(Over)thoughts | A glimpse into the chaos.

Design

Posted on October 2 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I believe God created and designed the world.

We are too intricate and detailed to be accidental
                                                by chance
                                                     evolved outside of the basic
                                                            specified, specific
                                                                  species
                                                     completely figured out
                                                                  and replicated.

Nothing I have been told
                          or read
                          or researched
                               makes sense
                                    apart from some sort of Designer
                                                                    Creator.
                    And my
                           our reason and intelligence
                   could never come close to His.

I don’t think He is farfetched
                        unreasonable
                             or
                        uninvolved.

He clearly cared about the animals and plants He made, and the earth as a whole. The land was good (Genesis 1:10). The vegetables and plants were good (Genesis 1:12). He blessed the birds and creatures of the sea (Genesis 1: 22). And the rest of the animals He created were good (Genesis 1:25).

Everything He created was good (Genesis 1:31).

And He made humans in His image
in His likeness (Genesis 1:26).

He didn’t create anything else that way.

That means something.

Humans were made
created
formed to be significant.

Both my job – and my entire life – depend on this.
Believing this truth.

And I do.

I believe that is how He made (other) people.

I want to believe that includes me, but I’m not sure I get to be part of that.

Yes, my logic gets a little shaky at this point.
I am included in humankind – as a whole.

But.

But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But. But.

I’m not sure I am significant.
I’m not sure I am a part of His plan
to do
be anything.
I’m not sure I matter in that context.

I don’t want to be big
                         famous
                         recognizable by everyone.
     But I wish I could
                         matter
                         be significant
                         be a clear
intentional
                                obvious part of His plan.

Maybe that is my own selfishness.
Maybe it’s asking too much.
Maybe I am meant to just trudge along and never know the ripples (if there are any).

But I have to be
long to be
need to be – significant.

Somehow.

Halloween

Posted on October 1 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Mortimer

I love Halloween.

I know I should probably say I love Christmas or Easter. And I absolutely appreciate and fully believe in what those holidays represent.

But as an actual holiday, (~~I think~~) I prefer Halloween.

There are no obligations, demands, schedules to figure out, expensive dinners/gifts to buy or strings pulling me like a marionette.

I can just relax
have fun
enjoy it.

And bonus: if I want to be someone else for a day, it’s actually encouraged.

Jeff isn’t so big on the dressing-up part, but I think it’s fun.

I like carving pumpkins, even though I’m not very good at it. I don’t particularly like digging out the crud from them, but the baked pumpkin seeds are worth the work.

I look forward to handing out candy to the kids walking around our neighborhood. I was so disappointed when we lived in an apartment and hardly anyone came. We were lucky to get one knock on the door – and it was usually from the kids who lived downstairs. They would get a lot of candy from us since they were the only ones who showed up.

I enjoy silly traditions like watching the Scream* movies or E.T.** or the “Treehouse of Horror” episodes of The Simpsons*** with Jeff, while we wait for the doorbell to ring.

And of course, munching on the candy in between doorbell rings doesn’t hurt – too much.

During those off years, if we don’t feel like being around people, we can turn the lights out and hang out in the dark. Which is actually a very Halloween thing to do.

And it’s okay.

But I think what I like most about Halloween is that I can enjoy it like I used to be able to enjoy most holidays when I was a kid.

Before the pressure.
Before we had to juggle multiple families
houses
schedules.

[Which is probably the norm for people whose parents are divorced, who have had to do every holiday like that for years.]

Before all the responsibilities
requirements
strict – unwritten – rules.

Most of that was probably there, but I didn’t have to deal with it. That fell on the adults.

And I could just have fun and enjoy the day.

I hope someday I can figure out a way to get back there and enjoy other holidays again, like kids can. Or at least get in that general vicinity.

Before figuring out I was allergic to dogs and can’t breathe around them. In some ways, ignorance was easier, because even though I suffered just as much, I didn’t cause so many problems with that knowledge. Now I have the choice: Breathe. Or force myself to go somewhere I know I won’t be able to.

But for now,
I am thankful for Halloween.

Goals

Posted on September 29 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Goals = fail.

          I could qualify that with:
                                       sometimes
                                       in my life
                     or I’m sorta feeling that way – at the moment.

But that’s not the full truth.

