Waterlilies and Life Reflections

Today I am going to Kansas City's Neslon Atkins art museum for the first time in a long while. I think the last time I visited was when my dad came to see me sometime last October. There are a lot of things I like about the Nelson. It's big. It's interesting. It's free. I really like that it's free. I also like that it's quiet. And cool. Not cold, mind you, but cool, in a way that allows your heart to slow and your lungs to involuntarily slow down.

The Nelson is not one of those insurmountable collections of art that you'll never work your way through in a single afternoon. It isn't MoMA or the Chicago Art Institute. And it certainly isn't The Louvre or The Vatican. It's smaller. Calmer. There's no pressure to get your money's worth (since you didn't pay in the first place), and no need to queue in line. You don't even need a map unless you're one of those people who gains security through knowledge of their whereabouts.

Despite all of this, I typically need a good reason to go to the Nelson. Usually that reason is a personal visitor or a group outing, as it happens to be today. The first time I went to the Nelson, however, I was on my own. It was September 16th, a Thursday. I had only recently moved to Kansas City and was looking for ways to maintain my sanity and appreciate my setting in between all of the job applications and resumé editing that I hoped would lead to a job.

I remember walking in and wondering why more museums weren't free. I breathed in the cool, air conditioned air, laced with the scent of stone and marble. I exhaled and wandered through the sarcophagus of Ka-i-nefer, a local celebrity among Nelson regulars. I've always had a thing for ancient Egypt - the gods, the myths, the makeup, the hieroglyphics. I became absolutely giddy when I saw my first onyx statue of Anubis at the Vatican museum in Rome.

From across the room of the impressionists' gallery I caught site of the soft pastel dabs of waterlilies. Monet's water lilies. Not realizing that the man created over 250 of these paintings in the later part of his life, I sank onto a wooden bench and spent a full five minutes gazing at the piece. Behind me I heard two middle-aged women discussing the painter and his home outside of Paris. "You know," said the one, "there is this little museum in the Orangerie of the Tuilerie Gardens. It's very intimate. A special place to see his work." I thought on that, wondering what kind of person living in Kansas City is capable of discussing the various art museums of Paris.

Little did I know that within the next three years I would visit Paris myself, not once, but twice, and that I would remember the woman's words and seek out the Musée de l'Orangerie, where eight of Monet's massive waterlily murals fill an entire oval-shaped room. I would go there with my boyfriend and we would queue in line for nearly 45 minutes on Paris's annual "museum night" in order to get in for free. Eighteen months later I would return to Paris on my own, this time for a full three months. And though I would not visit the Orangerie again, I would pass by it on my way through the Tuleries, and I would remember that night and the bit of overheard conversation that brought it about.

I like when these moments happen. When something in my present life causes me to look back on the past and to realize how much has changed - in my family, in my surroundings, in my life, in myself. I can get so caught up with keeping up and moving forward that I forget to look back. I forget to realize that I am living the life I used to dream of - not in an idealistic sense, but in a real and hopeful way. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of the day that someone would ask me out on a date and I would get all dressed up and we would have beautiful food in a fancy restaurant. I dreamed of the day I would get my first job - as a waitress, as a writer, as a youth director. I hoped for the day when I would move far from home (typically to New York or Chicago) and set up my home in a tiny over-priced apartment.

When you're in the throws of navigating that relationship, finding that job, or looking for that tiny over-priced apartment, you forget that you are living the future you used to hope for. Now, it may not be exactly how you hoped (If it was, I would currently be working on a book of poetry and washing the bottles of my second child), but it will be. It is. You are. Now.

I sometimes catch myself dreaming of the future - my first published novel, the husband I haven't met yet, starting a Fulbright in an undecided country - and at times, it is at the expense of my present. Of a summer Sunday when I run in the cool of the morning, shower in the quiet of my home, and take my breakfast while reading a novel on the front porch swing. I didn't know that at 26 years old my life would be like this. I wasn't always sure I would want it to be. But that's the beauty of remembering the past. Sometimes you don't realize where it is that you are until you have a reason to look back on where you came from.

Other side of the window

When I woke up this morning I did not feel like keeping the promises I had made the night before. Promises to get up early and begin the running regime that was destined to follow my three months in France. "You're staying near the Plaza," I reasoned with myself. "You're always wishing you could run by the Plaza. Don't waste it." It was nearly 11 am by the time I clipped on my iPod, laced up my shoes, and headed out the door.

