for their successes.

They needn't bother with those apologies. I really mean that. I discovered that while I liked having friends at the event, I prefer to do the actual running alone. Slowly, at the pace I know, with the goal of finishing on my mind.

I don't do things very quickly in life. I don't learn the lessons, make the abrupt changes, or head down a career path at any great speed. This is not always by choice, but sometimes the way God seems to deem it to be. Slow down. Listen. Pay attention. Quit blundering on and take it in for a while. It probably looks very different to someone on the outside, perhaps like indecision or fear or poor choices or someone not living up to potential, when it's really a kind of struggle and exercise in learning to wait.

I want to finish well, though when you're going so slowly it seems that you are neither doing well nor doing anything that will bring about a finish.

Sometimes the slowness of things bothers me. For example, a mediocre online business for ten years? Watching people pass through or by while I felt locked in some kind of slow- or stop- motion? These were things I had not planned for my life. I'd always seen it as being different when I imagined how it would be years ago. When you're dealing with a God whose day is as a thousand years, a decade is put in a different perspective. I just have to learn to adjust.

So I jog on, slowly, to keep going and finish when it seems I'm taking too long. To understand when it is and isn't my turn for something.To make lists and still be able to hope as the improbability rises each passing year. There's never been any shortage of ideas of what to do in life; it's just been about time. And timing.

I crossed the 5K finish line this morning, and my friends, long since there, apologized for going so fast. I laughed and said it was OK and really meant it and wondered about getting back into my regular groove tomorrow when everyone had left town and I was back on my own.

"Are you thinking of moving to Bismarck, Julie?" my friend Molly asked me.

I paused.

"I don't know. I don't really know anyone here...but that isn't very different from any other place for me," I said. I thought about the 5K I'd just finished. While I liked having friends at the event, I prefer to do the actual running alone.

Is that how it will be? I have certainly trained for this particular race that way, though not always by choice.

"I don't know," I repeated again.

I know certain things about my life have grown tiresome and I'm interested in sloughing them off. But I don't know. For now, I just keep moving slowly. And concentrate on finishing what's in front of me.

Labels: my life, personal

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Eight (shameful) things.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

::First, there were just eight things.Here are a few more.::

Eight Lies I've Told Recently

(As if you haven't done so, too.)

I care.
I don't care.
I don't mind. It's OK. It's no problem.
Yep, everything is good.
I'm not upset. No worries.
Nah. I'll get over (it, him, that) without any problem.
It's just a crush.
You're not bothering me.

Labels: lists, personal

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No place.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

Last night, as I was lying in bed wishing the heat wave would end, my mind somewhere between awake and asleep, the thought suddenly came to my mind that I didn't belong anywhere.

There were two street lights poking through the trees out front, their light bending and weaving across the blinds in my room, leaving stripes on the opposite wall. The shadows from the trees moved back and fort across these stripes and the effect on a half-awake mind was numbing.

I don't belong anywhere, I thought again.

I'm not sure where the thought came from, or why, but the old song "You Belong To Me" started running through my head, a song with lyrics that suggest a kind of gentle possession. Perhaps it was a kind of strange possession, last night, but not of belonging. It was an absence of belonging to a place, a time, a person. It was more a feeling of be-longing.

Mainly, I wondered where I should be to belong, because, suddenly, no place felt like home even if I had red shoes to click the heels together.

Of course, that was last night. This morning is another day. Sometimes I wish I'd just get to sleep right away and not linger so long in between. Crazy thoughts come, there, in that place of no place.

Labels: personal

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Misconception #4: Written as it is.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

::Start here.::

You must remember, above all things, that I'm aware of the audience.

I don't show the audience the grubby gears and mechanics of the backstage area, hidden behind the backdrops. I might provide you with an act or two (or three) of drama and melancholy, but that's still in front of the set.

So you don't really know.

You can't really say I'm not afraid. You can't really say I've got it made. You can't really say much, except a discussion on the play I'm letting you see.

There is a reader who has, gradually, become kind of like an encouraging mentor. I recently let this reader know, every so briefly, that I was afraid I wouldn't have what it takes to finish the flying lessons.

"I have the utmost confidence in you," was the reply.

And so I jumped back on stage and started up again, with another joke.

It's this idea -- that you see the whole production -- that leads to all the other misconceptions about fear and talent and self-deprecation.

Look, do you really want to read a daily blog from some Sad Sack? No. I know that. I don't want to read "poor me" every day, either. So I write as I write because there are people in the audience.

