Beans

It's complicated that I love chili but I don't like beans, that in order to love chili, I must embrace the beans, too (this year's greatest metaphor, right?). It's complicated to say that life was complicated in 2012 when, at the end of the day, it was, by love's definition, blessed. So here's to this year's beans...and the rest of the hidden metaphorical, photographical, meaningful moments of 2012. I present the second annual Year of Light in photographs (you can look at last year's here, and see how much more mature things have gotten, even though I'm talking about beans right now).

JANUARY

This lightness happened while visiting two of the greatest young men I know, 

on the outskirts of Seward, Nebraska.

FEBRUARY

This is Luftwerk's Luminous Field in Chicago, where many things were

illuminated and luminous, like the city itself.

MARCH

This is Momma Auten and Brother Bear during Tyler's first trip to Chicago.

APRIL

This happened. Where else but Carol Joy Holling Camp.

"Too much camera time."

MAY

These people, I tell you. This summer, I tell you. 

Hashtag awesome.

JUNE

That face. These Kids. And Broseph at Sullivan Hills Camp.

They must have chased him around for a solid hour.

JULY

This is how I feel about Seward, Nebraska, and it was taken

during my first 4th of July there with my best friends.

AUGUST

This is me in a touristy shot in Chicago.  

The irony is that I am no longer a tourist.

SEPTEMBER

This is a happy giant Litebrite. It happened during Chicago's 

Art on Track, which took place on the elevated train.

OCTOBER

This photo marks the beginning of my Dad's mobile phone photography career.

NOVEMBER

This was a celebration of friend love outside of a Wendy's in Leavenworth, Kansas, 

where I found my way back to my convictions about photography, 

even though this was taken with a cell phone. 

No matter because this moment needed to happen and be recorded.

What I'm trying to say is don't overlook the beans in the chili (as in, to be all un-original about it, don't overlook the moments within this gargantuan bowl of life, for your life is fearfully and wonderfully made). And make sure you find someone who loves you for all your spilled beans. 

I'm also not going to apologize for all these bean/(possibly)fart/bowl/chili metaphors. Happy New Year!

I PRAISE YOU BECAUSE I AM FEARFULLY AND WONDERFULLY MADE; 

YOUR WORKS ARE WONDERFUL, I KNOW THAT FULL WELL. -Psalm 139:14

DECEMBER

Saved

There's nothing like typing a big 'ol paper and suddenly losing two whole pages because you didn't command+S for over 20 minutes. It feels like the whole world is crushing your patience, your sanity, your life. It's so dramatic, you can't even handle how dramatic it is. Good thing it only lasts for a little while, after you've plopped your face into your pillow, screamed into it, cried there, let it dry, then screamed into it again. It's almost like an out of body experience, one that also crushes you with embarrassment another 20 minutes later. The only song that goes through your head is REM's "It's the End of the World As We Know It." So, you resort to writing about it on your blog so the rest of the world, if they choose so to do, can pity you and understand what you're going through. It's pathetic really. Meanwhile, your paper still doesn't get written, as you're still writing on your blog. But somewhere in there, you begin to wonder why it's so terrible that you lost just two pages of words. They're just words, for goodness' sake! Now, you have a beautiful blank slate to discover something new about yourself and others through writing. It's a really good exercise in re-articulating the present moment and beginning to treasure it. You didn't lose your loved ones, your friends, your home to a hurricane. You didn't lose your mind with the exception of a few minutes. You didn't lose your ability to think, to walk, to love. You didn't lose your faith, even though it felt like you did for a split second there. You didn't lose your life after this.

It also makes you (now me) question why I freaked out in the first place. This relates to this cool cat, whom I have admired since by best friend and I accidentally stumbled across his "Acne Song." You can watch it here. Then you, Charlie and I...let's face those blank pages together, remembering where the clean slate came from.



"I just have to hope, I guess, that I have the capacity within myself to be that person I want to be. Because, right now I just don't know and I am unsure. And, that scares me, a lot. If you have been, thank you for sticking with me over the course of this last year. I really appreciate it more than anything else, truly."