This is my fourth summer living in Kansas City. When I moved here from Lincoln, Nebraska, I still viewed the city as a place where my family had gone for vacations when I was growing up. Kansas City was Worlds of Fun, Stephenson's Apple Farm, Cool Crest golf course, and jazz at Jardine's. Now it is a place I come home to.

I've recently been in Europe, working as an au pair, gathering writing material, and generally trying to deal with my travel bug. It feels right to be back in KC, and to be arriving once more at the start of the summer.

I head down Roanoke and turn onto Ward Parkway. Brush Creek is on my right, the south end of the Plaza on my left. I remember walking around the Plaza not long after I moved here and wondering what it would be like to live like "those people." The people who shop at Ann Taylor, sip cocktails on the patio, and eat dinner at McCormick & Schmick's. The ones who stop by Starbucks and grab grande lattes on their way to the office that pays for their lavish condo.

Sometimes I still dream of living other people's lives, the ones on the other side of the restaurant window. I jog past Gram & Dunn and sneak a look at a four-top of brunch-goers, sipping mimosas and eating fresh omelets. A part of me wishes that I could trade places. I remember the last time I had a mimosa, with my boyfriend and my parents after church on Easter. Last Easter. I think of all of the fine meals and fancy cocktails that I myself consumed over the course of that relationship, and I realize that for a time I could very well have been mistaken for one of "those people."

But I wasn't. I could never really settle into that kind of privileged lifestyle.  I would catch myself making small talk with the waitress, wondering how many tables she had and whether or not Wednesdays were usually slow. I was a server myself for nearly a year, and have never quite gotten used to the other side of things. I actually miss waiting tables, though I also missed eating at them when I was on staff. Sometimes I wonder what is happening on the other side of the kitchen door, where the rest of life keeps happening.

I pass a café and lock eyes with a man as he glances up from the Sunday paper. He watches me run. I watch him sip coffee from a white paper cup. "I've been on that side of the window," I think. And I remember the times that I've pulled out a chair, straightened my skirt, and ordered a latte, only to wish I that I was outside running, burning off calories instead of filling up on them.

I continue toward Loose Park, where I wind my way through the trees and the people. I see dog-walkers and tennis players, young families, and smitten lovers. I want to watch all of them. To follow them home and see what they eat for lunch. I want to check their e-mail and scroll through their Facebook photos, to see if they're happy or lonely or angry or scared. And I want to ask them if they feel like they're really living life. Or if they're like me, still waiting for it to happen.

My therapist calls it "chronic discontent," an inability to be happy in my own life no matter which side of the window I find myself on. There is some truth to what she said, and for a while I tried to focus on my life without comparing myself to others. But then I got bored. And egocentric. My life, as it turns out, is actually not that interesting, not to me. Sometimes I have to remind myself that there might be someone on the other side of the window who may actually watch me in the same way I've come to watch everyone else. That person may just wish that they were a single young adult running six miles by themselves on a cloudy Sunday morning. It doesn't sound so bad when you put it that way.

In less than two months I will be moving again. To a tiny overpriced studio in a suburb near San Francisco. I will finally start the master's degree that I started entertaining almost five years ago - an MFA (master of fine arts) in creative writing. "Creative non-fiction" (CNF) to be specific. I look at it is as permission to spend the next two years people-watching, as I attempt to eek out a living. Most people don't need to take out student loans in order to give themselves permission to people watch. But most people don't plan to spend the rest of their lives observing other people either.

I think just about anyone would like to be written about, so long as they're depicted in a good light. Sort of like the way we would all be happy to be painted, as long as we look good. Everyone wants to know an artist, but not everyone wants to be one. I find this especially true with writing. People are fascinated with writers - the way they carry around little notebooks and pens so that they can write down their thoughts, capture their moments, and track their memories. But not many people really want to live the sort of insular, contemplative, introspective life that a lot of writing requires. It often means spending a lot of time alone, with yourself and your thoughts. But those thoughts are often of other people and their thoughts, so it's really a matter of perspective.