This journal entry/blog post, for example, details a moment that wasn't funny at the time. It was, in fact, during a period of stress and fear and self-doubt over not having a place to live. I could certainly written some melodramatic Victorian prose about my plight, but geez -- who wants to read that?

And more importantly, who wants to write that?Dwell in the dirt too long, and all you do is get dirty.

I'm part of the audience. I need to be able to laugh and not always chronicle the mess backstage. I write for my own benefit as much as yours.

Labels: essay, personal, series, writing

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Misconception #3: You are so talented, that's why.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

::Start here. Go here next.::

"You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to
walk away, and know when to run. You never count your money
when you're sittin' at the table; There'll be time enough for countin'
when the dealin's done."
-- Kenny Rogers "The Gambler"*

I was told in a comment on a blog post that, essentially, I don't appreciate what I have been given:

Neither would someone without a great deal of talent and smarts. Your self-deprecation is sometimes too much for me. It's like someone complaining about going to Yale because they couldn't get into Harvard. You give a bad name to those of us who really do have have something to complain about, those of us who lack your intelligence and abilities.

I was taken aback; I am very aware of how blessed I am, and the last thing I want to do is make someone feel negatively about themselves. I am merely trying to cope with my own fears and issues. Part of me wants to remind people that sometimes what I write about myself is actually about me, and not about you, the reader. I'm not trying to project. I'm only trying to tell.

But...

Do I have nothing to complain about? Or maybe, do you really have something to complain about? Is my life cherry because I've been handed what seems to you to be the mother lode of luck and talent and all good things stem from that alone? Was there no work of my own involved over the years? No grace from God? Surely there's a Shylock moment here, in which I would say if you cut me, I bleed just like you: red, messy, all over the place.

You know how far talent will get you? Just past the supposedly "untalented" people until they start putting in the work you're not. Sooner or later, every child prodigy gets lapped. Remember that.

Consider that talent and smarts can actually be a negative thing in the hands of a slacker, since it means things come easily and when something requires work, the person who has been coasting and rewarded for little effort suddenly can't make the grade. You have no idea the years of work I've put into my music and drawing and writing and all the things that seem to just be handed to me.

Play the hand you're dealt.

The game's not over.

Quit worrying about everyone else's hand, and play the one you have. You can still win with it, because every hand's a winner, and every hand's a loser. Play it out to the end, with all you've got, and quit your bitchin'.

The one who folds early is agreeing to be a victim, beaten by the game.

And Kenny Rogers, despite his strange facelift and foray into marketing BBQ meat products in recent years, was a lyrical genius.

* As I repeatedly have said..."The Gambler" is a great source for life instruction.

Labels: essay, personal, series

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Misconception #2: Self-deprecation.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

::Start here. Go here next.::

"There's no crying in baseball."
-- Tom Hanks' character in A League of Their Own

There's no use crying.

I could sit around and cry about things that bother me. Sometimes I do. But usually, I try to find a way to laugh at myself. Or, at least, hold on until time turns the corner and something finally becomes funny.

Self-deprecation is tricky.

I get raked over by readers periodically for what they say is excessive negativity towards myself. They may be correct, but dang if Dorothy Parker wasn't witty.

If I can't laugh at it, if I can't use my own life material as the punch line, then I got nuttin'. I could make fun of others, but that's just mean. So, I make fun of myself and, in the process, find a way to smile about something that wasn't so funny earlier. Self-deprecation is an important plank in the boat I'm using to get through the wild river of life.

A couple of things happen with self-deprecation: mainly, that you're stronger than you thought, and that you get to know yourself really well because humor has a way of cutting through the crap and shedding light. Turn that on yourself and ouch. It's all there.

It takes a lot to laugh at yourself. Stop being so serious. It isn't that bad.

You can't cry all the time.

Labels: essay, personal, series

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Vagueness.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 5 comments link this post

July is the time of year where the crop duster supersedes the alarm clock.

I woke up this morning to the buzzing of the yellow spray plane as it growled over the house, and then back and forth a few times. Time to get up; I had to drive back to Bismarck today, so no sense sleeping any later. I arrived in Bismarck, promptly slicing up the back of my heel because the screen door on the house in which I rent a room is broken and has what I would call an "aggressive return policy." But it was good to be back.

