There are parts of being human that I think will always be a part of being me. Throughout my life, I have been told that I'm very good on stage, I'm good with people, I'm understanding, I'm dramatic, I'm expressive. I never thought the fear was allowed to interact with the qualities other people saw. So I would try to push past the trembling legs and shallow breathing. I tried to pretend I didn't break down into hysterical tears before every performance. I was supposed to be thriving.
A couple recent experiences have brought these memories to light, for a whole new angle of examination, which I'll talk about now:
1. For a short while, a friend and I were working together and she expressed a surprising sentiment. She confided that she was frustrated because she felt that her anxiety prevented her from connecting with our coworkers, that I couldn't understand her level of anxiety because she clearly has more of it than I do, and that people are more drawn to me as a person in general. I was stunned. Did she not know the amount of turmoil I experience on a daily basis over texts, let alone human interaction?
2. My roommate and I were joking about depressing yoga, and I did an Instagram live video describing the hateful universe while doing basic yoga poses. Friends and family laughed, sending me comments about how funny it was, but some people missed it. And I thought, "Hey, I could do this again, right?" WRONG. I turned the camera on and immediately began shaking. Stage fright wrenched my thoughts from my mind and I sat in front of my phone, paralyzed in warrior 1. In the end, I gave up, turned the camera off, and practiced yoga on my own in the quiet.
In the end, my question is always this: who knows me better? Me or the people around me? And I think the answer I keep coming back to is not an answer to that question. Rather, I'm encouraged to be thankful that God has enabled me to overcome crippling fear, and that He has allowed the people around me to see someone who is not afraid of the world around her, even if I still feel it. Still human, but maybe a little less flesh and a little more soul.
Showing posts with label virus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label virus. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
Thursday, April 9, 2020
buzz lightyear to mission log
Quarantine Day 20: There seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere. The ant colony that wintered beneath our faux wood flooring has officially moved in. They appreciate any dry oats and rice that we drop and forget to sweep immediately. Sadly, they don't appreciate the bright blue disks of death we set out for them quite as much. I've been praying that God will give them a new home because I actually really appreciate their hard work, I just don't want to share a house with them. Like I said, no sign of intelligent life anywhere.
The days have formed a strange routine without work or social commitments. I can't figure out if it's really good for me, or really bad. I'm reading three different books right now, compiling a poetry collection, walking upwards of 10 miles a day (complete with a daily stop at the post office), planning my wedding that hangs in the tenuous clutches of the CoronaVirus, shopping for bras online, and attempting to cook balanced meals without going to the grocery store. My mom and every close friend I've ever had have joked with me about my pending hermitage. Friends, the hermitage is upon us.
It's funny how life changes when you actually don't have any responsibility, other than staying home and staying safe. So much of my time was wrapped up in getting to work on time, picking up as many hours at work as possible, meeting this person here, and that person there. Those aren't bad things. They just might not have been the best things and choices. It gives me a wild rush of anxiety to think about going back to work, and I get the same rush when I think of not going back at all. There has been no option but to trust that God will care for us each day, just like he cares for the grasses and the new flowers stretching into bloom.
I've been reading Psalm 73 the past couple days. I've always resonated with the second and third verses, "But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled, my steps had nearly slipped. For I was envious of the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked." And I feel like that sums up so much of the Vivian I used to be. She was so afraid of missing out, so concerned with belonging, and somehow always ill at ease. The psalm ends with a breakthrough in verse 28, "But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, that I may tell of all his works." That is the person I started becoming close to 6 years ago, and it has been good in this time of forced rest to remember it again. It brings me around to the other psalm that I've been meditating in this time, particularly the first verse. It's so simple, yet powerful in that simplicity: "I love you, YHWH, my strength." That's where I want to be. That encompasses everything about learning where I belong.
The days have formed a strange routine without work or social commitments. I can't figure out if it's really good for me, or really bad. I'm reading three different books right now, compiling a poetry collection, walking upwards of 10 miles a day (complete with a daily stop at the post office), planning my wedding that hangs in the tenuous clutches of the CoronaVirus, shopping for bras online, and attempting to cook balanced meals without going to the grocery store. My mom and every close friend I've ever had have joked with me about my pending hermitage. Friends, the hermitage is upon us.