As I reach the end of my run, I stop seeing the people around me - in their cars, on their bikes, walking down the street, and drinking coffee on their patios. I feel the sweat soaking through my headband and dampening my clothes. The blisters forming on the balls of my feet remind me that I'm overdue for purchasing new shoes. But I can't think about shopping right now. All I can think about is getting back to the house where I'm staying and sitting down with a glass of cold water, preferably before Ira Glass finishes acknowledging the creators of this week's episode of This American Life. The narratives that have been entertaining me for the past hour empty from my head. I think only of myself. Of my life. Of the fact that I must get off my feet before they go on strike and refuse to carry me up the stairs and into a much-needed shower.

As I unlock the door and sink into the soft red couch I realize that there is nowhere (and no one) else I'd rather be. It's sort of a rare experience. I do not celebrate it. But I acknowledge it. And along with it I acknowledge the fact that it won't be long before I find myself once again on the other side of the window.

A First Time for Everything...This Time, A Christmas Letter

There are many things I enjoy about Christmas at home—the familiar decorations, the traditional cookies, the secret code names on the gifts that taunt me from beneath the tree, the basket of Christmas letters that sits beside the fireplace. Each year the members of my family take turns digging through the basket, searching for photographs and looking for letters from people we know. I have dreamed of the day I would pick out red and green-trimmed stationary and share my own seasonal news. I’ve penned the Kuehn family Christmas/New Year’s letter eight of the past ten years. This year I am sending my own.

I wonder why it has taken me this long and why this is the year I decide to write. If I am honest—more honest than I believe one is supposed to be in a Christmas letter—I would say it is because my life has not seemed “letter worthy.” I am not yet a “real” adult, at least not the kind that sends letters. There is no new house, no fiancé, no babies on the way or big career moves to speak of.

I did manage to land a youth ministry position at a church in Liberty, MO. I was there for an entire 25 months (7 months more than the average youth worker) before I resigned. Youth ministry is just not what I was created to do. I am not really sure what I was created to do, but it must be something else.

My final Sunday at the church, I described to the senior high why I was leaving and where I was going. I explained that each of us has different talents, gifts, and opportunities. Sometimes, many times, we settle for what is known, comfortable or expected when we are capable of more. The doors are open, but we are afraid to walk through them. Other times, we long for escape the way I have longed to live overseas ever since I graduated. We push and we strive, but the doors do not open. And so we stay put. Because we must. We seek other opportunities to use our gifts and experiences, which is, of course, how I ended up living in a community house in Kansas City, KS, teaching ESL courses to Bhutanese refugees, and working at St. Stephen Lutheran Church.

It’s difficult to sit down with a group of high school students (most of them seniors and freshmen), encouraging them to try new things and pursue their dreams and desires, when you are not doing so yourself. I try to motivate my students to take risks, to move into spaces that may seem uncomfortable, and to chance leaving what they like in order to pursue what they love, what God has called them to. And those are the reasons I have chosen to leave a life that I like, so that I can pursue the life I was created to live.

Three and a half years ago (not long after I graduated from college with a B.A. in Writing and a fuzzy idea of the future), I set off for a four-month mission term in England. I returned from that experience with a newfound love for refugee and immigrant populations and a strong desire to get back overseas. I spent six unexpected months working my high school job at the HyVee bakery and living with my parents in Lincoln, NE. After that, I left for Kansas City, where I hoped to move in with a college friend. That didn’t work out, but Kansas City did, and I wouldn’t trade my time here for anything, not even the overseas teaching position I was offered two weeks after I committed to moving. I decided that Kansas City deserved a fair shot, but now I am ready to adventure again.

January 27^th my plane departs for Paris, France. I do not speak French, but I will be staying with a family that does and I’m hoping I will be a fast learner.  For three months I will focus on writing and will serve as an English tutor for Nina, a tri-lingual five-year-old. I will spend May in England, visiting friends and reconnecting with a country and community that is lodged deeply in my heart. My flight is scheduled to return in June, at which point I will walk through whichever door seems to be open. I may go to graduate school, provided I get accepted. I may move to California. I may move back to Kansas City. Or I may end up on the other side of the world.

I am open to the unknown future. I’ve learned it’s better that way. It isn’t easy, at least not for me, but I do believe it is better. God calls us to hold our lives loosely. In fact, He calls us not to hold to them at all, but to deny them, to willingly give them up—not because He wishes to take anything from us, but because He desires to give us more. As long as our hands are full, our fingers clenched tightly around people, positions, promises, and possessions, we are unable to receive what might otherwise be ours.