I love being home in my room on the farm. My bed. My TV. All my 800+ books around me. My stuff. Kitchen just downstairs. Piano to practice on. The country road beckoning me to go for a walk or run without having to deal with traffic and stop lights and other people.

But I was looking forward to getting back to Bismarck, and back to flying.

It has nothing to do with wanting to be away from home, but instead, has to do with vagueness.

Vagueness, in life, is destructive. Vagueness in purpose, direction, and self-identity -- not knowing who you are, where you are, and where you should be going. Having only some small bit of information to go on. Floundering. Sort of water-witching your way around, hoping whatever you're using as a stick knows more than you do.

With what I'm doing now, even if it's only for a few more months before going back home, even if it's a lot of work, even if it doesn't sense to others as to why I'm doing it, even if I sometimes feel a little lonely down here -- at least it kills that vagueness.

I can tell you, at least for now, where I am and what I should be doing and what my next step will be and what I need to do for the day. I have a specific goal and understand what it takes to get there. I go to bed with a set of things to do right away when I get up in the morning.

That's no small thing.

Labels: my life, personal, summer 2008

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Plain and simple.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 10 comments link this post

I was recently informed that someone "liked" me because I was plain and simple. It wasn't meant as an insult; I understand both that and the context of the situation. However, the words "plain" and "simple" aren't really words any woman wants to hear herself described as.

Perhaps it's because, as my friend Travis informed me, all women are vain.

"They are. All women are vain," he said.

I'm pretty sure I shot him a dirty glance (my specialty) and scathing comment at the time, but I know that I didn't really disagree. Because I don't really disagree, not really. Women are vain (there is no other explanation for high heels and makeup, all of which are uncomfortable in regular life). That vanity, however, is a response to an equally shallow male requirement. The shallow yin fits tightly with the shallow yang of the sexes. Female vanity is a foil for male addiction to surface perusal.

There is a movement afoot in recent books to rage against efforts to feminize boys. Essay and article and book upon book are appearing telling us to let boys be boys and grow into men. I'm not going to agree nor disagree, but I do want to point out that the theoretical crushing of maleness is relatively new development, while history has a solid track record across time and culture of requiring or encouraging women to do serious physical and emotional harm to themselves for outward appearance's sake. With very, very few exceptions have women in any culture or era escaped this pressure.

My friend Molly, upon hearing the "plain and simple" story, was quick to comment.

"You know what he meant by plain and simple?? Good things in my book -- you are real -- you are you and don't need a bunch of junk on your exterior to introduce you before you get there. Real would have been a better word. Genuine," she said in an email.

That is kind of her to say. Perhaps she's right in this particular case. I don't know.

I do know that much ink has been used to pen songs and poems about beautiful women. Green-eyed, red-haired Jolene. The brown-eyed girl. The lady in red. The pouty child-woman extolled by Billy Joel. The long-legged woman with the "American thighs" (which sounds very much like a potential menu item at KFC, a fitting observation in terms of meat market and lists of exterior requirements) that AC/DC screeched about. Despite Bobby Sherman's best efforts to console all the Julies out there, there just aren't a lot of songs written in praise of the plain woman.

So, let's get back to plain and simple.

"Simple" brings to mind characters from Of Mice and Men, which disturbs me a great deal and I don't think I'll be delving into what would make me seem simple. At least not today.

But "plain." What is "plain", anyway?

It calms the upset stomach, if we're talking plain food. Plain is decidedly un-baroque. It's nothing to write home about. It's basic and functional. It lacks any ornamentation. It might be comfortable like vanilla or an old chair, and is certainly not exotic or addictive. No one is on their knees begging the plain woman. The plain woman is the scullery maid in the kitchen of women. Plain is invisible. At least ugly is made note of.

However, "plain" has time on its side. Time, thankfully, is the great equalizer of beauty in women. It relentless strips away layer after layer of youthful, surface beauty until, at some point, the formerly beautiful and the formerly ugly and plain are on equal ground and are seen for what they are inside.

Perhaps this person who liked me because I was plain and simple simple skipped ahead to that point in time. I think he'd had and seen enough of women who "upset the stomach" and maybe saw value in the bland. Hard to say.

I'm envisioning myself as a bowl of soggy oatmeal, here, which is a disappointing thing.

