#Blessed

Many months ago, I read this blog called "#Blessed". It was GOOD. Really good. At the time, I was experiencing a lot of stability in my life. Everything seemed "just right" and I took time each day to be grateful for a season of rest, knowing that the kind of equilibrium I was experiencing was fleeting.

But what I noticed was there was not a lot of motivation on my part to pray, meditate, reflect, be still. When everything is going well, there just isn't too much to do except receive, share, and be grateful.

And in a lot of ways, nothing major has changed.

But a few weeks ago, we got home from work to find a note in our mailbox from our landlord. "Due to unexpected circumstances, we will be unable to renew your lease when it ends this fall..."

Caleb, painting in the first place we lived after we got married.

And just like that, I flashed back to the above blog I read:

"[B]lessed does not mean pleased. Blessed does not mean happy. Blessed does not mean fulfilled. It doesn't even mean fed or clothed or housed or healthy...

What it really means is that you are not alone, for God is with you."

I began a process of understanding what I knew the instant I read the words in that note: that coming home to find that in a few months, it won't be your home is, in fact, #blessed. Being reminded of the fine lines between "at home" and "homeless" is a gift. Remembering that "being in control" is an illusion is grace.

Welcome. The world is upside down here.

Ringing in the new year (upside-down, obviously) in the second place we've lived since getting married. 

Many people have said to me, "This could turn out to be a good thing, maybe you will move someplace really amazing!" My dad, who is quite wise, shared with me that this might be one of those things that you don't understand until afterwards, maybe even many years afterwards. That's advice he's given me before, which is some of the best advice I've ever had.

But I actually think that the blessing arrived the first week we learned we'd have to move. When I was sleeplessly tossing and turning and not taking deep breaths. And then in the reorientation that came when I remembered, not just with my mind, but in my body, how to pray.

When moving, it's important to pack flowers. 

*I would like to acknowledge that unexpectedly having to move within the same neighborhood is not what I would consider to be one of the most difficult things in life. But it's still no fun. 

Stay here, and keep watch

When I was 14 or 15, the pastor of my church shared a story during a sermon about sleeping in the sanctuary of the church during a church lock-in. (Sanctuary = the place where the service usually takes place. Lock-in - strange event where the teenagers of the church spend the night in the church building with a few gullible willing adult chaperones/ leaders.)

He asked if anyone had ever slept in the sanctuary of a church before... "It's a powerful experience", he said. "If anyone wants to try it, just let me know."

I am not sure he meant a young, teenage girl, but they have a pretty good track record in the bible. Mary, Ruth, Rebecca, you know.

I told my parents I wanted to do it. They talked to the pastor and that's how it came to be that I slept on a pew in the front of the church. My mom came with me, but she slept on some big, comfy (hopefully) couches in a different room down a hallway.

My pastor had said it was a little spooky... you alone in a big empty room with the Divine. (Though now I wonder - other than the room square footage - isn't this always true?) I didn't have a spooky experience though.

This week, western Christians celebrate Holy Week. Today is called Holy Thursday by some, Maundy Thursday by others. A traditional service today remembers the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples by retelling that story, the story of how Passover started, and might offer foot washing (digression on how much I love getting our bodies involved in worship) or confession (digression on how much I love opportunities for group confession - and absolution - in church. The sacrament of Communion happens (see above digression about bodies).

And then something powerful happens.

The lights are turned out. Everything is cleared off the altar.

And someone either reads or sings Psalm 22 or Psalm 88. Allow me a few excerpts:
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?... O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent."... "My soul is full of trouble... Why O Lord do you reject me and hide your face from me?... the darkness is my closest friend."

It's just this MOMENT in the year when we stop and together see our darkness. Our need for grace, forgiveness, second, third, fourth, forever chances. As we move through the readings of the week, we find Jesus in a park, pleading, begging his friends to stay awake with him during his own moment of darkness. "Stay here and keep watch with me," he says over and over, but they sleep. (Prolly the four glasses of wine they had earlier... just saying.)

For some reason, I love this day. There is so much happening. Despite Jesus' cryptic warnings, the day  goes from normal to life-changing-in-a-bad-way real quick for the disciples. Kind of like when tragedy strikes for us.

We need this day. We need a place to bring the feelings of failure, the heavy grief over unwanted surprises, the feelings of jealousy or bitterness or anger that we hold on to all while knowing that they only hurt us.

And this is why, after seeing the altar cleared tonight, I didn't want to leave. I just wanted to dwell for a minute, trying to release all the things that I don't need to carry. It's hard, you know? And I thought back to that time I spent the night in the sanctuary. Of all the nights, this seems like the night to sleep in the sanctuary. To try and keep watch.

To be silent, for once, and think about the mystery of it all.

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This isn't the first time I've reflected about Holy Week. To read past reflections click here and here.
I've also been reflecting on this article.