It's funny how life changes when you actually don't have any responsibility, other than staying home and staying safe. So much of my time was wrapped up in getting to work on time, picking up as many hours at work as possible, meeting this person here, and that person there. Those aren't bad things. They just might not have been the best things and choices. It gives me a wild rush of anxiety to think about going back to work, and I get the same rush when I think of not going back at all. There has been no option but to trust that God will care for us each day, just like he cares for the grasses and the new flowers stretching into bloom.
I've been reading Psalm 73 the past couple days. I've always resonated with the second and third verses, "But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled, my steps had nearly slipped. For I was envious of the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked." And I feel like that sums up so much of the Vivian I used to be. She was so afraid of missing out, so concerned with belonging, and somehow always ill at ease. The psalm ends with a breakthrough in verse 28, "But for me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, that I may tell of all his works." That is the person I started becoming close to 6 years ago, and it has been good in this time of forced rest to remember it again. It brings me around to the other psalm that I've been meditating in this time, particularly the first verse. It's so simple, yet powerful in that simplicity: "I love you, YHWH, my strength." That's where I want to be. That encompasses everything about learning where I belong.
Monday, March 23, 2020
normalcy in a realm of relativity
8:30 AM: I'm on the phone with my parents, doing my best not to audibly hyperventilate in a Starbucks bathroom. Change, unknowns, current and future stressors feel like a typhoon crashing against the bamboo shelter of my soul.
Moments, minutes, hours later, my premeditated typhoon is nothing more than a ripple in otherwise calm waters. You'd think that I would learn. You would think that the next ripple wouldn't fill me with dread at its approach, but it does. Because what if this is the one that packs enough punch to knock me over?
Fast-forward exactly one week. I'm blogging these thoughts from a quarantined apartment. Fragility is the front page of every newspaper, the headlining comment of every conversation. It is the topic of my internal monologue on the potential rebirth of a planet after a cataclysmic event while I walk around the block for fresh air, and for the first time in a long time, I see no one - no cars, no children on the playground across the train tracks, no one. Just me and the late flakes of spring break snow.
And yet, in the fragility, there is an iron-wrought spine holding my shoulders straight and head high. In a day, free from the script of work and imagined social responsibility, there is still quiet prayer, loud prayer, laughing prayer, singing, questioning, wondering...moments, minutes, hours alone with the Creator God of the universe. That is security, a sense of normalcy, in a world that would love to break her neck in an attempt to twist upside-down in slow motion.
7:30 PM: I'm on the floor of my kitchen, doing my best to remember today has been a day. Not a week. Everything on the quarantine checklist doesn't need to be marked off yet. Today has been a day. Tomorrow will hopefully be another one. And maybe, after a while, this, like so many things, will be something we all move forward from.
Moments, minutes, hours later, my premeditated typhoon is nothing more than a ripple in otherwise calm waters. You'd think that I would learn. You would think that the next ripple wouldn't fill me with dread at its approach, but it does. Because what if this is the one that packs enough punch to knock me over?
Fast-forward exactly one week. I'm blogging these thoughts from a quarantined apartment. Fragility is the front page of every newspaper, the headlining comment of every conversation. It is the topic of my internal monologue on the potential rebirth of a planet after a cataclysmic event while I walk around the block for fresh air, and for the first time in a long time, I see no one - no cars, no children on the playground across the train tracks, no one. Just me and the late flakes of spring break snow.
And yet, in the fragility, there is an iron-wrought spine holding my shoulders straight and head high. In a day, free from the script of work and imagined social responsibility, there is still quiet prayer, loud prayer, laughing prayer, singing, questioning, wondering...moments, minutes, hours alone with the Creator God of the universe. That is security, a sense of normalcy, in a world that would love to break her neck in an attempt to twist upside-down in slow motion.
7:30 PM: I'm on the floor of my kitchen, doing my best to remember today has been a day. Not a week. Everything on the quarantine checklist doesn't need to be marked off yet. Today has been a day. Tomorrow will hopefully be another one. And maybe, after a while, this, like so many things, will be something we all move forward from.
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