I know I (almost to a fault) find myself pursuing things that can withstand this lashing of time, things like skills or knowledge or the pursuit of Christian faith (in my case). I can easily get caught up into forcing myself to be the best, the smartest, the most skilled, the funniest, the nicest, the most interesting, the handiest...because I know I'm not ever going to even touch being the prettiest. I'm not even going to register as cute, most likely. I don't have pretty to fall back on, just my wits and the things I've learned. Which sounds pretty good, and is, except...women are supposed to be pretty, or so the subtle and not-so-subtle message goes. To not have some discernible element of exterior beauty is almost anti-woman, is the suggestion.

It's more than a little distressing to thumb through or read the onslaught of Christian books that purport to help men and women understand each other, only to have pounded into my head again and again (sometimes with "supporting" scripture, which is so fabulous!!) that men are visual and they want women to look good on the outside and women should just understand that they need to put some serious effort into it but don't become vain or hung up and God bless you you're special because of who you are inside but still devote time to being beautiful outside because men are visual and we're not asking them to take themselves to task on that since we'll just work around it and understand it.

Blah blah blah.

Where are the blind men when you need them?

I guess I've hit the age where I can see that spending time in front of the mirror, spending money on the latest makeup or hair-care product, spending wasted hours with hot appliances wrapped up in my hair, or spending the time fretting over running mascara or sweat stains and curtailing my activities so as not to muss myself is a complete waste of everything. I certainly don't wander around in a gunny sack with greasy hair; I have my own fair selection of high heels and makeup, but on the other hand...what is the point? Really? Bunions?

I would like to think that when I'm 60 I won't still be putting on makeup as if I were 20, looking like a clown poured into Junior Miss clothing from J.C. Penney's. I would like to think that I wouldn't suffer the vanity that compelled me to visit a plastic surgeon slice up my face and have it stitched up higher and fuss with clothing and scarves that would hide my wrinkled neck and knees. The only catch is that right now I'm not 60, I'm 34, and that makes for three decades of biding my time for time to do its work.

That's the plain and simple truth about being plain and simple.

Now, if I had been called "simple-minded", there would be some genuine ass-kicking going on. No one insults my mind without a little return on the investment.

Labels: essay, my life, personal, women

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Things they won't say about me when I'm gone.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

::I thought the idea (and the list) was clever, and decided to try it for myself.::

She was consistent.

She was inconsistent.

She was an out-going people person who loved any opportunity to meet and talk to new people.

She always met life with an even, un-dramatic keel, staying level-headed and calm.

She never took sides, for she never tried to see things from the perspective of others.

She was overly closed and protective of her own feelings and did not open herself up to people.

She never saw any scenario as a worse-case scenario.

She was almost heroic in her successful efforts at controlling her tongue and consistently refused to put her foot in her mouth in the heat of the moment.

She quickly adapted to "adulthood" and maintained a respectable level of maturity that was age-appropriate for every situation.

She had few opinions and rarely expressed an interest in sharing or defending those she did have.

She loved attention and craved public accolades for all her efforts and hobbies. More than anything, she liked to be the center of attention at parties or in groups.

She was known for having a large roster of friends and social engagements.

Labels: blogging, links, lists, personal

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Conversation: No life.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

In a recent conversation with a person, I got to thinking about the phrase "I have no life" in terms of working at a job extensively vs. the concept that life = self free time.

"You work a lot," I said.

This person had a working schedule that would make me implode, since the jobs I've had always seemed to suck the life out of me and leave a kind of vacuum inside that made me wonder if I were just lazy or if it was even possible for anyone -- namely me -- to enjoy any paying job. More than one friend has expressed serious disillusion with their work, so I know I'm not alone.

The person nodded in agreement and jokingly replied. "Yeah, I work a lot. I have no life."

"I hope you enjoy your work," I replied.

"I do. I love my job."

"That's good," I said, rather blandly, but I was thinking that this person was so far ahead of most people that I could barely fathom it. Loved the job?

That's far more of a life than the average person working a job they disliked that made them try to overcompensate on both real off-the-clock time and the on-the-clock-but-wish-I-weren't time.

I would love to love a job. It would help cull some of the excessive restlessness inside, the constant push to find the next new opportunity that might be the job I could at least like. The truth in this case lies very close to the truth I am finally understanding about home and geography.

Home isn't geography. It isn't a specific geographical place. It's a fluid time, a compilation of moments, a sense of being where you are supposed to be, where you are safe and wanted. Home can be taken with you from place to place, on into the future, allowed to change, if the foundation was laid right. For too long I thought I had to be in a specific place to be home. That made moving on, and the passage of time and how it played out in people and buildings, a horrible thing. Once I released home from being locked to a place in geography, I could relax and just enjoy the compilation of memories.