It’s not that I don’t try (hard). Work (hard). Reach (far).

But there’s something about saying it – out loud – that causes that goal to become a commitment. A promise.

And I have (so many) issues with breaking promises.

Feels like lying.

My interests
phases
captivations change.

Which is why I could – should – never get a tattoo.

Well, that and the needles.

What could I get
     that I might actually
                      still like 3 hours
                                   months
                                   years from now?

Smiley faces, stickers, blue, Frappuccinos, M.C. Escher, rollerblading, Ireland, lemon everything, Green Day, scrapbooking…

I still like those things, but I don’t love them as much. Not nearly. I’m not as sort-of-obsessed with them as I once was.

          Tastes
          phases
   (dis)likes change.

Or I do.

And what if I do try (hard), work (hard), reach (far) and still miss? Still mess up? (Fail.)

I know I do
            have
            will.
    And survived – so far.
But why set myself up to fail? (Fear?
                                              Of?)

I’m not settling for mediocrity.
          (I don’t think.)
          (Am I?)
I’m still striving. Just not out loud.
                            Not outwardly.
                            Not for everyone else.

Maybe for me… Maybe for what I could have possibly been designed to do?

Enter a thousand questions
specifics.

Did He design me – personally – to do
                                                 be something?
                                                     Anything?
       Do I even get to have that?
       Why is that so clear for other people and I still have no idea?

Where does living for everyone
                              anyone else
                                    start
           and living for me end?

Which direction do I go
run
pursue?

After Him, Christians answer.

Well, yeah.
But where is that?

So I am left trying
             to follow Him
             to find where He wants me to go,
                 find some direction –
                            that isn’t me
                                      or someone else,
                            that isn’t selfish
                                      and also doesn’t make me a doormat
                                                                      or a wuss.

Preferably at the same time.

Nuclear

Posted on September 25 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Toom-ayt-o. Tom-ought-o.
Ape-ricot. App-ricot.
Suppos-ed-ly. Suppos-ab-ly.
Nuke-leer. Nuke-you-lure.

Right? Wrong?
Accent. No accent.
North. South.
Left. Right.

I still know what you mean.

When we are in a conversation,
     or you are speaking
               writing
                     conversationally,

It.doesn’t.matter.

You.
Matter.

If you are writing something that needs to be published, and needs to be put to some sort of standard, then we’ll talk.

It’s not like I can’t figure out what you are trying to say.
Or guess – at the very least.
Nuke-leer. Nuke-you-lure.
What other words come to mind in that context?

You write it’s or its and I know what you mean.
I’ll correct it, but only if it needs to be corrected.

You say a word a little funny – and I’ll wait – for the context.
To try to figure out what you mean(t).

I read change and chnge and I know the intended word. Yes, for clarity and the value of the English language, I will correct it for publication.

And I do (tend to) correct words in my head – automatically.

But conversationally,
relationally,
that isn’t helpful to you or to me.

What matters is you.
And what you mean.

I generally will figure out that you say what you say
             because of where you are from
                           and I’ll understand what pronunciation to use
                           and what is appropriate for the context.

If you happen to know German or you read your Bible in the (New or Standard) King James Version, then you may be able to pick up on when people are supposed to use whom vs. who.

And that’s probably still a long shot.

(I think) as an English major who really does enjoy the English language, I can say this:

If you say who instead of whom,
who(m) freaking cares?

The actual, intended and inferred meaning doesn’t change. And – at least in English – no one needs to know the difference to understand the meaning.

The reality and the often unspoken truth is: It.doesn’t.matter.

Except maybe to an English teacher.

Sory iff yoo we’re myne.

Block(ed)

Posted on September 22 2011 by J.W. Richmond

There is a barrier
              wall
              impediment
              one of those fences dogs have
                                       so they won’t go out of bounds –
                                       that shock them if they get too close
                                                                 so they don’t go too far.

I hit
grazed
nicked
scraped it
(already).

I don’t write for an audience. (Or didn’t.)
[    ] long ago, I stopped writing creative
interesting
                                            personally-identifying
                                            close-to-private
                                                        anything.

Only what was straightforward, informational, and asked for.

[Journal not included.]

Forced myself not to have any sort of audience as a motivation.

