traveling solo: part 1

In honor of the one year anniversary of my Italy travels I’ve decided to post some diary entries from that time…

Venice

Wake up
tea and toast
out for the day…
Rialto’s Market
where I buy the reddest, tastiest strawberries
I’ve ever eaten
(they were sweeter than skittles)
Looking for the train station
following signs,
asking for directions.
Eventually I find it,
buy my ticket to Cinque Terre
cross the big bridge
sit on some steps
attached to some fancy building
where other people are sitting.
I pull out my strawberries
my diary
and Eat Pray Love.
I’m hungry
so I start walking
find a nice cafe
linger for a long time
walk away,
come back.
Order a Venetian sandwich
it’s so good
I get another
(they were only halves.)
I stay and read for a while
then get up
walking
walking
walking
St. Marks Square
stand in line
go to the top of the church
sit for a bit
(my feet hurt.)
Walk again
walk some more
sit by the water
lie down
and fall asleep.
Wake up
get up
look for a place for dinner
so I don’t have to look later
give up
because I’m tired of walking.
Sit by the water
watch the gondolas dance by
see a bridge and her groom
on a private taxi
he rubs her arms because
it’s starting to get cold.
I read a poem called
“The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter”
(I don’t really get it)
I open Eat Pray Love
Elizabeth Gilbert writes about Venice,
“I refuse – I absolutely refuse – to go to the most romantic city on Earth by myself.”
I smile because
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Get up for food
walking
walking
walking
back and forth
looking at restaurants
why is everything so expensive?
where do the locals eat?
I’m hungry
my feet hurt
I need to pee.
I pick a place,
but their toilet is out of order…
of course.
FINALLY
I just pick a place
a touristy place
with non-Venetian workers
oh well.
Give me food and a place to rest my feet
along with that mushroom risotto, please.
I’m journaling,
reading,
slowly scooping the sub-par risotto in my mouth
still annoyed at Venice
when an American couple asks me
how to get to St. Marks
I point them in the right direction
they smile and thank me
all of a sudden I’m in love with Venice
because even though it annoys me
with it’s lack of toilets
overpriced restaurants and
confusing streets…
I feel like I know it
and it knows me.
I celebrate with a scoop of gelato
(“cookies”)
walk back to my hostel
climb into bed
and fall asleep
as people sing and laugh and talk
outside my open window.

pretty in pink…or not.

According to the Oxford dictionary, the word feminine is described as ”having qualities or appearance traditionally associated with women.”

If that’s the case, I would be considered fairly feminine – I wear dresses and jewelry and lipstick, I paint my nails and curl my [long] hair, I like chocolate, chick flicks and the color pink, I used to be a ballerina and played with dolls when I was a girl, I want to get married and have babies, I make decisions based on my feelings, I don’t know anything about cars or tools or sports, I shave my legs always. 

And yet.

I don’t believe those traits make me any more feminine than women who play sports and prefer the color blue, women who never wear dresses or makeup, women who are driven by logic, and let’s be honest – women who could bench press my body weight with one hand.

To me, being feminine is about appreciating and accepting who you are as a woman. Not what you wear or even how you’re supposed to act.

Because if you really look at it, femininity is an ever-changing cultural and social construct.

For example…

Pink. Used to signify “it’s a boy!” Yup. Right here in our own country. A June 1918 article from the trade publication Earnshaw’s Infants’ Department said, “The generally accepted rule is pink for the boys, and blue for the girls. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl.” (You mean I should’ve been wearing BLUE all these years? God help us all!)

Baby names. Kim, Kelly, Ashley. Feminine names, yeah? Not always. Up until the 1950s and later these names were actually masculine names. MASCULINE.

High heels. Again, not always feminine. In the early 1700s, King Louis XIV of France wore high heels (that were often as tall as five inches…yowza!) And of course, because the King wore heels so did everyone else (everyone who was rich, that is.)

Long hair. Helloooo Samson (his hair = his strength.) In ancient Greece, long male hair was a symbol of wealth and power. Many Native American men wore long hair before the arrival of western influences. (So wait…does my long hair mean I’m strong, wealthy and powerful? And Indian?)

Shaving. Before WWI, shaving was a man’s thing. ”The idea of a hairless body for American women developed between 1915 and 1945.” says Victoria Sherrow, author of Encyclopedia of Hair: A Cultural History. Basically, women’s skirts and sleeves got shorter and marketers didn’t miss a beat. They began advertising hair removal products (the campaign turned female body hair into something “objectionable” and all of a sudden “the underarm must be as smooth as the face.”) Heaven forbid!

In China, tiny feet used to be considered feminine.  The act of foot binding became very popular because men thought it was sexy.

…sexy!? Or sickening.

“I regret binding my feet,” says Zhou (picture above), an 86-year-old surviver. ”I can’t dance, I can’t move properly. I regret it a lot. But at the time, if you didn’t bind your feet, no one would marry you.”

