.009 The Slow Lane is Ok Too

I've been taking a pottery class lately, which is the fulfillment of a little dream of mine that has been percolating for a while. I was going to local artisan shows and galleries and the more pottery I saw, the more I wanted to try it myself. I wanted to cut into the clay and feel it spinning on the wheel. I wanted to make something in-your-hands tangible.

I promised myself that I wouldn't write about the pottery class. The potter and the clay is a common metaphor and the English major in me has been trained to avoid cliche at all costs. The first night that I sat behind the pottery wheel, though, a certain space was created. It was one of those unexpectedly holy moments. I stumble upon those kind of spaces when I do artsy things, or when I go to bookstores, or sometimes when I swim, but I'm sure that everyone has a different way of finding those moments. It happens when you slip into your niche or knock against something that absolutely fills your soul. Anyway, I found a new way to worship in the pottery studio.

The very first thing I learned is that when you start out with clay on the wheel, you have to centre it. The centring process is something you have to learn how to feel. I kept messing up at first because I'd try to force it. I didn't know, yet, what I was supposed to be feeling. I spent hours on that wheel, understanding the clay, guiding it, and learning where and how to apply pressure. It's like a rhythm or a dance. You have to feel it in a different part of yourself. You have to be present and in tune with the speed of the wheel and the way the clay is moving. To shape the clay, you have to learn a balance of firmness and gentleness.

::

I usually aim to swim on a regular basis. I enjoy it, but I'm trying to redeem it into something more filling for me. I associate swimming with a certain amount of competition and intensity. I'm not the most amazing swimmer and the only times I ever swam in a remotely competitive way was long ago in grade school. I have been a lifeguard for a few years, though, and I've taught swimming lessons and, even though I love it, every time I go into the pool, it feels like a job or a training session. I feel like I should be working on some skill and swimming better than I did yesterday. It suddenly dawned on me recently that I can just swim for fun.

Today I went to a lap swim and intentionally went into the slow lane, which is something I've never done before. I had 40 minutes and one rule: just swim for 40 minutes. I wasn't allowed to count my laps or time myself or anything that felt too competitive. I just swam. I didn't think about how fast I was going or how many lengths I had completed. At one point I was swimming parallel to a guy in the fast lane and, I admit, I had to beat him to the end, but that was the only time I let it come to that. Otherwise, it was just me and the water and time fell away. I stayed in the pool because I wanted to. I have no idea how many laps I did. All I know is that I swam for 40 minutes and it was enjoyable in a soul-filling way.

This is something I am training myself to understand: I don't have to be beating someone or constantly pushing myself to the furthest edge of my potential to be my best self. I feel hypocritical even writing those words, in a way. I am always a proponent of change and growth and reaching toward your very best self. However, lately I've been realizing that sometimes I live life as a competition, and it really isn't. We're all at different points in our journeys and our maturity and our faith. This is a really hard lesson for me to learn, admittedly. I fight hard against it. I know there is something deeper going on, though.

The question is: why am I trying to be the best? Is it genuinely making me better in the sense that it is the right path for me to take? Is it genuinely making me a more fulfilled and freer person? If it isn't, I might be doing it just for respect and applause. I'm not saying that respect is bad. This isn't an issue of "good" or "bad," exactly. It's more an issue of the heart and motivation. If I'm constantly trying to be better because I want people to say that I'm a really accomplished person, I'll probably be burned out and always feeling a little bit lost or never really satisfied. That place is never a good one.

I think that someone who is gentle with their self, their person, someone who learns the rhythm of when to apply pressure and when to let go, is a person who is centred, just like the clay on the wheel. I think we're all kind of learning the balance and rhythm of life and sometimes what we need is to challenge ourselves and other times we need to allow ourselves grace. We need to learn that we don't have to do everything that we know we can accomplish; and not accomplishing what we know we can do isn't necessarily failure, either.