This holiday season, as you unwrap gifts and open boxes, think not only of the great gifts that God has given you in family, friends, and fortune, but of the gifts He may still be waiting to give. Are you willing to let go of what you have now in order to take hold of something else? Are you willing to sacrifice what you know—what you may even like—that you might pursue something you really love? It is my hope that you will, and that you will become more yourself in the process.

And with that challenging thought, I will bid you adieu. I would love to hear from you, and would be delighted if you chose to follow my upcoming journey.

Grace, Peace, Joy, and Love be yours,

Amanda Kuehn

http://parisianamerican.blogspot.com/

Selling Myself

If I never write another statement of purpose (aka "personal statement" or "statement of intent") it will be too soon. Unfortunately, I still have three SoPs left, and that's assuming this is the only time I'll be applying to graduate school.

A statement of purpose is a 500-word summary of where you've been, where you are, how you got there, and where you're planning to go. It is also a summary of who you are, what you've achieved, why you matter, and how you plan to affect change in the world. I've had to sell myself before in job interviews and on cover letters and scholarship applications. I've never been very good at it. I attribute it to my Lutheran background. Something about confessing every Sunday that I am a poor miserable sinner who deserves only death and punishment makes me doubt that I really have the ability to change anything, much less the world. For years Luther has been telling me that there is no worthiness or merit in me and that any good that comes from me is a sheer miracle of God, a miracle for which I take no credit.

To counter my guilt and shame, I have been reading other people's SoPs, feeding my pride, and convincing myself that "Hey, I could do that." I don't know how "Christian" this is of me, but I've yet to see the fallout. In fact, I think God might be rather proud of me for claiming the gifts that I've  been developing and discovering since I was four years old. He may even be disappointed in me for not being more diligent in pursuing them.

Eight years ago I was a senior in high school. I was a good student, a fair speaker, a decent writer, and a "super Christian." I wasn't more holy, sanctified, or redeemed than anyone else. I wasn't particularly positive, kind, or happy, but I read Christian books, wore Christian shirts, listened to Christian music, and led Christian study groups. I chose a Christian college to which I received a Christian leadership scholarship. During a campus visit, I had met with one of the English faculty. He taught literature courses and we discussed Willa Cather and Nebraska authors and I was utterly enthralled with the thought of reading and studying books for the next four years. But I was a slow reader, with little knowledge of the literary canon. I feared falling behing my peers, and decided instead to enter the Christian education program and pursue a degree in counseling. I learned that counseling required seven years of grad school and switched to youth ministry. I wasn't particularly engaging. I didn't have a passion for kids or spiritual formation or recreational activities. I found it all interesting, but, well, I don't play dodgeball.

Meanwhile, I also entertained this idea of being a writer. I engrossed myself in books and words and  went to poetry readings and plays. I paired youth ministry with a writing major, reasoning that I could write Bible studies or work at Brio magazine (which was discontinued in 2009, but was similar to Susie). I was as if I had to "Christianize" my vocation, as if a sense of vocation (a summons or strong inclination to a particular state or course of action; especially : a divine call) wasn't enough. 

I was in the second half of my junior year before I realized what I had been doing, how I had been trying to prove myself and live up to my own ideas of what it meant to be called by God. Ironically, it was when I left the church that I began to discover my real interests and develop my natural gifts. 

By that time it was too late to switch majors and too soon for me to commit to a graduate program. I hadn't spent enough time pursuing my literary enthusiasm. I tried writing a statement of purpose--describing my writing background, my passions, my inspirations, my plans for the future--but I couldn't, because I didn't have any. I didn't know why I wanted to be a writer or what I wanted to do with a writing degree. I just knew that I wanted it. Essentially, I wanted to get a Master's in English because I'd spent most of my college career pursuing a Bachelor's in "Christianity."

But going to school because you "like to learn" doesn't really cut it with acceptance committees. So I graduated, and left college, and worked odd jobs and started blogging and writing and traveling and writing and then looking for any job that would give me experience as a writer. But the economy tanked and I moved to a new place and the only job I was really qualified for was in youth ministry. So I did that for two years. And here I am, trying to sell myself as a writer once again. But this time it feels different. I haven't read scads of books or acquired remarkable skills, but I have started to pay attention to myself, to the things that excite me and move me and affect me, the things that I've always loved, even when I didn't realize it.