What I learned from the Spanish women's locker room

When I lived in España several years ago, I belonged to a gym. A gym that was so nice, I will probably never surpass it in all my future gym memberships (if I ever have a gym membership again). I have been thinking about it a lot lately because I've been swimming at a community center.

This gym gave everyone fancy bracelets with a computer chip in them. You scanned them when you entered, the metal bar opened, and your photo popped up on this TV behind the check-in desk. I never liked my photo, but that's beside the point. All the classes were free with your membership, unlike with the community center where I've been going. The building was really modern, with a big open black staircase and classy potted plants; and there was always this calm techno going in the background. This caused me to imagine that this was the kind of exclusive joint where movie stars worked out in LA.

Source - I apparently took no photos while working out, so here is one from the website. It is notable that I never went on this roof.

I took a lot of classes that I had little to no experience with, from belly dancing (which became my jam, btw), to spinning (NOT my jam, btw), to Pilates, yoga, core workouts, water aerobics, hip hop dancing, and even a bulerias  flamenco class. (I was very under-qualified, as I dropped in after they had already learned 2/3 of the dance.)

I mostly felt a little self-conscious all the time that I worked out there, except in three places: belly dancing, swimming, and the locker room.

Here is the major difference about that women's locker room and every other locker room I have ever been in*:

Every woman changed as if there was no one around.

There was no holding the towel over yourself while trying to sneakily put on pants. Nope.

And here is what I learned, even in this fancy gym with an attached spa that did Botox and slimming treatments and sold pants that get rid of cellulite (really?): Women's bodies do not look like they do in the media.

Women have stretch marks and saggy skin and wrinkles and cellulite and are a million different shades of color. Not to sound like a creeper, but I learned in the locker room that even people who appear to look like magazine models when clothed look different when changing. Barely anyone has a flat stomach. I knew one person who did, but what I didn't know is that she was going through a lot of stress. As the year progressed, she put weight back on and told me she was relieved to be healthy again.

I've been thinking about this a lot, mostly because I have started going someplace with a locker room again. And I hope that someday if/when I have a daughter or son, I can help her to understand that her body is awesome because it lets her do all the things she wants. Having a body is the best because you can taste ice cream and feel endorphins after you lift weights, and you can find your breath to quiet down when your mind is racing. And the scars and the stretch marks and the laugh lines and the freckles are all just signs of a life lived fully.

Now, who wants some ice cream?

*The exception being when I was little and would go to water aerobics with my grandma. Afterwards was just like Spain. Except it was Nebraska. Nevermind... you get it, right?

I have something important to say.

I love you all so much that I need to tell you something. And I really want you to hear it, so even though it's important enough to type in all caps, I am not going to do it. Please read this and then tell all your friends that you love. 

There is nothing on your phone that is more important, interesting, or urgent than driving your car. 

Texting while driving gets a lot of air time in the media. But I want to talk about something else - scrolling while driving. All those things on your Facebook/ Twitter feeds... they're still going to be there when you arrive. The web and its sites are not going anywhere. But you are. We are. In cars. At high speeds. 

I could go on about this, but I just don't think there is a need to continue. There is no argument that can win. I have had too many friends (friends who actually never look at their phones) do it just one time, look down for a split second, and that's the moment when it happens. A car accident that causes expensive repair bills, higher insurance, and months of physical therapy if you are lucky enough to only have suffered whiplash. 

Now. The question is, what to do about it? I usually keep my phone on my lap when I'm driving. You know - what if someone calls? But maybe I need to keep it on silent and closed away in the center console. I think we need some positive peer pressure here... what are you going to do? 

the weirdest week

Monday
I visit a physical therapist because my low back and left leg had been hurting for awhile. She happens to be totally brilliant.  Upon asking me the following questions: "So, how long has this been bothering you?" and "Is this the first time?", she derails and starts asking me if I'd be willing to have back surgery. I really wanted her to go back to the easy questions.

She went and got her reflex hammer and started checking my reflexes. I had none in my left ankle. [Apparently this is a BIG DEAL. Also, if you lose reflexes, you sometimes don't get them back, but more on this later.] She got on her cell phone and called a neurologist that she knew. I was still thinking that we had gotten very off-track and wanted to go back to the intake questions.

Before I knew it, I had an appointment with a neurologist for the next day. Note: I learned (or maybe relearned?) that the prefix neuro- means that something has to do with nerves, not brains. Why I thought this, I don't know.

Tuesday
I see the neurologist. He is a laid-back man, and very calmly tells me we need to get this figured out because the nerve is clearly pinched and could suffer permanent damage.  He wants to me to get an MRI as soon as possible. He starts talking about if it's bad, I will need surgery. I have never had surgery and have a hard time believing this. It's about 4:15pm. By 5pm, his office has contacted my insurance, and I have an appointment for 7:20am the next day.