The catch is that this whole learning to be centred thing isn't going to turn out perfectly. Just like the clay, we might end up a bit wobbly in some places and maybe have a few nicks or rough edges. The other thing about clay is that once it is off the wheel, that isn't the end. The clay must be prodded and shaved and smoothed by hand as well. It's all a process of gentle shaping and sometimes you keep a bit of the asymmetry because it adds personality and character.

It's ok to be in the slow lane, sometimes, even when you know that you can hold your own in the fast lane. I also think that it is very ok to aim high and test your limits. The trick is understanding why you are there, and where it is leading you. It's the divide between pride and humility, fear and growth, trust and letting go. It ultimately comes down to you and your heart and your story. You'll know. After a while, you'll learn the rhythm and you'll learn where to place pressure and when to be gentle with yourself. You'll feel when things are off centre and how to pinpoint the problem areas. You're being shaped, surrendering to the Potter's hand and, one day, something unexpectedly beautiful may emerge.


*Right after I wrote this, I began reading Donald Miller's newest book, Scary Close, (and if you've never read Donald Miller, you really should) and in chapter 5 he recounts a strikingly similar swimming experience and a strikingly similar epiphany. I don't know, maybe we're onto something.....

.008 "Introvert" Isn't an Excuse

I'm a classic introvert. I'd rather have a small circle of close friends than a crowd of them. I recharge by being alone. I'd rather listen than talk. Small talk isn't my favourite activity.

These things comprise my safe zone and the place where I automatically go, if given the choice. However, lately I've been wondering if the term "introvert"  can become a cop-out. Since withdrawing from university temporarily, I've found myself staring down a long tunnel of relatively empty time. There's a temptation for me to retreat and write and read novels with a large chunk of that time. I'm an introvert, right? I'm captain of my own ship, right? There are no rules about how I must spend this time. It's my prerogative and I can go to coffee shops by myself if I want to, because its comfortable for me. 

What I'm learning, though, is that, for an introvert, there is a certain boundary between recharging and becoming a little bit reclusive. If I spend long stretches of time alone, I can start thinking too much. My world narrows easily and I focus on myself more than I should. The quiet space is healthy and good for a while, but if I spend too long there, it can become toxic. In that place, "introvert" can just become an excuse for being shy or staying protected in my own cozy world.

Instead of allowing myself the luxury of spending four months indulging my introverted tendencies, I've proactively pushed myself into situations where I'll be forced into new places with new people with new challenges and room for small talk. I'm doing this because I know that, as much as I drag my feet beforehand, I like the person I become afterwards. When I step out of the introvert safe zone, I nudge myself into someone braver and more confident and, yes, a little drained, but purposeful. I'd rather avoid small talk, but maybe it is time to learn how to be more comfortable in those situations. Maybe I'd rather be alone with a book, but why not test the waters of my own, real-life story?

The word "introvert" has the potential to become an excuse for some of us, if we aren't careful. It can become a method of avoidance or a prop for fear. Maybe the next time you really, desperately want to be alone, what you actually need to do is go out or invite someone over or call someone up and talk.

Since my future is kind of unstable at the moment, with a lot of foggy spots and shadowy patches, I sometimes begin to slide into a mindset that brushes up against worry. I think about all the possibilities. I think about everything that isn't happening. I think about everything that is happening that I wish wasn't happening. I think about all the things that seem out of place or misaligned. That is the danger zone. When my time spent alone drifts here, I've learned that this is my cue to stop being alone. 

My new rule is that when I go to that spot in my mind of thinking the same thoughts over and over, or clipping new links into my chain of worry, I have to talk to another human being. It doesn't have to be about what is bothering me. In fact, it is sometimes better if we don't always talk about that, depending on the situation. I think that as introverts, we sometimes mistakenly think that a relationship is less meaningful until it goes deep, but you can't be deep all the time. You probably shouldn't be deep all the time. The deep parts come after the shallow areas because that is how it is supposed to be. Sometimes a float in the shallow end can be just as good for us as a deep dive. 

