.006 Defamiliarization {Or: Why I am Withdrawing from University}

When I dove back into school this September, I was expecting the transition to be smooth and easy. I thought I would pick up where I left off in first year, except this time I'd go to bed earlier and manage my time more effectively and eat more salad. I wanted to have a quiet semester: no spotlight, no major life decisions, no pressure. The healthiest thing, I thought, would be to live at a mature, steady pace for the next few months with intentional focus and direction.

That's what I thought.

In reality, rather than gaining healthy habits, I found myself walking around with a sense of aimlessness and feeling a little bit sick all the time. I played the piano for two hours a day, went on extended walks or runs, took pictures, made abstract sketches, wrote vignettes and bad poetry, and more: all on top of the other work my six courses gave me. It felt wrong, like something was constricted or cramped up and all of those extra things were my attempt at gasping for air or massaging out a tight spot.

Generally not one to make impulsive decisions based on a whim or emotion, I thought it was a phase. It would pass, I told myself. It had to. Despite this attempt at a positive mentality, however, I would still go to class and wonder what on earth I was doing there. I'd try to slide it away, hoping that this season would end quickly and that I'd start feeling fulfilled by my studies. September was almost over when an acquaintance asked me how school was going and I answered with a blunt: "I hate it," which took her slightly aback and surprised me even more.

At some point I started thinking about dropping out. I'd talked about it before, jokingly, but suddenly I began thinking about it seriously. I, the one who competed for grades, the one who followed the rules, was contemplating dropping out. This forced me to look at the situation and ask myself some honest questions: ones that, frankly, I really did not want to ask.

The next week of my life looked mostly like me having extended conversations about life with some very wise people and sketching out some other possible life plans. After much contemplation, I decided not to drop out. It seemed like the logical conclusion and the safest plan. I told those wise people not to let me talk about dropping out anymore. I wanted to stop shifting my allegiance and changing my mind. I wanted to stick to my decisions.

Essentially, this didn't work out for very long.

The reality is that trying to become someone you are not will almost always come up short, somehow. My massage therapist originally went to school to be an Engineer. I asked her how she went through all those years of school to become something she knew she wasn't. She told me that, somehow, you always end up coming back to what you were made to be. It might happen very late in life, the realization, or you might catch it early and turn things around, but eventually you'll explore, whether in thought or in deed, in hobby or in occupation, the person you were created to be. You'll come back to yourself: your story may just unfold in a more unconventional way.

Once I finally made the decision to withdraw, I fully committed. I cut ties, cancelled interviews, officially withdrew, wrote a proposal, and backed out of a contract. It was a huge hassle and it hurt at times, but every step felt closer to freedom and my motivation slowly returned.

My time at this University is coming to an end. My plans (and most of my back-up plans) include returning to school in September, studying the one thing I probably should have been studying this whole time, but I wouldn't allow myself to pursue (which is another discussion entirely). This means, though, that I have a huge empty space between now and September that did not exist before. I have some ideas of how it will be filled, and they mostly include people and writing and art and work. Beyond that, I don't know. It all feels terribly risky and irresponsible, but there's a freedom attached to it and doors continue to open for me, unwarranted.

There's a term we use in English Criticism called "defamiliarization." Essentially it is the idea that one of literature's functions is to show us a truth that exists unseen by revealing it from a different angle. It means that it usually takes something to knock us out of our "familiarized" state, out of our numbness, to shift us into a teachable posture. That's how I'm thinking about this space, this season. I'm in a defamiliarized state and I'm trusting that I'll grow more into the person I actually am as I take a few risks and learn old truths from new places.

.004 Sometimes Making the Decision is the Hardest Part

I'm standing on the edge of a new threshold right now; the kind of place that knits fear and possibility together and smudges expectations. My future direction, the one I had so clearly laid out in my mind, has warped once again. I'm in a messy place full of decisions and I spend so much time wondering if I will do the right thing.

My sense of adventure and my sense of fear is split right down the middle right now. I'm taking a crazy step forward. I'm taking a calculated risk that could return great reward, but the road to that place looks tangled and ambiguous from this point of view.

I'm reminded again that I fear what I don't know, or what I think I can't do, and I wonder how often I've allowed this fear to govern me and cinch me into a place that was comfortable, but not necessarily right, or vice versa. There are many places that might not necessarily be noticeably damaging for us to live in, but it may not be the best place: the one we thrive in, the one where we are challenged and stretched and embraced and alive in.