And so, just as home isn't a place, I could love my work if I could finally get a handle on how it has nothing to do with the actual job.

I think.

If you love your job and you are constantly working, you have a life. It's those of us practicing truth-avoidance with a smile that have no life no matter how much time we call our own.

Labels: conversations, essay, personal, work

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The next thing.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

Hands tied by my own impatience.

The too-regular pursuit and achievement of dead ends.

Third-wheelism, having mostly married friends which require me to become seconds. The extra. And understandably so, though understanding the need for it doesn't make me feel any better.

Too many great friends who don't live near me geographically or aren't around. Guerrilla friendship, the drive-by "how are you?" that only sometimes has time for an answer but doesn't provide the trusting foundation for the answer even if the time is there.

I do it, too. I understand how it is. This isn't about blame or to induce guilt.

"It is how it is," I often say. "People do what they are going to do."

Myself included.

I've never learned to be real and extremely open to the core with anyone beyond a few tentative excursions that I've come to regret. I've never learned to not become soon-exhausted by people, simultaneously annoyed at their prying while caring too much if they care about me enough.

Wanting what you don't want.

The wasted time wondering if anyone is thinking about you, or if you have already disappeared.

Aloneness and loneliness are blurring as I get older, which isn't all bad. The edge of one is worn off on the other. Sometimes I turn the TV on for the sound of other voices, or to drown out the noise in my head that I've had to rely on as my most reliable companion. Being around people drains me, so I suppose it will all even out in the end.

Being driven instead of driving, feeling pushed along and not feeling purpose. Living by force and not for destination.

Unsettled but firmly in a rut.

Being alone means no one to blame except myself for lack of initiative. If it doesn't happen, it's my fault. No one has my back. If it needs to be done, I must do it. Relationships where the initiative falls on me are short-lived and annoying; I already exist in that place. Why drag another person onto the wagon and haul them around, too?

Needing proof, and to prove, all at the same time.

"Yes" and "no" coming out of the same mouth. Smiles and jokes coming from a well of sadness.

There is no solution, that I can see. There is habit and routine and distraction, but these are about surviving, not solutions.

So, on to the next thing.

It's not so bad. It is what it is.

Labels: my life, personal

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The place.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 5 comments link this post

It's the place you can sort things out
in proper perspective
away from the moment
and the rush and pressure
and figure out what it all means.

It's the place where you feel
no prying eyes
and your back relaxes
and your exhale everything
and all the on-guard paraphernalia
and the masks
fall off.

It's the place where the big things
are seen as the small things they really were
and the small things
take on the importance they deserved,
and you vow to not get the two mixed up next time
in the heat of the away-ness.

It's the place where you know
immediately
that you belong
to it
and it
to you.

It's the place
called home.

Labels: personal, poetry, travel

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The lies of when.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I will

travel
get free
follow Jesus
start to love
take a chance
change careers
let go of past hurts
tell my family I love them
get out of this disappointing rut
stop being selfish and living for myself
say the things I need to say to someone
stop settling for distraction over truth
do what I always dreamed of doing
do something worthwhile
spend time with people
learn something new
leave the safe place
open up my heart
try again
be bold
forgive

when I

am sure
get back to it
have more time
have confidence
remember to do it
am a little bit older
have enough money
find a convenient moment
am finally given the respect I think I deserve
get through this current challenge and things settle down
think others have sufficiently made things right
have all my life plans falling into place
decide that I'm ready
get my life in order
am brave enough
am treated fairly
get around to it
am happy
am good

There is no when.
It never comes.
There is only now and what was.

The true nature of time and the brevity of this life is disguised by the lies of when, which we tell ourselves willingly.

Don't wait.

Note: This post was pre-written and published as scheduled. Read more about this here.

Labels: essay, personal, poetry

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The same invisibility.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

I sent a photo to a friend recently that showed what I looked like about four or five years ago. I was much, much heavier. My friend hadn't known me then, so it may have been a little surprise. I'm not skinny now, by any means, but I do look different.

There's the usual "wow, you worked hard!" and "you look great now!" and, of course, "you are so different now!" kinds of comments when people see photos from then (which is nice and encouraging), but there's something I never really tell anyone: to me, there is little difference.

It's all about invisibility.

The same thing that made me overeat is the same thing that makes me more and more uninterested in food now: the desire to disappear. I didn't make a change beyond how I shifted an attitude as it applied to food. There's no real difference.