The challenge I'm giving myself is to not allow this space to become too comfortable. There are healthy points and stretches to withdraw, but there are also times, especially if introversion crosses over into shyness, when withdrawing can be a form of evasion, or it might give us too much time to think. In these spaces, it is good to let people in. I know that what I feel like doing isn't always a gauge of what I should be doing, or what is best for me. Sometimes it feels easier to be alone and the prospect of being with people might seem draining in your head, when really it could be the healthiest, most filling thing you can do for yourself.

"Introvert" should not be an excuse. Don't confuse being introverted with being shy and let it stop you from reaching out to people. I honestly think that introversion can be a bit of an illusion. I would label myself as a total introvert, but the more I learn about myself, the more I find that people are what I need. People fill me and encourage me and challenge me. Sometimes I want to just stay home, but when I go, I find myself happier and more grounded. I've come to understand that I love being with people just as much as I love being alone; it is just not a natural default for me. . . yet. If I avoided conversations and relationships because I'm introverted, I'd miss out.  

So my warning and my challenge to us introverts is to use this label as a way to understand ourselves socially, but not as an excuse to pull away. Use your time alone when you need it, but don't be afraid to stretch beyond the label, either. It isn't a bad thing to attempt to grow in this area.

Extroverts have plenty to teach us, too.  

.007 Codes

A lot of life is like trying to break a code. We're all trying to make things fit, trying to make things add up, trying to unhook what works and what doesn't and assemble our own little theories and philosophies according to personal experience. Sometimes we come across people who blast us with pointed opinions, or people who offer deep truths, and you can bet that something in their story taught them that. Something about it fits into their code and offers an explanation or clarity to them.

I'm not good at math, but some days I'd like a solid formula or two for life. Relationships, for instance: they are tricky, sometimes, with few concrete, overarching rules because relationships deal with two different people coming from two different stories with two different codes of life. If there were pre-set formulas to use in particular situations, there would be a lot less music in this world, fewer books, less art in general. Art helps us work through the code. It offers a sense of: "hey- I feel that too!" or "I understand" and it is all a journey of connecting pieces and lessons learned the hard way into a mosaic of healing and direction.

I think that community is sometimes a gathering of people who have certain matching aspects of their life codes. Some people, for example, cook or bake for therapy and this is why we have cooking clubs and cooking blogs and cookbooks and Pinterest boards dedicated to food. It is a way of gathering people who know that this is something that offers meaning and expression and a way to connect. It adds value to their life, and therefore it is part of their personal formula. Their code includes cooking because, for them, it has to. It is an essential, soul-filling practice that colours in one of those empty spots in life. When something fits into your code in that way, it means that it is important on a deep level. It means that this makes you a better person and that this gives you a sense of your purpose. This happens with book clubs and farmers and Engineering professors. We all operate according to our different codes. We're all attempting to understand the world with the interests and talents and spaces and relationships that have been given to us.

This is the best thing that I have learned in University so far: my way is not the only way and that isn't a bad thing. University is a garden of people, a zoo of ideas and opinions and my own have opened and shaken here. University is, in a sense, a really expensive way of becoming yourself through encounters with other people and their codes of life. Sometime you stumble upon a gem in someone else's code and it helps you understand something in your own code that didn't work before. This can happen in a lecture or late-night chats over pizza or overhearing a stranger's conversation. I don't think that University is the only way or the best way to grow into yourself, necessarily, but it is one way and, since I've been here, I appreciate how it has shaped me.