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith--and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God. - Ephesians 2:8

Command+S, over and out.

I want a sandwich.

Lately (but not so lately), after a month's hiatus from writing here, I begin by writing something like, "It's been so long since I've written, but here's what's going on." Or "I haven't written anything but school crap and it sucks, but here's what's going on" or "I think that writing on here is conceited which is why I haven't written for so long. But here's what's going on." Excuses, really. I need to work on introductions.

Today was like a dream. (I also need to work on transitions.) Confidence, reflection, brilliance, stupidity, floating, i.e. walking through familiar places but realizing you're a completely different person than the first time you walked through this place. It slams your brain down, choke holds it for a sec, when you realize you've been in a new place long enough for it not to be new anymore. Blows. your. mind. A few pieces of thought sandwich from a few days ago that led to this encounter.










1) journal excerpt, September 24
Often times a certain peace comes along, in the midst of sirens, traffic, uncertainty, uncontrollable longing for things and people missed or not yet grasped, ultra shyness, anonymity, floating, indecision, confusion, self-consciousness, reading, writing, headaches, diversity, homelessness, homesickness, discernment, sexuality, nightmares about loss, real loss, mistakes, regrets, everyday errors, cell phone usage, too much facebook, missing out, worry, the opposite of motivation, disengagement, irritability, judgment, tough love, growth, growing pains, body image, distrust, fear of closeness, fear of dates, fear. But, it's of God - the peace. God's peace. The knowing, faith, being still. That tomorrow is a gift. A day I've never, ever experienced before. What wondrous love. And all the days after. Reminds me of the Levi's commercial. But imagine them wearing love, that's right!



2) an essay about coming of age via beer, October 8
How can beer be ugly when it brings so many beautiful people and things together? My parents and their friends, my high schoolmates, that first kiss guy, that second kiss guy, my college friends, my current friends, my friendship with beer itself. This logic also applies to love for home, even when it smells like cheap beer, i.e. cow piss. The truth is, everything happened in Nebraska, not just the torture of cheerleading, or high school football, parties at the cabin, defeating shyness like an alcoholic superhero, stepping in shit while drinking beer in that pasture where we had a bonfire, finding the errors about beauty, the revisionary momentary slaps and slams toward true beauty.

3) a list of details I wish I could tell you, Today
All this new clarity opens the choke hold, and you start realizing details you want to share with anyone who will listen, or read, just to be reminded it's not a dream. Did you know: that my wardrobe color scheme has shifted from tans, grays, and black to browns, greens, blues, and black; that I wear my hair up more often to show off my face like my Mom told me to do, that I'm finally proud of my ears that stick out a bit and my nose that's crooked; that I wish I could sit on the sidewalk by that man outside the Sheridan el station on Wednesdays - he has no legs, sitting in a wheelchair, watching people go by. I'd like to people watch and have conversations with him without looking like a loon for sitting on the sidewalk; that every time I walk to church, the "don't walk" symbol is already turned or quickly turns to the "walk" symbol because I need to walk ahead, walk in His footsteps, walking through the night, walking toward the light; that my favorite color at the moment is the coral orange of certain fall leaves; that I really enjoy the cold because I'd rather keep reaching for warmth than be a total hottie all the time; that I don't mind the hipsters, because I don't really mind things that are too hip, that other people call sellouts or posers. I think calling someone a poser is poser behavior, and that me calling someone who calls someone a poser a poser is poser behavior, too; that I live vicariously through a number of TV shows that involve groups of five or more friends because I miss my college and camp groups of friends so much. I loathe couple shows because I can't relate to them, which is just fine; that I think people are more beautiful than most works of really great art; that it's okay to be an introvert, even if you secretly wish you could share all of the above or other details with a special person that would make couple sitcoms look like a stupid rat going up against a Momma beluga whale protecting her baby beluga from said rat (this needs more context, but it sorta works); that art, writing, music, great film and theatre can save you the agony of interacting with certain people, but also that escapism can be itself an interaction with people. All immersion in humanity; that I like the musicians I like because of what they stand for behind their music; that I haven't written a blog post for over a month because I think it makes me a narcissist, like everyone else with a virtual identity. I think truth can surpass the virtual, though; that I wish I took myself a little less seriously.

