Letter to Donald Miller

Don,
I think we're soul mates, but not in the way I wrote to Zach Hanson when I was nine. Do you remember him? He was the little drummer boy for Hanson, that poppy group that sang all those silly songs. I loved them because in their song "Yearbook," they mentioned my name, and so I played it over and over, dramatically acting out the song and responding so passionately when they said "Jamie."
But I don't think we're soul mates in that way. You bring out my inner Christian hippie and I would not make you feel uncomfortable because just as you feel uncomfortable taking off your shirt, I'm not so aggressive in showing off my ta-ta's either, so it's perfect!
Also, we tend to have the same stream-of-conscious writing style, like a more put-together and un-Irish James Joyce. Do you like James Joyce? If so, I can deal with that as long as you can deal with Henry James and Jane Austen and Sylvia Plath and William Wordsworth. If you don't like Wordsworth, well, maybe we're not soul mates. Although a love for Byron and Keats would partially regain my respect for you.
Also, your church makes me feel happy inside. I've never been there, which is strange that it makes me feel all happy, but the idea of it seems familiar in that home communal sense. Because I struggle with that Christian community thing, if I were around artists and people who need alone time as much as I do, well, then I wouldn't feel so alone.
Also, I love your cartoons. Especially the sexy carrot and the one about Don the Astronaut. Did you know that I wanted to be an astronaut when I was in 3rd grade?
Also, Portland is one of the cities I MUST see before I die. It's tolerant of others, it's near-ish Seattle (because I love all things rain), and I've never been to the west coast.
So, Don, when I get the fundage and maybe after the Peace Corps (2 years) and the completion of my MFA in Creative Writing (another 2 years,) and a year to chase Damien Rice all over Ireland/Iceland/wherever else he may choose to be a recluse for an extended period of time without an album, I will be knocking on your door. I'm gonna say, "Hi, Don, I'm Jamie the Soul Mate, and I'm ready to move in. You don't have to take off your shirt, so can we go hiking tomorrow?"
And I think you'll let me in because though I tend to think strange thoughts and write strange letters, I'm nice and I think you're nice, and, well, I have Million Miles autographed by you as a gift from my friends. Speaking of that, you may need to work on that signature. D and M are not particularly loopy capital letters, yet your signature looks like an intense hurricane wave.

Your future soul mate,
Jamie

ummmm wait, it's summer.

I have been in Indianapolis for a MONTH (on Sunday). One MONTH! That is ridiculously crazy. I just realized that in like...3 years, I haven't been to a pool or beach to actually lay out, soak up some Vitamin D.
I don't even remember the last time I wore my bikini! (Which, to be honest...is a bit purposeful, but whatever. I'm over it.)
Summers are no longer "summers" anymore. I'm still pale (which I like most of the time,) and I've had the same bathing suit for 3 years (which my wallet appreciates). I don't spend hours on a diamond playing ball and getting major shoulder tan lines, I don't overstay my welcome at friends' houses with pools, and I no longer beg my parents to go on vacation.
Is this the mark of growing up?
It's funny, I have an overwhelming desire to go to Dollar General and buy a noodle and a beach ball. Take THAT, adulthood!

everyday things

Blueberries are my favorite berries.
I hate purses. HATE. HATE.
Coffee is the best. laxative. ever.
I like watching people bicycle up hills. I like to see if they show any facial twist and I like to see bulging muscles. Oh, the joy in watching pain without feeling it.
I've learned that I cannot write songs. They are SO weird.
I want to live in a cabin. In Maine.
If I have kids, I definitely want more boys than girls.
I have signature spastic hiccups.
I just painted my fingernails gold to keep me from biting them. I've scraped off the bottom part of polish and have proceeded to peel the skin around the cuticle. Can you say... self-masochist? Yikes.
Laughing Cow Cheese=felicity.
I haven't read a whole book in like...4 weeks. This is strange.
Stein is a fish who lives in our office. He is a goldfish. I call him Steiny. Laura feeds him because she remembers these things. I like to watch him swirl around in his floaty string-poop and quote Finding Nemo.
I eat Tums like candy. In 3 weeks, I've almost eaten half the bottle. :/
My bladder...is an exact replica of my father's, I think.
Ella's hilarious quotes are finding their way into my everyday vernacular. Great progress, Jamie, now you're talkin' like a 2-year-old.
Here me COMES!
That's right, world. Me is coming.

