Obama

I echo the gratitude expressed by one of the co-directors at the school where I work. I am thankful that I shared this significant event in history with the Roxbury Prep community. At Roxbury Prep, the student body is comprised entirely of students of color. Seeing the students' excitement this week at the news of the election was thrilling. Every Friday, there is a "community meeting". It is an assembly with all of the students and staff at the school. The meeting always ends with a staff member reading a quote and everyone sitting in silence. This week, an 8th grade boy asked if he could be the one to read the quote. He choose to read excerpts from Barack Obama's Nov. 4 speech.

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer."

"Its the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day."

"Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope."

Why is it that when I try to speak a foreign language, my tempo slows?

My eyes are beginning to stay closed a little longer than they should. Her words gurgle on, a constant monotone stream of words, like thechanting of an Orthodox church. She perfectly transposes the rhythm,tone, and musicality of her speech onto English words. Not everything is understandable, but it does not matter, just keep to the beat. Like dance teachers have told me, even if you are lost, just keep moving.
"Wait," I say, and slowly ask, "Did you fill out an application for this job?" trying to emphasize each word.
"No, if you call, I go, need the number, call my son, someone else."
"So no, you did not fill out an application."
"Someone else…"
"Someone else filled out an application for you?"
"Yes, but they said, jobs in, clean I, need for to call job coach, here is number, call tomorrow."
She hands me a scrap of lined paper with a 617 number on it.

7th Grade Bus Ride

“Hey, we’re gonna pass my house. It’s mad ugly from the front, but the inside’s clean.”
“That’s where I got this shirt! They’ve got the illest skinny jeans.”

Stop & Shop, D’Angelo’s, Dunkin’
Followed by…
Dorchester Ave.
And then…
Mad Rags, Brothers #2 Market, Yanet’s Cafe
In addition…
Drive Safely.

Agency

It was warm tonight. A rarity to be warm walking to the T. I couldn’t help but dancing. It felt so good to be alive. Tonight I sat in the same room where I sat almost three years ago now. And I felt so good. And I was in awe at how a few little decisions can change everything. The choices to follow the Spirit have landed me here, in Boston. Those decisions made back in Middlebury were dynamic. They still move. I can no longer give details of many of those choices. I do not remember the mental processes or any of my thinking, but I still remember one of the final ones. I was so scared. So scared of losing a friend, of offending, of overstepping boundaries like I seemed to keep doing. Another rejection or awkward e-mail back almost prevented me. A few small choices and a daring move, and now I am here, surrounded by goodness and so happy. So much joy has come from deciding to act when the Spirit spoke. I am overwhelmed by the amazing people I have met here. I can feel the power that is in these souls. And I am so thankful for a loving God. As I neared Harvard Square all I could think was that even if I don’t become rich and famous here, or go to school here, or find someone to marry here, I will still be so happy and forever grateful that I got to breathe the air, and walk down the street in Cambridge tonight.

later on

Sometimes it takes a while for my mind to compeltely digest changes, like no, you really are no longer a student, free to go and do whatever you please or no, you no longer get to only do missionary work 24 hours a day. Maybe it's the law of inertia, my mind doesn't want to stop and have to derail itself, picking up the iron wheels, turning about each car, and heaving them onto another set of tracks. Effort enough to make the switch, and then there's the implications; bumps underneath what was supposed to be smooth metal.

My writing, My blog

The writer was well-known. I ended up sitting on the floor in the space in between the two tiers in the auditorium. For him, his goal was to sit down, with only a glass of water, and write. Instead, he said that he usually ate a package of oreos, downed a two liter bottle of coke, and then began to write.

Pablo Neruda told the man that he must walk down the coast very slowly, and then the metaphors would come.

Barbara told us to always write. It must be a habit. Just write. She said that she was sure that all of us had experiences that sparked writing, and times when the pen flowed. “Well…if you want the lightening to strike,” she said, “you must be out in the field waving your arms, waiting to get hit.”

Impious

I’m having one of those questioning moments, where I wonder if I should just move back to Utah, get married, and produce babies. To this end was I born. These episodes come regularly, like some type of menstrual cycle minus the blood.

Usually, God sends me an answer to tide me over, but this time I can feel the impious me wanting to dig out and demand more. I want something tangible with finite borders that I can hold tightly without squeezing the air out of it. I pray that there really are answers, and that the only reason why I am not receiving them is that God does not want me to be more accountable.

When did I decide I was “destined for greatness”? My mind's mirage makes me appear different and sparkling. I do not desire comments on my physical appearance. Another platitude from a male would simply serve my self-justifications of covering my body in an extra layer of vengeance. I want a solution, a way out, the type of fact that clicks into place and lets my thoughts out of their cage.

kick against the pricks

My God is a God of second chances, and third and fourth and fifth ones.When I am caught in the current fruitlessly kicking against the forces of fast water, He tells me to release. The Bible says, “The Lord shall fight for you”, but it seems counterintuitive unless my intuition is tied into His. Let each worn white knuckle cling no more. One at a time I peel my fingers back until I can no longer hold on and must be sucked into the water, tossed back to land, and admit that I am not in control, He is. God, let me try again. My “I’m sorry”s and “I promise”s have been multiplied too many times, like an exponential trajectory of sin. But please erase it, and let me start at 0,0 once again.

In the Interim

Voids of uncertainty, or maybe just a hole
Between the impressions and what I know
If I were better at logic, this might make sense
If X then Y
Which is to say, “X will guarantee Y.”
But if not?
God’s intricacies lie in constellations too blurry to make out
If I can own the principles and perhaps some wax and string
But even without, I can feel future scenes: mother, father, child in the back seat

Riddled basins of attraction make it impossible to predict
The path of physical particles
Wait. Just wait.
Caught up and dangling over the sea of confusion, held only by the force of fields.

Mission

Some things testified of until they left marks on my palms. Sentences and phrases, no longer forms of speech but living breaths of anguish and joy.

Memories attack. Waking me in the morning, crashing suddenly in the afternoon. More vivid than any previous thoughts I’ve had about past events. These ones aren’t yet past. I still breathe British air and maybe (I pray) that I’ll never let the last air molecule escape out of my lungs, so as never to let go. Roundabouts and people’s homes, the way it felt in certain, exact moments. Not exuberant flings of fancy, just flashes of time caught up and still spinning about me. It is in the present. I am still Sister James, unchanged, not gone home, not tossed out of custard, minced meat pie, dandelion and burdock wonderland. Still a castle in the forefront, still sheep and rivers and hedgerows and fantasy book names for the green hills that are constantly playing on some type of never ending rerun in the back of every other less meaningful daily task. I still take the rubbish out in Wales.

Daily Musings

Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing my sanity. Probably if I talked to a trained psychologist today, they'd say, "Yes." When the things that felt right fall through, what does it mean? Can I no longer interpret the voice of God? It makes no sense why I am here. Yet, I feel so much better here than I would in Salt Lake, and I don't know why. Before I left this last time, my brother asked if I would ever live in Utah again. I had to say, "No." And what of our plans to build up the family business, the long dreamed of Yonsei, Inc.? Perhaps there'll be an eastcoast branch.

The T

Green shirt, white peacoat, and long black hair. She pulls a kid size box of thin mints out of her pocket and pops a few in her mouth. She is clearly reading the Metro that the woman next to her is holding.

Nude hose, white tennis shoes, and a short green skirt that can only be part of a uniform. She is asleep, fist on hand, elbow on metal. Her brow is furrowed.