In this place, I'm realizing that deviation and sketching out a new, and perhaps unconventional, path for myself is daunting.

Am I making the right choice?

Will I regret this?

Regret. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I don't often deviate from the norm because I'm ducking away from potential regret. I cringe away from mistakes. They are uncomfortable. They uncover weakness and often force me to admit I was wrong. Past mistakes have a way of sneaking into everyday thoughts like a constant hum in the background, and sometimes they rise up and pinch.

What I'm learning here in the process of making decisions is this: everything leading up to the decision is often the most exhausting part. Flopping between "should I?" and "shouldn't I?" is mentally exhausting. I catch myself in the tension of whether to listen to my head or my heart. I run in circles with my thoughts, trying to uncover the "magic" solution.

Sometimes all of that back and forth confusion is a sign that you just need to make a decision. You might need to go to a quiet place and and get really honest, or sleep on it overnight, and then ask yourself "what do I really want on a deep, real level, even if I know it is hard or crazy or unpopular?" or "is all of this back and forth just fear?" You might actually know what the "right" decision is, but you may not be admitting it to yourself because finality is weighty and commitment is just scary sometimes.

What if you regret it?

Sometimes it seems easier to stay in that place of back and forth because you're afraid of making the decision. You're afraid that going ahead and taking the step might be the wrong thing to do when, really, the restlessness you are choosing to live in is the very signal you've been praying for. It is the sign that is telling you that this is the wrong spot. You've grown out of it. You're restless because you aren't content here.

Maybe it is a sign that you need to make the very decision you thought you would never seriously consider.

Maybe it is a sign that you just need to make a decision and stick with it.

I often find that when I brush up against uncomfortable situations or issues or choices in my life (especially if they come up repeatedly) it is almost as if God points and says "ok- we're going there. I didn't make you to shrink away in fear."

That could mean staying where you are or diving into a completely new space. That could mean taking responsibility or handing responsibility over to someone else. That could mean dusting off an old dream or saying no to a new one. That could mean sticking it out or it could mean letting it rest. That could mean saying yes or it could mean saying no.

Sometimes the road to the decision is the most difficult part but the actual decision, even if it seems like the hardest way, might surprise you with freedom and beauty and possibility. It might offer blessing in the last place you expect to find it. Yes, it might be hard. You might wake up with huge questions and a wave of fear might roll over you from time to time. It might even seem like the "wrong" decision sometimes. However, there is a long, scenic road ahead and someday the knots will be kneaded out. Someday you'll look over your shoulder and notice the difference between here and there and, perhaps, you may even feel grateful for the journey.

Steps

Seven years ago, a very normal incident sparked a series of events that threw me into one of the craziest, richest journeys I've ever walked and blew the dust off of a faith that was beginning to grow stale.

I met one of my best friends while walking home from school one day. I didn't know her very well yet, but we struck up a conversation, which led to the topic of God, and I found myself inviting her to church the following Sunday. I wasn't aware of it then, but that moment was a catalyst launching me into an adventure of faith. She came to church with me that Sunday, and a hundred Sundays after. She just didn't stop coming and I had the privilege of being with her when she accepted Jesus about a year later. This past weekend (six years later) we went to a Christian youth conference for our fifth time, except we went as leaders rather than youth. The transformation is stunning: now my friend is pouring into the lives of youth, telling them about living for Jesus and ministering and serving and worshiping; not because she now has a perfect life, but because she has hope and a healing heart.

As we led together, I was struck by the richness of this friendship and all the intense pain and crazy laughter we've experienced together as we've both learned how to follow Jesus: she, as a brand new Christian, and I, as a pastor's kid redefining how and why I believed and carried out my faith. We have so many strange and beautiful and God-filled stories, and what we've experienced could probably fill a book but what strikes me, what humbles me, is that I could have missed it all.

I could have ignored the prompting to invite her to church. I could have swept the invitation under the rug of my fear or hesitation but by God's grace I didn't. That one small risk led to a dozen more and it built a relationship, which grew two faiths in completely different ways. The effects have reverberated across the miles that separate us and through the years till now. So much fruit and blessing has come from one blip of a moment. One tiny act of obedience altered everything.