Silence

I'm writing a Bible study right now with Laura called God Plot.
You know that I write a lot. And I write a lot of things. A Bible study is a bit difficult because
1.) It's a form of instruction. I'm not good with instruction--with handling it, with giving it. I am 22. I am young. Instruction is weird right now.
For example, Regan (the 4 year old in the house) keeps jumping on Laura's empty bed... asking me to paint her toenails, to get out the ukulele, to watch her perform tricks, NEEDING my attention. But I'm writing. And when I write, I need silence. I need to think, to meditate, to relax, to be away from the world for a moment.

2.) Anything I've ever written from a Christian standpoint is bitter. Bible studies can be contemplative, but ultimately, they are positive and motivational. Oh dear.

3.) I'm trying not to sell out as a cheesy Christian writer. I am extremely picky with what I read--especially when it comes to God stuff. I don't do tearful miracles or surface instruction. I need to see different perspectives, a new light to Christianity. Didacticism is way too prevalent in Christian literature. I'm over it.

Regan is now asking me about cotton balls (that I use for finger nail polish removal), which makes her think about how I haven't painted her nails purple yet, but then she keeps repeating cotton balls until she starts singing "Cheetos! Cheetos! Cheetos!" Now she is muffling "Hey JAMIE" with her head down on the bed. "I'm aLIVE," she says.
"Jamie?"
"Yes?"
"I'm alive."
"You're alive?"
"Yes,I'm STUCK on Laura's bed!"
Then she stands up on the bed and stiffly falls down on the bed.
"I'm a WO-bot! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Giggle, Giggle.
"I'm a wo-bot! Isn't that funny, Jamie? That's SO funny!"

I wonder if that's how we are with God sometimes. He has all this other stuff going on, and you KNOW God needs silence sometimes. I mean geez, he kinda has this whole world to look after. God has a great sense of humor, I think. He knows how to deal with our lives, he knows when to block us out and when to listen--especially when our train of thought jumps from an organic, earthy, fluffy substance to fake-cheese-infused, uber-fattening junk food.
But sometimes, I think we're jumping on this mystical, metaphysical trampoline, trying desperately to get his attention.
(Jump) Hey God!
Silence.
Hey God! Look at me, God! Look! I'm jumping!
Silence.

Maybe when we're trying desperately to get his attention, when we focus on jumping toward him, we have our priorities right. Maybe this is the worship part of Christianity. Jumping on a trampoline, reaching toward the sky, calling for God.
But we can't jump forever. We have work to do. And when we work, things may become quieter for us and for God, and this isn't bad. Because in the silence, God may give us an answer for something.

My Own Salt

So my inner hippie likes to document things: particularly my growing love for people and nature and my new, subtle discoveries I'm making.
For example, I've decided that if I were to take ONE ITEM with me to a deserted island, it would not be pen or paper,it would not be a television, it would not be a pillow or a Bible (sorry, God), or anything like that. It would be a piano. An old, upright, wooden piano. I mean, I would take a baby grand, of course, but there's something comforting about an upright piano.
Also, I don't react well around homophobes. Luckily I can internalize and suppress my violent tendencies. A therapist may soon be needed.
Also, I am becoming more spastic and less "here." Maybe I smoke pot in my sleep. Laura says I've been sleep-talking, and the other night, I woke up mid-reach across the room, touching the foot of her bed. I think in my dream-like trance, I was trying to swat a bug away. Strange. Pot? Maybe.
Also, I am SOOOOO moody sometimes! It's like I"m getting more and more patient on the outside,but on the inside, I'm saying not nice things. (Sorry again, God. We'll talk later.)
My fingernails are gone. I'm a beaver.
Writing a Bible study makes me much more aware of the Bible. Wow! What a coincidence!
I still can't stand Naomi. If I ever got married, I would die if my mother-in-law was a Naomi.
Esther is friggin awesome!
I don't think I ever knew Joel was a book in the Bible.
I've discovered that Indiana is much like that of the Bible Belt. Ehhh...
It storms when I'm in a mood. I like it. I feel power in my female-ness when it storms.
I'm starting to get tired of my hair again.
I am becoming much more passionate at defending people who are gay.
I constantly chant "I love Jesus I love Jesus I love Jesus" when I get rejected by selfish restaurants as I ask for food donations. In stead of calling them bastards as I hang up the phone, I tell Jesus that I love him. It's a nice trade, I think.
I love being pale. It's nice. But if I go to Africa, Miss Pale Face may need to get more Vitamin D. Eesh.
My evenings are spent swapping bipolar moods with a four year old. Sadly, I feel like she expresses what I internalize. Especially the moping about, stomping up the stairs and screaming with fury part.
I'm starting to like my singing voice a little more. Not really in an egotistical, I wanna-try-out-for-American-Idol way, but in a "Hey, this is my voice, uncorrupted by forced influences. I can make things sound different. Sweet!"
My tattoo contmplation is being squashed by my tiny bank account. But I'm not giving up hope.
I love bracelets that tell a story. I have three right now, one from Belgium, one from Belize, and one from Uganda. I requested one from Kenya today (along with the request for a black baby,) so hopefully I'll have four in a month!
I don't want to follow any marriage tradition if I get married. Well, except for maybe a cool celebration part.
I'm only eating ice cream two days a week, and I'm OKAY with that. It's crazy.
I've taken a slight break from reading whole books so far. It's weird.
I can sit down with my amazing, Jesus-loving host family and relax while watching the Bachelorette or some other crazy silly show and sip a beer or a glass of wine. It's amazing. They love gay people, too.