I think of what God would say if he were to read through my statement of purpose, and for the most part I think he would smile (which is something I don't often say about God). I think God would be glad to see me finally doing the things that he made me to do, know that I've gotten the "parent-pleasing" out of my system. He might be disappointed by the little white lies I tell regarding the excellence of the university's faculty and my enthusiasm to work with professors whose bios I found online and whose works I've barely skimmed, but for the most part I think God would be okay.

It is difficult to get someone else to believe in you when you don't really believe in yourself. And it is difficult to believe in yourself when you are constantly being told that you don't measure up. The words I need to hear are not "You need Jesus," but "You are enough. You are gifted and talented and you are free to pursue those desires. You and your talents can meet the world's needs in a way no one else can." It's a bit lofty, I know, but it's a truth I need to claim if I am ever to write with conviction. What good is a statement of purpose if you don't believe it yourself?

Thank you and Goodbye

"You have a restless spirit" he typed.

(I have this addiction to gmail chat that I don't like to admit, but that is true nonetheless)

"Well, I suppose so..." I responded, "BUT..."

There's always a "but" when it comes to claiming my personal propensities, especially the ones that are so subjective. I guess I wasn't really claiming my restless spirit so much as I was defending it, as if I know there is something wrong with being restless, as if I want to be more settled and stable, but I just can't help myself and my perpetual need for change.

"I'd like to think of it more as wanderlust," I continued. "BUT...I suppose you're right."

I am restless. My spirit doesn't just occasionally stir, it shifts uncomfortably and continually, like a thirteen-year-old boy in the middle of an 8th hour English class. Mondays are the worst. I haven't gone to work on a Monday morning since September, maybe August. It's supposed to be my sabbath--the day I don't drive to Liberty or answer my work e-mails or worry about finding chaperones for the next middle school retreat--but it often ends up feeling quite the opposite. Last Monday was fairly productive--I worked on a writing sample and did my dishes and went to the gym and made phone calls. I did some reading. Today I slept in until 8:45, made breakfast, answered some e-mails, and realized yet again how fitful I become without a schedule.

Then I thought about the "Thank you and Goodbye" reception that was held for me at St. Stephen yesterday. It strikes me as somewhat absurd that you wouldn't thank someone for their work until they are about to leave. A "thank you" reception would have been really helpful about 12 months into my job, when I started each morning re-thinking whether or not I should have taken it. "Thank you" would have been a great thing to say when I was in the throws of organizing a service event, planning a confirmation service, or finishing a weekend with a dozen middle school girls. But waiting until I leave to tell that my work is appreciated is almost cruel. I'm sure it was meant to give me a case of the "warm fuzzies," but instead it made me feel empty and hollow. If I had known that I was appreciated, that people noticed and even liked what I was doing, maybe I wouldn't have been so restless, so ready to move on.

Leaving a job, I have decided, is a lot like breaking up with someone. I've never really been on this side of that equation before (i.e., the "dumper"), but I imagine I would probably have similar second thoughts and misgivings about leaving another entity to whom I had previously committed myself. Maybe that's part of the reason I haven't ever ended a relationship. Because I just don't end things. I fight the end, sometimes fiercely. I didn't end my relationship with high school, college, or any of the half a dozen internships that I've had. They were only temporary in the first place.

The only time I've ever really left a place was when I moved from Lincoln, Nebraska, to Kansas City. My waitressing gig at Tandoor wasn't bringing in much money, so that was a pretty painless and mutual decision. But I nearly cried when I left the HyVee bakery. When my manager asked if I wanted to stay in the system I replied, "Well, you never know." They were happy to see me move onto bigger things, but I was still sad to go.