Sometimes a small step is all that is needed to drastically shake up our lives and push us into a better version of ourselves. Sometimes the best way to see Jesus is to take a risk and lean in and trust hard. It probably won't be smooth or easy. My friend didn't become a Christian the next day; it was a year before she accepted Christ. In fact, much of our relationship has consisted of wrestling with hard questions, and walking through many experiences of heart-wrenching pain, but I think, through it all, we taught each other how to press into God, how to let Him be sovereign, and how to experience a mysterious joy in difficult circumstances.

Take a small step in faith, and it might bring clarity to some of the foggy edges in our lives. It might involve sacrifice, but it might also produce rich blessing. It might answer some of our most difficult questions and leave us with harder ones. It might stretch us, but it might also propel us to continue on. We might be glossing over our fullest life because we're being tugged back into fear or tunnel vision or a list of rules. Dare to take a step and follow a prompting and watch what tumbles out of that. It could be that behind the risk, tucked under the unknown, a shower of blessing is waiting to be unleashed.

The One I Didn't Want to Post

I didn't want to post this. There is nothing scandalous here, no deep, dark secrets, but being vulnerable in a public space is just rough, sometimes. Often I'll learn things about myself and it turns into a post and I just kind of pray, "God? Couldn't you teach me about some kind of world issue or.... I don't know, something else that isn't so personal!? Couldn't this be a bit less like a journal?" But no, this is what it is.

As a little update, I've been keeping up my weekly pilgrimages to the mall to pray. I keep the fact that I do this pretty quiet in "real life," because I love having this space in my week totally carved out and secret. I've had so many interesting encounters and experiences on these outings, and it is a rhythm that has enhanced my life, and my relationship with God, so much since first semester. it is amazing how simply taking the time to show up and pray expectantly, or just sitting in silence, has opened my eyes and my heart. It has been a way to intentionally refocus, and it has been so, so worth it.

I've changed so much over these past two semesters of school. One of the prayers I pray most often is: "God, what needs to change in me now?" I find that those prayers are always answered in the most interesting and startling ways.

That essay I wrote about? The issue was less about the content and topic of the essay, and more about what it sparked in me. I'm finished it now, but I've been thinking hard about all of this, grappling with this passion I have for writing and where I want to take it from here. I say I'm grappling with it because, really, it has been a point of contention with myself for as long as I can remember.

Writing is what makes me fundamentally myself. Words on the page expose my most truthful self, something that can't be expressed in any other way. On the other hand, I've always wished that I had a different gift. I've tried to store this one away, hide it, downplay it, pretend that it isn't mine. I've been frustrated that writing isn't a necessarily "performable" talent (like dancing or singing), I've kicked back against the honesty that writing forces me up against every time.

When I think of who I am, the first two words I would use to describe myself would be "writer" and "introvert," both parts of myself that I've wanted to change countless times as I've grown up. I've always had this strange wish to be a logical, extraverted person and not this quiet, creative personality that I've been given. I remember, as a very young girl, retreating to my closet to write among stacks and stacks of papers; half finished ideas, stories, letters. I hid it all. Even now, I equate writing with hiding to some extent.

Hiding. Flying under the radar. I've been a bit of a wallflower all my life because it is the most comfortable place for me to be. I prefer to stand away from the spotlight. My idea of a good time mostly consists of activities that can be done alone. That is my niche. However, as a Christian, being alone all the time isn't what I've been called to do. I've also been given this intense love for people, and I've been learning to balance my natural tendency to retreat and this calling to love people.

So- writing. It is uncomfortable. It is gritty. It is also one of the most fulfilling parts of my life. Just as I haven't been called to hide away, I have also not been called to stifle my gifts or hoard them selfishly. That is why I share my writing. It is not something that I want to do, exactly. I'm not here to impress anyone or imply that I have all the answers. This is what I have been given, though, and every time I have used this gift, I've been blessed in countless ways. I'm reminded of the parable of the talents in the Bible, the one where the servant buries the treasure his master gives him rather than putting it to use. That is not who I want to be.

This year, praying about what needs to change, I've grown into myself more than ever. I've begun to embrace this creativity, my writing, my opinions. I'm trying to hide less and settle more into what I've been given.

This is where I stand now, at the edge, batting questions back and forth and peering through keyholes in search of answers. I'm constantly being pushed into uncomfortable corners of honesty and truthfulness, and I'm learning to be okay with that. I'm learning balance and autonomy and wisdom. I'm learning to accept the gifts I've been given and use them well. I'm learning that change is an ongoing process and that when I ask, I will receive. When I press in and really seek, I will find. I might not find what I thought I wanted, but that is the beauty of it all. There are so many unexpected gifts in so many unexpected places.