I'm gonna go make a sandwich now.

Pray the Lord my soul to take

This happened just last Wednesday. Before, or after, or during, or even if you don't read on, please send up some prayers for hurting families and the community of Blue Hill.

While I was admittedly thinking of myself and my own, need I say, selfish shit, I ran into this video.



It reminds me of a dream I once had. Then, hey! I remembered I wrote it down! It took me all of five minutes to dig up the following in my lengthy journal archives. It's really awesome to find something without googling it.

November 15, 2009 11:24 a.m.
There was a scene with a sunset. A friend came running around the corner. We both watched a bird of pelican-like stature take off to fly over the pond before it plopped back into the water. While this was happening, a voice was narrating the process of flying in the dream. Something like, "You will keep falling, but you just have to keep spreading your wings." Then I remember walking through a neighborhood. Across the street was a beautiful home. I walked into a room inside - I was suddenly (literally and figuratively) in someone else's shoes. A young child. I found a bookshelf, dark mahogany, with a set of colorful books. I opened the first book, and it came alive. The room transformed into a blue-green fantasy city with floating lights and particles circling overhead. I came back to the room and realized that this world made me so happy. No one judged. I picked up a second book, and this time I walked into a meadow where two very good-looking men, best friends, were walking around an outdoor hammock. This time, I was myself - no shoes to fill. I awkwardly tried to climb into the hammock, but failed. They looked at me funny. I came back to the world. I opened the next book. It became narrated by an animated brown bear with a big smile. On the first page, it talked about singing, praising, Psalms and Song of Solomon. I realized this new world I was in was truly magical - or maybe of God - or maybe my young self thought it was heaven. I woke up smiling, not wanting to wake up. God is shining in my soul, and I hope that means he is in my dreams. Such hope and light in these dreams. And the beauty of things to come.

Lord knows it's awesome (no better word) that these things come back around to remind of things to come that have been. Christ alive in us! God even overrides social media. No Google monster machine of a computer necessary for God to search - and find - your heart. And take it with Him in the end. God makes the blue-green, the particles, the twinkles, the wings, perseverance in grief, His son.

E'en so Lord Jesus, quickly come 
and night shall be no more. 
They need no light nor lamp nor sun 
for Christ will be their all.

See you up there Travis, Caroline, Dustin, Marla.

 

Awesome old heart

I haven't written anything but schedules, letters, and a few journal entries here and there for over two months. And here I am, trying to figure out something awesome to say and it's not coming. But, then I think, "Lindsey, it doesn't have to be awesome. Not everyone has to write something awesome all the time. This blog is not necessarily conducive to awesomeness."

I want to talk about something really awesome, though. I've found home. I mean, besides my home home. Let me explain. For the past couple of years, I've been bouncing from Seward, Nebraska to Chicago to Rockford to Blue Hill to Ashland to Lincoln, back to Seward, back to Blue Hill, to Hastings. In all of these places, I've found people and places that are...home. You want to know how I know (feel) this? It's the fact that I'm no longer mortified to be myself in all these places with so many different people that I have come (and have learned) to love. Working with kiddos of all ages all summer will do that to you. Of course, my "self" is constantly shaping itself, and it's bound to turn in on itself and hate itself and rearrange itself once again. But it's always going to be there, at home within myself. So much self. That's selfish, I know.

I had moments this summer in which I realized that all the places I've been have been the right places at the right time. Maybe I didn't do the "right" thing, but those places were set before me for some reason. Of course, finding a home doesn't always happen at 24. It might happen at 32, or 65, or 98. Or, I may just be a total nutcase about all of this. It's okay if I am. But, maybe you know what I'm talking about: when you learn to appreciate everything you've been through, even when it's been really shitty. Because, as the cliche goes, those things make you who you are today.

Due to a recent introduction to the Oh Hello's (thanks to that you-know-who-you-are person), who I wish I had said hello to sooner, I have had a little help in finding what they might call my old heart. I spent a lot of time in Western Nebraska this summer, at a little oasis in the sandhills called Sullivan Hills.