What I'm Learning: the Middle Ground

I have a problem with being in the middle. Middle child, I live in the mid-west (kind of), the middle of the Bible Belt, I'm from the middle point between two big cities, i'm in the middle of two big life transitions, i'm often in the middle of extreme politics (especially as a Christian), and as a Christian, I feel very in the middle about how faith should be practiced.
Today I went to a church where I enjoyed the whole service. I didn't know all the songs, but I felt free to sing them and worship anyway. I didn't know anyone (except for my newly-developed twin Laura) and we just sat near the front and it felt nice. The pastor was intellectual, honest, and dove into subjects in which most Christians either deliberately avoid or aggressively announce their extremist opinions.
Politics. Law. Authority. He preached out of I Peter and NEVER sided with one political party or the other. He said that we as American Christians are the most free with religion as any other country. Yet the most oppressed, restricted places are exploding with the most Christian spirit. Why?
Because they have motivation--they have a purpose--they have things to PROVE. They are restricted and oppressed, they are told to follow the rules of governmental authority, and you know what? For the most part, they do. Generally, these people respect their government. They show authority the respect that authority calls for and arguably deserves. But spiritually, these Christians submit to God.
This pastor also said that complacency is just as sinful as rebellion.
Maybe being rebellious for religion isn't always the best answer, but being passionate in pursuit of God is a great reply to what we can do for the world.
One problem I find with Christians is the lack of respect. Some Right-ists and Left-ists completely disrespect each other. I am guilty of this. Very. I think my current situation with leaving my church and continuously head-butting my family is because of miscommunication and a lack of respect. Because I felt bitter and hurt, I lost respect for people and for the way things have surfaced.
I have contemplated this a lot. I become so defensive with issues because I'm passionate about them. I'm passionate about being a strong, independent woman. I want to keep that drive, but I want to channel it more positively through Christ. I want to love people more. The rich people, the poor people, the plagued people, the pretty people, the believers, the unbelievers, the pro-lifers and the pro-choicers.
Jesus wants us to be peaceful, loving people. He wants us to respect everyone--he wants us to value the biblical way of marriage, but he wants us to love those who have been ostracized and alienated for their lifestyles. He wants us to value the life of an unborn child, but he wants us to value the body and decisions of the woman carrying it.
Do you see? Sometimes, the middle ground is okay. It's tough and it's sticky because ultimately, we don't know the right choices or the right decisions for our country or for our lives. We're not Jesus.
You know why I love Jesus? Because he lets me love him... and other people, too.

oh, what beggars we are

this week= food donations for the sportquest "indy project".
laura and i travel through hotels, restaurants, and grocery stores in desperate need of food donations.
we have visited 20+ and have only been down two roads.
my eyes are floating, my tongue is twisting, my feet are fumbling (as always), and i am somewhat tired of people.
oh, the life of an intern.
i'm so tired i don't even feel like capitalizing.

If I Were Ingrid Bergman/Ilsa

If you've seen Casablanca, you know Ingrid Bergman's magic. She is Ilsa. She is beautiful, she is compassionate, she is secretive, she is distressed, she is strong. She falls under terrible circumstances, and luckily Rick (the amazing Mr. Bogart) makes the decision for her in the end out of his surprising/unsurprising chivalry and honor.
Ingrid Bergman/Ilsa startles me with her firmly-set chin and calmed nature compared with the polar softness and intensity of her eyes. Her eyes give her away. They tell stories as we flash into their former life as unquestioned, secret lovers.