I've said it to friends and even on this blog, that I'd like to disappear. It's usually taken as "disappear off the grid for a while, on a wee bit of a vacation."

No. I mean, disappear.

Be invisible.

If you're invisible, being ignored isn't such a big deal; it's to be expected. There's a certain peace about it.

Being heavy was a paradox. I was larger in actual size, yes, but I found I was invisible. People didn't see me. I was, perhaps, just another "fat person" and I wasn't noticed. There was something to that that I liked and took comfort in. It allowed me to find a way to live through the things that made me unhappy because, in the pit of it, I could say "I'm invisible, it doesn't matter." Being ignored made sense and I could easily lay it on my weight instead of any other more painful and less superficial reason. I've lost some weight but there is still an element of being ignored going on that now bothers me more than when I was heavy because it shouldn't still be there. I'm no longer defined (in my mind, at least) as invisible, on either ends of the scale, so now feeling as such is actually a kind of acute hurt. I don't actually know what to do with myself; it's like the invisible man suddenly put on a suit and can be seen for who he is.

To be invisible, you need to be really heavy, or nothing to you.

Note: This post was pre-written and published as scheduled. Read more about this here.

Labels: food, health, personal, women

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Better on paper.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I found myself saying in an email, yet again, that I am "better on paper.*" I say it a lot, usually as an excuse as to why I'm hesitant to meet people who only know me by my writing.

That's such a disappointment, I would think.

I'll say things in writing that I won't say in person.

But then I stumbled upon 2 Corinthians 10:1 and finally saw something in it. It's repeated again, in 10:11.
This is from a chunk of scripture where Paul is addressing those questioning his authority, and in amongst a lot of other good things, he talks about how, in person, he may seem meek while in his writing, he is bold. I'd suggest having a go at the entire chapter (or book) rather than let me butcher it, but those two verses really caught my eye.

I'm better on paper. I express what I'm truthfully thinking when it goes through the filter of the pen.
I'll say what I'm really thinking in writing, where, if you asked me something in person (how are you? anything new? what are you doing these days? anything to say?), I'll probably give you the following answers:

I'm good, thanks.
Oh, not much.
Same old same old.
Nuthin'.

The me on paper is not in conflict with the one-to-three-word answer me. I used to think it was, but I don't see it as that anymore.

I'll say a lot on paper, and put my name on it. But, in person, I probably won't even meet your eyes.

*Paper = screen = the written word; pen = keyboard

Note: This post was pre-written and published as scheduled. Read more about this here.

Labels: blogging, personal, religion, writing

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The theory of 180.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 12 comments link this post

Every so often I realize with a great deal of pain that I forgot everything I told myself not to forget. This, for example. Or this tidy little summation. Or, maybe this, which I didn't really write but latched onto in a later post. Or maybe I ought to remember just about any and all things I've written here.

But I don't remember my own writing, my own ideas, my own admonitions. I'm all or nothing, even in remembering and forgetting.

I was doing my usual archiving and computer cleanup a few days ago and I realized I'd sent one person 175 emails to his 75. 70 percent of the communication, the effort, was mine. Staring at the numbers, which are facts that can't be shushed even by all my best intentions, continued acquiescence, or excuses for all of the allowances I repeatedly made, I finally saw the real picture.

175 emails.

"I think I need to set up a quota at 180," I said lightly in an email, though I didn't feel light about it. That, by the way, raised my tally to 176.

180.

Half a sphere. I need to find some new spheres: new friends, new places, new direction. The sphere I'm in is apparently not holding what I am looking for.

I've done borrowed; I'm familiar with being blue. I'm tired of the old; I want something new.

180.

A stop. A change in direction. I know what I want and I see that my current direction isn't getting me there. Instead, I feel stupid and embarrassed and left hung out to dry from nothing but my own refusal to see a dead end. Repeated rejection from various sources for over a decade doesn't numb as well as you think it would. Not to mention, I didn't even follow my own strong suggestions about not pursuing, about not being a stationary object, about struggling with silence and pretending it was OK -- all of that. Not only am I rejected, but I am so foolish that I failed to understand my own writing.

180.

How long do you need to know someone before it finally becomes clear that nothing is ever going to happen? How strong of a message do you need before you finally see the obvious?

For me, it hits somewhere around 180 emails.

Sometimes, its time for a 180.

Labels: personal, relationships