I thought it would be the worst thing to happen to me, but it's turned out to be one of the best. Okay, Lord, you're pretty sly. I won't give too many details. That would take days. But here's what I will do: I'm going to tell you a story via lines from my journal. Don't worry, it might be funny. It might even be awesome.

Right away, I had an excitement for the grounds and what happens here, but then a slight pang of lonesome because I keep remembering that I won't be at Carol Joy Holling with most of the staff for most of the summer. I relate the courage to the Lions song we learned Tuesday (slinky!). Stories from camp that don't seem funny to others elsewhere. Sad, but true. But who cares! They're great! Almost tipping the canoe with Collin and Patrick. I almost wish we had actually tipped. Horse stampede. Laughing real hard about farting. Good, good meaty stuff in their, hearts, too. The community and camaraderie, kindness of this staff is so much better than any dreaminess. Let's just say: more booze, less sushi, and a $200 tab. It's nights like these that I'm so glad I still remember, that make so many things worth it, that bring a warmth to a story, not a dream. And I get to laugh a lot. "You shouldn't bottle that up," says Joe. But thank you, God, for sending him here to keep me sane.

I want to be like Deb when I grow up, with a big heart, in the hills, working hard, a pioneer woman, at the ready for others all the time. First rattlesnake sighting. It sucks being the boss mom at camp. Sometimes, it's the best thing that's happened, though. That one time someone backed the tractor into the shop and clipped the door just as he said, "like a boss." I smell like campfire and cast iron, but I like it.

Later, we got some crappy sno-cones, stopped at the Gallery, talked about our love lives and the pizza place we want to start together someday. Boys were stupid, got to be stupid. Wouldn't want it any other way, most days. Praying for rest, health, excitement and efficiency in planning and organizing, peace in knowing that this union is founded in Christ our Savior. We wobbled. We chicken-danced. We duggied. We Macarena-ed. We cupid shuffled. We copperheaded. We slid electrically. Sloppy Joe style.

It involved strange corridors in hospitals and churches, a car accident, and city-slick parties. Just plain after him to no avail. Thank the Lord I always wake up to more realistic adventures. The farting noises woke me up. Maybe I really should just go for it, via the advice and support of my big brother. But, alas, we hit the road. Boys in the booger. Girls in the mother ship.

Saw him from afar, apron on, more that five cuppies of water in his hands. He lit up, if a man in such garb and so occupied could be capable of lighting up. Sunshine, people. Amazingly tired, but surprisingly chipper. The Keno Kove. I can't say enough how much I'll miss those bunkhouses. But, if there's anything I've learned this summer, it's how to move on, how to forgive, how to let things go, how to move forward. "Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. All of us then who are mature should take a view of such things. And if on some point you think differently, that too God will make clear to you. Only let us live up to what we have already attained." - Philippians 3:12-16 We'll have that moment forever, it's true. I'm thankful for one that's the bee's knees, the tops, where everything stops. 

"I want to find a home and I want to share it with you."

Adorkable Nostalgia

I must confess: I've been listening to One Direction and Justin Bieber regularly - "regularly" meaning once a month. When I do have a little free time, as I do now, I resort to recalling the excitement of my youth, when I wasn't at all concerned with my taste in music or my wardrobe that included a Mighty Mouse sweatshirt, a Mickey Mouse obsession (I was jealous of Minnie, yes), multiple Peanuts t-shirts, and at least two pairs of pink and purple pants. And, remember those old Rider Sandals? The worst designed thing I ever owned. But, I wish I still had them. I regret to say, at (almost) age 24, that One Direction is so much more adorkable than the Backstreet Boys ever were. And, Justin Bieber will always be more talented than Aaron Carter or Jesse McCartney, even though JB looks more and more like a girl everyday. Sorry, man. The fact that I know this, and the fact that I own Never Say Never is embarrassing indeed.

It's an illusive thing, this recollection of that kind of youthful, because I'm not a 12-year-old anymore. I have to remind myself of that all the time. I mean, I have to remind myself how much I've learned since then, how much I've actually had to grow up, not how much of a dork I still want to be. Right? I want to clarify the difference between having a youthful heart and being youthful. Those are two very different things. I'm talking about being youthful. I hope to always have a youthful heart.