If I were Ingrid/Ilsa, I would approach someone that I dearly loved with a gun--maybe a baseball bat, because guns increasingly freak me out-- and then I would explain why I was so frustrated, like a super-intense adrenaline-infused therapy session--and then this person would wrap me up in a loving hug, take away the bat, and say, "Listen, Ilsa. I love you [whether platonic or romantic], but you're being a tiny bit crazy right now.I know I don't understand your life. I know your writing style is strange, I know you're confused about all things life, and I know you like to do things differently from most people. But killing is quite barbaric, and I don't think you wanted to do it anyway. You just needed a moment of near-explosion."

I get to these moments about every 3-4 months. It's a bit of an exhausting cycle and much worse if a boy is in my life (and thank God I am very, very single.) I am having a bit of an identity crisis. I'm pondering how conditional love is, and I'm trying to control anger that bubbles up. You know, anger is a funny thing. Anger can show us what we are truly passionate about. Anger can be intense. It can cause very bad things to happen.
I tend to ignore my anger. I know it sounds strange, to ignore such a strong emotion. But I really can. Then boom, all of a sudden I BLISTER with anger. It's like these anger blisters hurt me SO BAD that I have to pop them. I have to get rid of them, only the toxic (remember, these are serious blisters) liquid runs all over my world and threatens the people in it. Sometimes, these people cause my anger blisters. Sometimes I get angry at myself. Sometimes I get angry at something that happened years ago.
Here's a question: If you've not forgotten, have you forgiven?
I used to think no.
Now I think differently.
I've been sexually abused, I've felt innately wounded by family and friends and my former church. Angry. PISSED, even. Disgusted and betrayed and sick. Every now and again, I feel angry. Of course I do. Bad things suck. However, I have forgiven these things. I feel like I can easily forgive (well, except for the sexual abuse thing. I may still be working on that, actually.) I can forgive because 1.) well, I kinda love Jesus, and he's pretty awesome at forgiving; and 2.) I used to be the causer of anger. I have treated people with pure disrespect and I have judged people in a terrible, terrible way. So I want them to forgive me so I can forgive.
Ultimately, Ilsa seems to leave Rick for the dogs, but she actually learns that her declared-dead husband is in fact NOT dead. So she rushes to him amongst a terrible war. She hurt Rick in a terrible way, but she wants his forgivness. (Enter soft, watery eyes.)
Now, I am human... I ironically forget that I own a cell phone and I forget that most people don't read Jane Austen; however, my forgetfulness rarely excludes the times I've been hurt. Sometimes I get slightly angry at a persom; however, mostly, I get angry at the situation, at the way I let someone phase me so much. I get angry at the fact that people unconsciously or QUITE consciously make people feel like the granules of earth beneath someone's big, steel-toed boots. I become squashed and embedded into my own squishy pile of misery and I HATE that.

You know, I think happiness is often a fake emotion we conjure ourselves to believe we experience. But I would like to feel happy with myself. I would like to be more understanding to the world. I would like to open my arms to people who don't believe in God and I want to mentor AND look up to people who do.
I, however, do want to keep battling things. Because struggle leads to growth, and growth leads to self-happiness.
Because even if I have to leave something I love on a tiny airplane, I can allow my developed character and watery, soft eyes to save the world or get a husband or something.

Indy Happenings

So far...

-Host family=awesome
-I work in a pseudo-igloo, but it's cool. Haha.
-A man on a bike roared at me.
-I will drive to approximately 30 restaurants asking for food for the Indy project
-I live with my twin. We were separated at birth.
-I take my ukulele everywhere.
-I'm as poor as I've ever been. No joke.
-I'm eating a lot of organic food. Woop woop!
-I ate a flying cupcake.
-I still don't know what to do with my life.
-I'm considering Indianapolis as a potential live-in city.
-I still want Maine.
-I'm learning how to be organized.
-I forgot to send my grandmother a birthday card (BUT I called her :))
-My writing is at a pace of zero. I've scribbled out some weird and terrible song lyrics and I have one journal entry about respect. It's strange. Involves the book of Esther.
-Ever fingernail is down to layered nubs beyond the quick. And the skin beneath is bloody and peeled.
-I'm spacing out more than ever.
-All I wanna do is sing. Or listen to people singing. Or play my ukulele. Or play a piano which is not accessible to me. :/
-I like duck!