This is the first time a job has ever pursued me. We sort of pursued each other really. It didn't seem like a perfect fit, at least not from my perspective, but they seemed so very eager to make it work. So I thought I'd have a go and see what happened. It was blissful for a while. I was surrounded by preschool students singing Christmas songs and coloring gingerbread men. I got paid to go camping and canoeing and to talk to high school students about the importance of prayer and the beauty of community. It was good stuff. But then, about a year in, I wasn't really sure about it anymore. I wasn't sure if this could be a more permanent thing, if I could see myself as a youth director for the rest of my life. I wasn't being affirmed in my work and didn't feel able to freely use my gifts. It wasn't what I expected from a youth position and it didn't satisfy me the way I thought a career should. I was young. I had other ideas. I had the freedom to pursue them. So I decided I would. I put in my two years and I began dreaming of other things.

I suppose it isn't unlike my current relationship with David. He was the first person to really pursue me, and I suppose I pursued back as well. It didn't seem like a perfect fit, at least not from my perspective, but he seemed so very eager for things to work. So I thought I would have a go and see what would happen. It was blissful at first. We began dating in December, surrounded by Christmas lights and holiday parties, and those sort of "early relationship" conversations. There was someone else paying for me to go to movies and taste delicious things and cook amazing food and meet his wonderful friends. It was good stuff. But then, about a year in, I wasn't really sure about it anymore. I wasn't sure if this could become a more permanent thing, if I could see myself with David for the rest of my life. We talked about it and got passed it and then he moved to California. Eight months later I began applying for graduate schools, mostly in the Bay Area. Up until November I was pretty sure about moving to California next summer. But then I was encouraged to apply elsewhere. I developed other ideas. I have the freedom to pursue them. But I am at a complete loss as to whether or not I should.

I wonder if some relationships (certainly not all of them, but some) would benefit from a "Thank You and Goodbye" ritual, only without the goodbye part. In fact, long before the goodbye happened. If we spent more time appreciating each other and affirming the roles that we play in one another's lives (romantic or otherwise) maybe there wouldn't be as much dissatisfaction and doubt and questioning. Maybe it would hamper some of that longing for something better, the restlessness that I so often seem to experience.

It's unfortunate that the catalyst for gratitude is so often the real or perceived risk of loss. When someone threatens to leave we suddenly realize how valuable they were or are or could be if only they weren't going away. But by that point it is often too late to say "thank you" without also saying "goodbye." And "goodbye" just seems like such a terribly cold thing to follow a heartfelt word of appreciation.

I'm not sure that appreciation would do anything to tame the restlessness of my spirit, but perhaps I would feel a bit more at home, a bit more welcome to rest in its acceptance.

Waiting for Christmas

Christmas seems to creep into grocery stores, shopping malls, TV commercials, and radio stations earlier each year. As soon as Halloween is over (and sometimes even before), the aisles are full of red and green lights, discounted electronics, seasonal treats, and “bargain” prices. Despite this, I refuse to shop for gifts, put up a tree, or listen to holiday music before Thanksgiving. It’s always been that way—dinner before dessert, Thanksgiving before Christmas.

This year I spent Thanksgiving in Las Vegas, where my sister and I celebrated together, along with our respective boyfriends. The four of us spent all morning slicing and chopping and sautéing and baking, and then sat down to a meal of turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie. (There was also baked brie with caramelized onions, marinated olives and sundry other delicious things thanks to so much culinary talent in such a small space). We lit a pumpkin-scented candle and went around the table sharing what we were particularly thankful for in the past year. Our meal was long and meaningful, with an honest dose of struggle shared along with joy. It was Thanksgiving as Thanksgiving ought to be.

And then—at the stroke of midnight—it wasn’t.

The pumpkin candle burned out and mistletoe was put in its place. Christmas music filled the room as we unpacked ornaments, snowflakes, a nativity set, and a tree. The next morning we flipped through ads, drank mint mocha coffee, discussed our wish lists, and talked about when we would be heading home for Christmas, when we would see each other again.

Initially it was all very exciting. I love Christmas. I always have. But somewhere between the shopping, the decorating, the dining, and the details the excitement turned to exhaustion. By the time I flew home Monday morning I was stressing out about what to buy for my niece, wondering when I would have time to put up my own Christmas decorations, and fearing that all the Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals had passed me by before I even knew I wanted them.

I thought back to the Advent services I attended growing up, many of which urged us to let go of the busyness of Christmas preparation in order to hold to a heart that awaited the coming Messiah. I had never understood how Christmas could be stressful. Now I do.