So basically, to be feminine is to…wear pink? shave your legs? bind your feet? JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO ALREADY.

We can’t win. We can’t win because the rules are always changing. The world says “this is what it means to be a lady” and if we don’t fall into those perfectly drawn-out lines, we fail. We aren’t feminine. We aren’t enough. No man will ever marry us. (And these are just outward appearances. I haven’t even touched on stereotypical feminine characteristics and qualities yet. Beware of crossing those lines!)

It’s tiring, trying to figure it all out.

There is a sigh of relief I have found, however. This sigh of relief accepts me exactly as I am – long hair or short, pink or blue, high heels or sneakers. I’m not labeled feminine or masculine, ladylike or tomboyish, too much or too little – all that matters is that I am his.  And that’s enough.

Thus I’ve concluded: to be fully feminine is to be fully myself. As it is for all women, whatever that may look like for them – inside the lines or out. Ultimately, being feminine is about feeling at ease with yourself, accepting who God made you to be. Whatever your body looks like, whatever clothes you wear, whatever hobbies you’re into.

Because really, women are too abstract for just one color scheme. Amen?

this weekend (in 100 words or less):

playing ultimate frisbee
dancing with my girlfriends (…at a club)
being the only white people (…at that club)
froyo at 3 a.m.
sleeping in til 11 a.m.
skyping with my niece
hiking up stone mountain
eating big, fat burgers with too much ketchup
watching singin’ in the rain for the first time (“…well, I can’t make love to a bush!“)
watching roller hockey for the first time
driving in the rain by myself
playing settlers of catan
crawling into bed after being gone for a night

…all in all, a fabulous weekend

…what did you do??

weekend ramblings.

It’s a sunny Saturday morning and I guess I should be happy about it. If I’m honest, I’d rather have rain on my Saturdays. The excuse to stay in my pjs and read a book on the couch and not feel guilty about it. Right now it’s almost noon and I’m still in my pjs – so not cool.

When I’m busy I always crave weekends with nothing to do, but now that one has come I find myself asking questions like what am I doing in life and what do I even want. Last night I watched Les Mis, so naturally I’m wondering if I should run off to New York and pursue a career on broadway (…if only to meet the cutie Aaron Tviet who plays Enjolras.)

Or maybe I should just go to the grocery store to buy bananas.

Lately I’ve been realizing that I need different avenues to express myself – working an office job doesn’t always provide the outlet for my inner crazy (except for that one Friday I danced sexy on the desks with Hannah when no one else was around.) So on Thursday when it was cold and dark and rainy and all I wanted to do was stay in my pjs (can you tell how much I love my pjs?) I decided instead to go to a trashy karaoke bar (hey, we don’t have much to choose from here in Gainesville.) That was a good life choice.

In other news, Diary Queen’s blizzard of the month is Choco Covered Pretzel with Peanut Butter. I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether or not that is a good life choice.

The book I’m reading these days is the memoir of a 26-year-old female who hikes up the West Coast (via the Pacific Crest Trail) to find herself, or face herself or whatever. So I’m also wondering if I should do that.

…I should really get those bananas.

out with the old, in with the new…

The other day one of my friends I haven’t seen in a while asked how I was. I’m good, I told him (…true story.) He persisted, “but what about…you know, the tension.”

Huh?

I had completely forgotten about my previous blog post, about my previous tension with God. Somewhere along the way those feelings faded and I forgot things were ever strained between us.

We went to Nicaragua together, came back and packed up my apartment, went to Cambodia, came back and moved into a house.

Tonight is my first night in my new room.

Most of my stuff is still in boxes or stuffed aimlessly in the closet. But my bed is finally set up – new sheets and all. I also have new candle on my nightstand. Paris Amour, it’s called.

Tonight I lit my candle, climbed into my sheets and bumped into God. 

This house is a new season. That old apartment could no longer contain you or what you wanted to give me. It was too small. My first night in this room is filled with snot and tears and your presence. A candle that’s never been burned, a song that’s never been heard. Sheets that have never been used. New. Better than before (not that there was ever anything even wrong with before.) That old, orange, fall candle burned its last flame – no longer to fill my room with pumpkin scent again. A new scent is being introduced tonight – Paris Amour. Love.

When I was in Cambodia I saw World Racers so broken it stunned me. They were broken in a beautiful way, a way that allowed room for God to ooze through their cracks. I was jealous, I wanted that. And so I prayed for it.

This morning God told me that if I wanted to be broken, I didn’t have to wait for him to break me. I could create my own cracks and welcome in weakness at any time. And so I did.

Hence the snot and tears tonight. But they were the good kind – pain mixed with hope, confusion mixed with gratitude. It was one of those sacred, desperate moments where all I wanted was him, nothing else.

We can have as much of God as we want, I keep learning. Sometimes we just need to make a little room, light a candle and welcome God into the cracks…

I don’t need to go to Paris to experience his love. He shines bright as the Eiffel tower right here on my nightstand.

living in tension.