There Are More Questions Than "Why"

For the past few months I have been running up a huge learning curve. Actually, it isn't even a curve. It has just been a straight line pointing "up" and it doesn't show signs of sloping downward any time soon. However, I feel as though I've hashed through enough lately that I'm gaining some kind of clarity.

I'm notorious for asking questions. Even if I don't voice these questions, they are definitely there, percolating in my mind, swirling around as I toss them up and try to cut in at every angle in an attempt to gain a more whole picture. I admit that sometimes a question presents itself in my mind and it nags until I take up the line to pursue it. It is almost an obsession to know. I have to know.

The most common question that rises in my mind is why. I've grown cold toward this word because it always leads me to the edge of a cliff and leaves me stranded. Why is tricky, sometimes unanswerable, and always frustrating. Why questions run like a broken record in my mind, spinning out and leading me to dead ends all over the place.

A few weeks ago I was praying and getting to that desperate place that I so often find myself in; a place where I feel restless and undone and claustrophobic. I had been feeling random anxiety and I was sitting there asking God why. "Why do I feel this way? Why here? Why now?" Then I fell silent and a clear thought rang in my mind:

There are more questions than why.

When a doctor or a journalist or a counsellor wants to know something, they ask more questions than just why.

This may seem so simple, but it was a paradigm shift for me. Why questions can be bookends. They might initiate an exploration or prompt a reflection, but the journey to the answer often looks more gritty or colourful than the dead-end why.

So rather than asking why I am feeling anxiety and waiting for a banner in the sky to wave an answer from heaven, I begin to pray through different questions:

Where was I when I started to feel anxious?
Who was around me?
When did it happen?
What was I thinking about?
How was I acting?


With these questions I come in at different angles and loosen the tight locks of the situation so it can breathe a little. This is just one, very simple, example, but I'm finding that more often than not, why is the wrong question to end with. Why is a signal to look deeper, whether that is running myself through new questions, or whether that is intentionally paying attention to what God might be speaking to me or noticing different patterns that arise in my life. The more I ask new questions and pay attention to the answers, the less stuck I become. If I'm asking the question why, it probably means that I don't know the answer. If I'm asking God why all the time, there is probably a reason that I don't know. I may be learning something, my vision might be too narrow, it might be too much for me to handle; God knows the situation and He knows all of the answers. He also knows me better than I do.

There are times, though, when why is a call to action. An answer might not be sufficient; I might just need to grieve or apologize or take a new risk. It might be time to stop analyzing the past or worrying about the future or making excuses for the present. I might feel stuck in why because I am stuck. I'm not moving foreword and I need to. The time is now.

So, rather than staying in the dead-end, why has become a signpost to me. It has become a kind of code language for wait or watch or you're still learning. Sometimes it means go or do or rest. It prompts me to ask different questions and it asks me to be patient.

I still don't get answers very quickly, but sometimes the best remedies come slowly. They assemble quietly as I follow my string of questions and gather up bits and pieces of answer along the way. Then, one day, I might find myself standing at the end of a chapter or a page and see that the response I wanted so quickly grew up slowly and, in the end, it bloomed in a more unexpected and more beautiful (yet sometimes more painful) way than I wanted it to.

Somehow, though, it is still good.

There are more questions than why. There is more than one way to answer.

So, Who Will You Be?

It's university and I'm eighteen years old and attempting to construct some plan my future, but I'm caught in a tension. The dilemma is whether I should do what I want to do, what I think I should do, or if there is any difference at all between those two questions. I say that I want to make the right decision to get myself a good job, but since when did I ever care that much about getting a "good" job? That's already a signal to me that I'm trying to hide something from myself.

The problem right now is that I'm only half doing what I want- the other half is doing something that I want to do too, but for completely different reasons. It feels a little bit wrong. The tension is whether I want a degree in business, which I hate, or a degree in english, which I love. There are many other variables to this issue (trust me), but this is the basic core of it.

The question that keeps circling in my head is: "are you just taking business so that you sound smarter?" I think that I might be walking right back into my old habits without even realizing it. I might be back to wishing that I was the logical math genius rather than this complicated, creative personality that I've been given. Is it because I always want the quick answers and rather, I am the one who must explore, uncover and experience things the hard way before realizing what I knew all along? That is what makes me myself, and I do love it, but I also think that I am wishing myself, pushing myself, into a mold that doesn't quite fit me. I can slip into it and wear it, but it doesn't flatter who I really am or highlight my best qualities. I'm not my best self here.