Because my previous focus was: unhealthy
                                            ugly
                                            self-centered
                                            in the wrong direction(s).
                         Led to: stress
                                   pressure
                   (Goals = Fail).

I recognized the misdirect. (I think.) And changed course.

Did I overcorrect?
Let the pendulum swing too far – and crash into the other side?
Was I too stringent?

Maybe. (Probably.)

But where is that line?

How do I enjoy
             de-stress from
       be energized by
                               writing (again)?

That another(s) might read? (And allow them to?)

And not get off-course – again.
Not focus on the audience – or on myself.
But still be mindful – of both.

[Processing.]

Three

Posted on September 20 2011 by J.W. Richmond

The power was out and thunder crackled. Jeff’s roommates were gone, so we had the apartment to ourselves. He barbecued hamburgers and we ate at the dining room table, with candles flickering.

It was about a month after our second first date.

A year since our first.

And then he said it: “I love you.”

I replied: “What do you mean by that?”

It wasn’t the response he expected. But he went with it anyway. I think he knew I needed it. He was unprepared and totally honest. He explained that it wasn’t just a feeling. He was committed. This was long-term and he wasn’t going anywhere.

I exhaled.

And said “I love you” too.

I had wanted to say it back – immediately.
But I had done that before him. Said it back.
And found out that guy’s declaration was completely flat.
There was nothing in it
or behind it.
Not if he could tell me a couple months later that he had “fallen out of love.”

That’s crap.

It was totally false the whole time.
Fake.
Make-believe.

That was not what I mean(t) by love. Not what I believe(d) love is.

So I needed to be sure that it wasn’t just butterflies this time. Excitement. A rush. That he kinda sorta liked me and enjoyed having me as his girlfriend – for now. That it wasn’t just because it was days after 9-11 and he didn’t want to lose me.

I needed to know what I thought was true: that Jeff saw a future for us. I didn’t expect him to predict it and know what would happen.

But.

If he said those words,
I did expect him to fight for a future with us.
Work for it.
Walk with me through it.

Those words aren’t casual.
They aren’t nonchalant.
They actually mean something.

And because I asked for clarity,
because he was willing to answer,

10 years later

I know what he means when he says it.

Spaces

Posted on September 16 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Words. Tone. Inflection. Body language. Microexpressions. They can all be important when trying to understand someone.

And they all have the potential to be deceptive
misleading
misunderstood.

Sometimes the most telling parts are the spaces in between the words, letters, shrugs, eye twitches, hair twirls, foot tapping, crossed arms, smirks, grins and frowns.

The silences.

The things people don’t
or won’t say.

The clinking of forks on plates could mean the food is amazing. A meeting where only the leader speaks could mean the people are inspired. The couple in the restaurant may be watching the game while they eat. The family sitting in the living room looking out the windows could be enjoying the cool, autumn breeze. The girl who always wants to be the center of attention and loves to talk about herself loves her life – and everybody loves her.

Or maybe not.

Maybe she is starting to get a migraine. He is worried about being fired if he disagrees with his boss. She is disappointed in her son. He is afraid of the conversation that might happen. She is holding her tongue because she has been told to. They spent all day talking and are enjoying a few minutes of quiet. She is insecure about her weight. He is thinking of his grandpa, who died a few months ago. She is still processing the fight she had with her boyfriend. Or that’s how they grew up – and that’s just what they know.

The spaces aren’t always obvious
or clear.
They don’t lie.

But those spaces may never be understood
or known.
Because as soon as they are spoken, they are no longer spaces.

And new ones emerge.

Say

Posted on September 13 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I had something(s) to say.

But now I’m not so sure I want to say it – or them. At least not yet.

The thoughts aren’t ready – yet. (Or I’m not ready. Yet?)

Once formed and almost out there, I don’t think they are really what I meant to say. I don’t take them the way I thought them at the time.

The thoughts are unclear. It would be bad communication. I could be nice and say poor. But most of the time, it’s just bad.

What I would have said used to mean something else, even just a few days ago. But now, the connotations are different. The situations have changed.

This is my life (so) much of the time.

I don’t want to hold back (too far). But based on my experiences (etc.), I would rather wish I had said something different – or at all – that time (or twelve) – than regret the things I have.