I think the biggest catalyst for this nostalgia is my little brother's recent high school graduation as well as a recent conversation with a good friend about how I never did anything remotely "rebellious" in high school. As we speak, my brother is carefree at the lake with his best high school buds fishing and doing other lakey shenanigans. His deep connection to our hometown is the same network of quality people and places that I was so ready to get away from at his age. I was ready to be adult-ish and gain better taste in music and wardrobe. I never did quite get that far on the latter, by the way. But, whose definition of mature wardrobe are we talking about? I suppose its my own new definition, since I moved to the city, where everything's sleeker.

I do want to grow up. I am actively doing so now. But I want it to be okay to still listen to today's (and yesteryear's) teen pop. I want it to be okay that I know what's happening in the world of politics, journalism, the arts, but also that I know each hunky teens' name in One Direction. I want it to be okay that I'm concerned with how popular music is destroying really good music that should be heard, but also that I appreciate the Biebster's sense of humor and the simplicity of his stupid lyrics for hoards of young girls, who just want to be treated right. I want it to be okay that I try to dress like I'm 24, but also that I really, really miss my Mighty Mouse sweatshirt because I gave it to Goodwill a really long time ago.

It's okay. I know. Dance parties will always be okay. My taste will never be super-sophisticated, nor will my wardrobe. My youthful heart, however, I hope becomes a certain kind of sophisticated - not sleek, but mature and hearty (ha, forgive me). One love, one heart, fo' sho'.

Myself and the land.

An affinity for a rural-ness of life. Ohhh, so this explains my repeated readings of Jane Eyre - my admiration for the Bronte sisters; Enjoying Willa Cather's My Antonia, which seems, to some, a greater obscurity of life on the plains (in other words: *yawn* - but not to me). It explains what I call my Pottery Barn aesthetic (even though the Pottery Barn is a little barn-y, pottery-y and stereotype country-y for me) - an interest in earth tones, organic structures, country-designed kitchens, woodwork, pottery, hand-painted materials, hand-crafted textiles, ceramic chickens (as well as rubber chickens, maybe).

Somewhere between leaving the open earth and sky environment and the beginning of a respect for the concrete and metal city that scrapes both of these things, I started to think more geometrically. This explains a new found interest in architecture, marketing, symmetry and city street layout.

This is cool, though, because it might be important for me to think both ways. As I write, I'm lying peaceful on my double bed at home in Nebraska. It is so...quiet. I can hear myself think, which is not altogether a good thing, because I already over think and here, I can overhear myself over think.

Chicago, though - fun fact of the day that I'm proud to know and share - is laid out like a grid, and diagonal streets jut into the grid like a bicycle wheel's spokes, its center downtown. I've also learned that every 8 blocks equals about 1 mile. Just about every set of 8 blocks has an arterial street at the end of it. Every 4 blocks is a major secondary street. A block is about 480 feet. Downtown, most blocks are closer to 400 feet. Even-numbered addresses are on the west and north sides of each street, while odd-numbered addresses are on the east and south sides of each street. Yep, doin' my research.

And here's today's silly metaphor: my country roots (aka Jane Eyre tendencies and Pottery barn dreams) = the grid layout. My city living (architectural thinking) = the diagonals through the grid. This metaphor still up for interpretation, contemplation, expansion, because, it is a little yesteryear lame - you know, the structure of upbringing SLICED by 20-something self-discovery in the form of grid-breaking interruptions.

I think it's okay to one: not really have a really great conclusion to this piece of writing because it stands for the shaping and reshaping and shaping and reshaping of organic and geometric thinking; and two: finish up with a few words about freedom and making mistakes (by possibly writing this post and/or ending it with ambiguous song lyrics by a sentimental musician). Good 'ol Sufjan.

I was in love with the place
in my mind, in my mind
I made a lot of mistakes
in my mind, in my mind...

...if I was crying
in the van, with my friend
it was for freedom
from myself and from the land