I did some thinking on the plane ride home—about Christmas and Advent and what it really means to celebrate a season. To celebrate is “to show happiness at an occurrence, mark an occasion, or perform a prescribed religious ceremony.” Certainly all of this happens in the weeks leading up to Christmas – we show happiness, play special music, and carry out annual rituals and traditions. Perhaps isn’t a question of if we’re celebrating so much as it is what we’re celebrating.

Maybe one of the reasons that we find it so difficult to quiet our hearts during Advent is that we’re already in the throws of celebrating Christmas. The season of Christmas doesn’t actually begin until December 25^th. That’s the start of the season, not the end of it. The 20-odd days of Advent that lead up to Christmas aren’t set aside so that we can cram in as many seasonal parties and activities as possible, but so that we can prepare ourselves for the celebration that is yet to come. Much as Lent is a season during which we recognize our sinfulness and need for salvation, Advent too is a time of recognition, a time during which we recognize our desperate need for Immanuel – God with us – to actually be with us.

It is a season to excitedly anticipate, but it is also a time to quietly contemplate, to recognize our emptiness and to patiently wait to celebrate its completion. We humans aren’t very good at waiting. We don’t like the discomfort of unsatisfied desires – a condition that has given rise to countless new inventions that promise to “save you time” and “get you there faster.” In an instant-gratification society where you can get a meal in minutes and receive a text in mere seconds, the thought of waiting four weeks for Christmas seems interminable. But it is the act of waiting that makes the gratification rewarding. That is, if we’re waiting for the right thing.

In all of our getting ready for Christmas it can be challenging (and uncomfortable) to make space for Advent, to painstakingly carve out some quiet space, sit in it, and wait. But Advent ought to be celebrated as its own distinct season. We might do that by following a daily reading or pulling tabs off a chocolate-filled calendar; by turning off the radio and listening to the still space while driving to work in the morning; by going to a church, sitting in the pew, and reflecting on how we need God – not to help us with our Christmas shopping or to add more hours to our days – but to fill our hearts and redeem our lives. We can wait for the coming of Christ, long for the wholeness we need, and on Christmas we can better celebrate the satisfaction of that desire.

Today, I Write

Just because I am currently applying for an MFA does not mean that this blog is going to become a blog about writing. Nor is it going to become a blog about not writing, though that is more probable based on my slow progress in the application process so far. I blame some of this on the fact that my readers have not returned the writing sample that I sent them to look over, but perhaps that draft was just so terribly boring that they couldn't bring themselves to finish it, on account of falling asleep each time they pulled it out for a perusal. Or perhaps it was just so horrendously flawed that they have not yet finished all of the revision suggestions that it requires.

Today (and by today I mean tonight) I am writing a statement of purpose/vision statement/personal statement/purpose statement. In other words, a 1-2 page summary of who I am, why I write, what makes me unique, my particular talents, my goals, dreams, ambitions, and why in the world anyone ought to let me into their intimate, selective, prestigious writing program. You know, the normal stuff. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to sit on the other side of the table; to sift through carefully crafted summaries of young writers' developments, dreams, and aspirations the way that I currently glance through the 2.5 credit card offers that I receive on a daily basis. Perhaps this is the reason I procrastinate, because I somehow believe that the less time I spend on this statement, the less it will hurt if it is rejected.

I have been told that they things a writer does while she procrastinates writing are the very things she ought to be writing about. In which case I ought to conjure a witty narrative of the difference between the delicate cycle and the casual cycle on my laundry machine and whether or not my super-synthetic hot pants get upset when the realize they are in the same cycle as my Northwestern Lacrosse t-shirt. Or maybe I could write an ode to my dishwasher, the machine that washes, but never dries the slew of tupperware contained inside. I ought to have scads of essays on baking cookies, folding underwear, and checking facebook, which takes up such a large part of my free time I am ashamed to admit it.

Why is it that I cannot focus on this thing that I love? This thing that I say I wish to pursue and on which I am willing to spend thousands of dollars and hours of arduous unpaid labor? I will invest years of my life that I will never get back, and yet I will not forego an episode of Glee in order to read an article on how to "set apart" my application. I tell myself that when the time is right I will do it. I will write. But that day has not come and time is moving on. So today (which is actually tonight) I will write. Imperfectly. Haphazardly. Distractedly. But I will write. And tomorrow I will wake up, procrastinate, complain, blog, and then I will do it again.