Recur

Posted on September 10 2011 by J.W. Richmond

After only a short time, I see some small patterns forming:

“I” (hate that).

And yes, this may be some (twisted) version of therapy. But nobody else cares about that.

Am I too focused on myself?
Am I being selfish in writing all of this?
(In thinking all of this?)

It may not be straight across the board, but as a generalization, I’m not sure I can trust my feelings. At least not all the time. Overall, they are not a fully reliable source.

The problem is some are (too) real, and some are dead-on reliable, so I’m still trying to reconcile that.

All the questions about God? I knew those already.

I’m not funny.

Friends have told me I am. But I don’t see it. I try to be, but I don’t think I am. I mostly just laugh at how stupid I seem at times.

Am I being too honest? Does the humor only come out as a defense mechanism? Or some kind of self-deprecation?

Or, as I suspect, I’m just not funny.

And that’s okay. (I think.)

Humor may be more of an ideal than reality.

Because it makes me (seem) fun.

But maybe that’s just what I want to be. What I wish I could be.

And maybe I’m just not.

Therapy

Posted on September 8 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I’ve tried therapy.

By force.
and
By choice.

When forced in junior high, I couldn’t buy into it. It was so silly. I knew the approach was to get me to play stupid games so I would open up. Or smack a bat at something I wasn’t even mad at. I couldn’t help but laugh. And be pissed off that I was forced to be there. And cringe that I might be forced to go back again. I saw right through their games.

When forced in high school, I quickly figured out that nothing I said was confidential.
               Because I was a minor?
               Then what was the point?
               Why should I bother?
               Where was the trust?

When I decided to try therapy as an adult, many years later, by my choice – acknowledging my past experiences in counseling – I was ready to try.

The therapist and I were not a good fit. We were done long before that 50-minute hour was over.

Of all the psychology approaches, I cannot identify with humanism. As selfish as I can be sometimes (sometimes more than sometimes), I know and believe that life is not entirely about me.

I am a part of life – somehow. Not sure how, exactly. But I am clearly not the center.

So I tried again. Counselor #2 focused on feelings, past experiences, how my past shaped – but not defined – who I am now.

Feelings (expressing them, at least) may not be my strength. (Okay, aren’t my strength). Feelings are (mostly) fine if I don’t have to talk about them.

I feel the entire spectrum fully
completely
strongly.
But figuring them out – the why, where did they come from, how do I change them to move on? – I can analyze all that to death.

I worked hard to be all in with my feelings
experiences
all of it.
I tried to go there. Strived to be present. Be open. Accept whatever (hopefully constructive) criticism came my way.

My counselor said maybe therapy wasn’t a good fit for me. Maybe it wasn’t the best avenue to help me through my stuff.

I thought (knew) that too.

And I had forced myself to go through a few more sessions, to put myself out there – just in case. Because maybe I was wrong. I didn’t want to run away or avoid it, if it could help. Or avoid it because I was afraid, or because with every other counselor, I had a bad experience.

Most of what I got from those sessions was reiteration of things I already knew. Stuff I had already gone over (and over and over). Already figured out. (Mostly, at least.)

I was back to confronting issues that I had confronted before. But not getting anywhere new. Just repeating. Rehashing stuff I had already previously hashed out. (I think.)

But one thing resounds (echoes) in my head.

“Where is God?” she asked.

I always pictured Him up in heaven. Busy with other things. Just there. Doing whatever He does. Involved, but in His own (bizarre) way. Moving the chess pieces around on a giant board. On a bad day, He was up there laughing at me. Or ignoring me.

Or He was somewhere near me, just out of reach. Like He was playing keep-away and never let me get near Him. Or would tap me on the shoulder, I would turn around, and He was gone.

But then she said: If I asked Christ to be in my life, if I had chosen to follow Him, then – the Holy Spirit was in me.

It was like I just learned what letters were. And that those letters could form words.

Why was that such a new idea? I had never put those simple concepts together.

I didn’t look down when I prayed, even. Getting into the zone or focused or whatever. Unless I might be (too) obvious or distracting to someone else.

I looked up. As if He were up there – somewhere. Out of reach.

I still do that – sometimes. Habit. Ingrained.

But this one small (maybe huge) thing from therapy – still resonates.

And now when I look up, I’m not so sure I’m looking in the right place.