Wednesday, 5:30 am
I get up for my MRI. My dad drives me there, cause he's awesome. The actual MRI takes about 20 minutes and is very loud. I am happy to have hearing protection provided. I take deep breaths and enjoy laying there. Just before I enter some other state of consciousness, somewhere near sleep, it's over. The tech says the doctor will get back to me, probably Friday.

Wednesday, 5:30 pm
My cell phone rings. The doctor is calling. He starts talking and I start writing. "L5, S1" "herniated", "dramatic", "large extrusion", "protruding out and to the left", "severe", "cutting off the nerve", "I'm going to text my friend whose a surgeon to see if he can get you in". It's a strange night.

Thursday
I wait for a call from the neurosurgeon's office and receive a call from the surgeon himself. He starts mentioning conservative treatments, such as physical therapy... until he pulls up my MRI. "Wow, that's pretty big," he says calmly. "Let's get you in tomorrow."

Friday
Caleb and I arrive for my appointment and find out that the surgeon wasn't planning on taking appointments that day, just me. We spend a long time waiting, turns out the guy is doing surgery. I am happy he does not rush out of surgery. I think this is a desirable quality in a surgeon. Caleb and I take lots of funny photos in the exam room to entertain ourselves.

This doctor is awesome. He is calm, says that because I don't have constant numbness or tingling in my leg, despite my nerve being squashed, we can at least try something more conservative first. So, next week, I am off to have my first (and hopefully only) epidural steroid. This should help ease the inflammation and let my body do its healing thing.

For those interested, below is an MRI image of [my] herniated, or ruptured disc. If you aren't interested, consider this post ended. Between your vertebrae, you have these cushions that are like jelly donuts. The healthy ones look white.

I circled the ruptured one in red. you can see that it's not white, cause the filling came out and is pushing on the white part, which is part of the nerve. (YOU GUYS, THAT'S MY SPINE, ISN'T IT AWESOME!!?)

Below, you can see a healthy disc on top. So healthy and all contained.

 

Here is my ruptured disc. As you can see, it's not contained, and, it's hard to see, but it's pushing on the nerve.

españa: tesoro escondido

Another Throwback Thursday post... 

[From 10/18/10]

I have two friends - incidentally both named Rachel, but spelled differently - who are living in Spain. They are teaching English this year. It has been beautiful for me to talk to them about what they are experiencing. It sheds light on my own experiences and helps me to understand retrospectively that what I experienced there was normal.

Yes, I learned Spanish. Yes I think, dream, cook, talk to myself, sing, pray (sometimes), and order my dogs about in Spanish now. I have a decent understanding of sherry (but like my art history knowledge, it's all in Spanish, so I'm not sure it translates).

Are those the treasures that I have from my nine months there? Sherry knowledge and faster production and comprehension of Spanish syllables? (Well, okay wait. Being able to understand andalú was totes worth it.)

As I've advised, laughed, and listened to the dos Raquels, I realize more and more that for however useful Spanish is, the real value of the year was perhaps deeper. Uprooting yourself, your life, your friends, all the ways you normally express yourself is so hard. This is still new to me, so I'm stumbling around language trying to express a concept. I remember thinking, "But I'm not ME". But I was. It's just different because you don't have the same life/word experiences you had in your mother tongue.

And I learned so much about myself. I learned that some things don't change across culture. I learned that I am strong. I learned that when you feel like you aren't yourself, you still are, at the heart of it, you.

Sometimes leaving the familiar really does help you to find yourself. 

Recipe for recovery

My name is Ellen, and I am a Facebook addict.

I told this to my mom recently. She (very kindly) told me that she didn't think I was an addict. I explained to her that I typically scroll the FB when I get up, at some point during work, when I get home, and before I go to bed. I am currently taking a break from it and it has given me more anxiety than I care to admit. (Also, not as many people are reading this blog. Which is ok, but it is interesting.)

I also noticed that I had not had very much unscheduled fun time. You know what I mean? Time when your soul starts to breathe. Time when you aren't focused on how many things you can check off. I started thinking about this, scratched my head, looked at the sky, and wondered what it was people did for fun.

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the cycle of budgeting, cooking, cleaning, laundering, and exercising that I forget about the fun. And the laundry? It's always going to be there.

So today, I am having a day off.

And my recipe for today starts with an actual food recipe. This is one of my favorite foods - it's easy to digest, nutritious, and I can eat it for every meal. It's a little bit freeing.

What's next? Here are some things I have in mind. I may do all/some/none of them:

• Spontaneously get my hair cut. (This would be big, since I have been cutting my own hair the past four years.)
• Buy seeds and plant them. 
• Recycle glass. Seriously, this is so fun. You throw the bottles in a giant dumpster and yell "Opa!" And I never have time to do this. 
• Go to a park and do nothing.
• Go swimming. (Indoors)
• Do a handstand. This is definitely happening.
• Go for a walk.
• Read a Nancy Drew book. 
• Get tea at a coffee shop. 
• Paint my fingernails. 
• Look at clouds. If only I could find a dandelion puff ball...