Before Christmas my brother and I had a discussion about marriage. He mentioned how  people tend to imagine marriage as a place where tension dissolves and all of a sudden its easy to love someone. But to him, tension is always there – despite whether people feel it or not. Tension comes from people having separate minds and different experiences. Marriage means trying to love someone amidst and through and with the tension.

That’s where I’ve been with God lately. Living in the tension.

In the past when I’ve had problems with God I’ve responded by either a) picking myself off the floor and giving him the benefit of the doubt or b) pulling away and losing trust in him.

But this time is different. This time I’m not pulling away even though I feel 100% let down by him.

This year began with a crushed promise, a devastated heart and no explanation from him. And yet we’re still sleeping in the same bed. We’re still trucking through life together even though what happened isn’t resolved, not even a little bit.

So yeah, I feel disappointed by God – but I feel so close to him. He’s not threatened by the tension, and neither am I.

I live with a married couple, and one time Chris told me that fighting/having tension with your romantic partner while dating is scary, because you never know if you might break up or not. But when you’re married that option isn’t there – so in a way there’s relief when tension arises. I know we’ll make it through this.

I think that’s beautiful. And that’s exactly how I feel. I’m too deep in this thing with God to ever get out, that’s just not an option.

I know we’ll make it through this, I know we’ll be closer because of it.

So I’m okay if it takes a little while. And I think God is too.

My flesh and my heart may fail,
    but God is the strength of my heart
    and my portion forever.

on being 26 and single…

When I was younger I never understood why people complained about being single. Being single was awesome. At 19 years old I wrote in my diary, “I’ve decided I don’t want to date until after college. I don’t want to feel tied down when I want to travel, hang out with friends or pursue my education.”

After turning 20 I wrote, “I want to live my life radically for God. I’m thinking of the children working in sweatshops across the world. And maybe foster care. Who cares about getting married…”

To me, life was full of purpose and adventure and I didn’t want anything (or anyone) holding me back. Why couldn’t other people view the world this way? Why did they feel they lacked something by not having a mate? It didn’t make sense. I figured they were just discontent and needed to get over it.

Instead of going on dates and dreaming of my wedding I was busy having fun. Who wants to get married when you can skinny dip or have sleepovers with your girlfriends? Exactly.

My affection for singleness remained strong after college. I went on road trips and moved to Nashville. I met people and heard their stories. I read books, I wrote letters.

At 23 I left for the World Race with my best friend. She came back with a boyfriend, I came back with a broken heart.

But still, I was happy to be single.

Being single meant I could pack up and go to Nicaragua for four months to lead an all-female team. A dream come true.

It was there I encountered my first genuine desire to get married. Two months before my 25th birthday I wrote,

I’m tired. I’m tired of sharing the stories that make up my life – I just want someone to know them already. I’m tired of starting over. I’m tired of being in this season alone - I want a partner in crime. For the first time I’m beginning to understand the beauty of marriage, of constant companionship. It feels weird to even write that. I’ve never felt a need for marriage until now.

And then, all of a sudden I wanted to get married. The desire startled me – it was as if my heart flipped inside out overnight. In an instant I was able to grasp what all those “other” single people were talking about when they said they wanted to get married.

I was one of them now.

During the months that followed I wrestled with this newfound desire – sometimes being completely consumed by longing, other times holding back tears when I thought about the loss of my singleness.

When my best friend married the man she met on the World Race, I stood beside her as she pledged her love to him. To my surprise I felt something I had never felt at a wedding before – jealousy.

I was jealous because this was the first wedding I attended where I actually wanted to get married – I wanted someone who would stay by my side in sickness and health, til death do us part. I had friends who stayed by my side in sickness and health… until they got married or moved away.

In college and the few years that followed I was surrounded by people on the same journey as me, but when I hit my mid 20s everyone seemed to split off onto their own path. I was left alone. People still passed by as their journey intersected with mine. But no one stays for long, or so I’ve learned.

This is why the older you get, the harder being single gets.

This is why churches have single groups. This is why people get cats. This is why I’ve stopped judging people who want a spouse and pray for them instead.

And this is why, despite my [former] dismay, I have become one of those people who just wants someone to put a ring on it. Someone to go to Elton John concerts with me, someone to buy groceries with, someone to fall asleep next to every night (…until death do us part.)

In October my friend wrote in an email, ”It’s so weird for me to hear you talk about wanting to be married. Because it’s so foreign for you to talk like that.”

It’s weird to me too. I honestly can’t believe I’m the person who, when asked how I am, will somehow end up talking about how I want a husband. I can’t believe I’m the person who Googles “destination weddings” late at night, or who looked at engagement rings that one time (…meaning a week ago cough cough.)

When I was younger I believed being single was the best way to live an adventure. And maybe it was.

But now I’ve come to believe the adventure doesn’t necessarily come to a crashing halt when a man enters the picture…

instead it continues.

So here I am, 26 and single and longing for someone to come adventure with me.

Together, we will fly.