The reason this is risky- switching programs- is not because I'm so worried about my future career path. I trust that that will unfold somehow. That's not the point. The risk is that I feel like I'm about to let that elusive math and logic "self" beat me again. This means that I'm letting go of an ideal, trusting a lot (and giving up a job that might sound "smarter").

I have to trust that God did not create me to be naturally systematic and logical for a reason. There is a reason why I've been gifted with this specific skill set and why this is my true passion.
I was walking to make an appointment with my academic advisor to talk about switching my program when suddenly I felt like I had put it off long enough. I needed to sit under this tree right now and write, for heaven's sake.

Because something great might come from this; and how can I give up english for business? I'll go further doing what I love than cinching myself into something I hate, something I know I'll never really excel at. Maybe quitting business isn't allowing it to trump me at all- maybe it is saving myself, freeing myself. Maybe it's allowing myself space and energy to invest into doing what I love. I'd rather fight later for english and a job in that field than fight right now for an economics grade that I don't even care about.

So, true to my usual self, nothing ever happens in any kind of conventional way for me. Nothing is very linear in my life. I think, though, that at some point honesty has to take over. I have to be willing to risk doing what I love for the sake of my sanity and my calling. I can't fight the truth forever.

On Community and Why I Love Story

I haven't written here for a while. It isn't for lack of wanting to, but sometimes there are more intense seasons we walk through in life that require rest and recuperation after we experience them. As much as I hate to admit it, I have limitations and seasons of rest are just as important as seasons of productivity. I've intentionally paused from writing here for a couple of weeks.

I have been writing outside of this space, though, and I've been so honoured at the response I have received from those who have read either my stories or the stories that others have graciously allowed me to tell. It is a blessing to me. The reason I love to write other people's stories is because sometimes we can't see the meaning or depth of our stories, especially the painful ones, until someone else tells it for us. I love to be able to give that gift through my words.

The following is an excerpt from a longer essay I wrote recently about learning and how it extends far beyond the classroom. Community and story is what is really teaching us, however subtly, and prodding us toward a deeper understanding of ourselves, our lives, our world. Story teaches us something about being human. When someone is brave enough to be transparent, the impact an be huge. Story moves us.

Community can be an amazing place to learn and grow together but it can also teach us hard lessons in very painful ways.

". . . The truth is that there can be deep hurt within a community and some people draw back from this. I've been this person; the one with the broken trust and guarded soul, wary of groups and people because I've watched good churches split and good friends become cold. I've had the privilege of being wrapped in a wild, gracious, loving community with friends like brothers and sisters to me and I've had to say good-bye to them and break away. I've watched beloved family members die slowly. Through all of these experiences my heart closed a little bit more.

In Writer's Craft class this year my teacher handed me a specific quote after reading a short story I had written and it screamed at me like a siren.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries. . . .  Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket-safe, dark, motionless, airless-it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."
-C.S Lewis (The Four Loves)

I know I've missed out on rich relationships because I've kept people at arm's length. I can list names of the people who have reached out to me, yet I turned a cold shoulder because I couldn't take the risk. I was wrestling with this issue when I was given this quote and it loosened the noose around my heart a little. It put a crack in the walls I hide behind . . ..

We start each Writer's Craft class with prayer and the moments that we share prayer requests together have become a kind of holy space. Here, we share the burdens we carry or the burdens we see others carry. We spread the load a little between us all and it forms a connection, a shared bond. We sit in a circle and as the burdens and joys are spoken, I always see them falling in the middle and resting on the web of laughter and tears that runs between us and pulls us closer. We learn from the raw experience of others . . .."

I've been learning to be transparent with my own story because so many people have been willing to share pieces of their own honest stories with me. These people have been brave enough to show me the more hidden, broken parts of who they are. This is rich to me and I've learned so much from their truthfulness. I have to be fair and allow you to see what I've learned from my own messy, beautiful story. We weren't made to walk through life alone, but so many people live in isolated pain, breaking from the inside out; it is healing to share the fractured pieces of our narratives as well as the good parts. Sharing our stories is healthy and needed. It strengthens our bond, builds community, and it might even allow us to see a new dimension of purpose to our lives. That is the power of story.