Although I discovered this whole code metaphor in University, I really think that this can be applied anywhere in life. We learn as much as we allow ourselves to learn. Some of us are more diligent or creative in solving our codes than others. I think that ignoring the code, or pieces of it, can lead to dissatisfaction and restlessness. It can happen when you get stuck on a formula that makes sense for other people, but just doesn't work for you. It is easy to feel overwhelmed by all of those blank spaces in your code, and it can seem too hard to draw meaning from it all. Your code can be daunting, possibly because of the potential for you to make a mistake, or maybe you just don't know where to start. Instead of exploring potential answers, we can sometimes latch onto certain things that offer escape or the illusion of meaning for us. These things can eventually look like addiction or chasing approval or constructing a false identity because figuring out the real one is scary.

We assemble our codes through art and community and science and personal experience. Sometimes we have to find it through a risk or a move or just by stopping and noticing. We solve the code by asking questions of ourselves and of others or maybe opening ourselves to new experiences and new ideas. Some mornings we wake up and just know that something is wrong on a fundamental level; something in our code needs to change and that is allowed to happen. You are allowed to make a mistake, to do a little guess and check, to admit that you were wrong about something important. You are allowed to acknowledge that your perspective is shifting or that you are growing up and it is time to change something that used to work but just can't anymore.

To work on the code, you have to take all the aspects of yourself into account: personality, abilities, interests, beliefs, relationships, talents, health, and fill in those blanks with truth and what lines up best with who you are. Solving the code is a journey of discovering what makes you whole and purposeful and then living as close to that version of yourself as you possibly can. The important part is the journey, the growth. The adventure of solving the code is what teaches you. It offers clues and metaphors and stories to collect and examine. Assembling it all is like a scavenger hunt of discovering your potential and purpose and how you aren't the most important thing that ever happened to the world, but maybe you can add a little colour or hope to your corner of it.

Call the code your life philosophy or mission statement or value system, but we all have one. It is the individual vision and unique combination of practices and priorities and principles that construct our "self" and, in turn, how that "self" interacts with others and engages with life. This code is dynamic and flexible through different seasons, but it is grounding and important to think about. I know that part of my code right now includes writing, stretching myself, talking to people even when I don't always feel like it, praying, drawing healthy boundaries, and staying present.

What are the practices, priorities and principles that are important to the code for your season right now? What is on your list of things that you need to remember to focus on, fill with, grow in, or learn from? What is the mantra or theme or pattern growing out of the place that you are living in at this time? What is your personal code?

.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.

.005 Watch for the Signs

I've noticed a pattern forming in my life, lately. It is one of those rhythms that forms subtly and seems to reflect my head space. It has to do with direction. I was scrolling through recent pictures that I've taken on my phone, and I noticed that there is a distinct theme of "going" threaded through them all. Tunnels, stairs, doors; they are all side-glances. They are all a motion from here to there.

One of my English profs constantly says: "watch for the signs!" Watch for the signs. Trace the repetition. Catch the hints. I'm seeing this principle carving itself into my daily life. If I'm reading the signs correctly, I'm in a phase of "going." I'm in one of those dynamic seasons where change and opposition seems to flare up with every step.

One of these changes is that I've decided to withdraw from University for a time. From December till September, I'll have a haze of empty space to fill and some days that is exciting, some days it is intimidating. I want to fill it well, educate myself outside of the classroom, use the freedom to reflect and to try some new things and to work. I want it to be a place of re-assembling and of laying low. I want to use it to prepare and to stretch and to catch my breath.

I'm always going. Moving and change and I are old friends. Now I'm cutting a huge hole of open, semi-stable time into the next year, which is something I've never done before. It is a little uncomfortable, to be honest, and I've been reflecting on it in quieter moments. This weekend I spontaneously took a bus home and during the trip, the middle ground, I thought about this motif of journey.

I love transformation. I love to push myself to do more, to make mistakes and learn from them. I love looking over my shoulder at where I've been. I'm always attempting to become someone better. That is usually a good, healthy thing. But what happens when I look up and notice that the space I'm in is not where I should be?

We're all on a journey of transformation, of becoming. Sometimes, however, this journey is not an exploration. Sometimes it resembles running away more than anything. There are pieces of ourselves that can be uncomfortable and scary. These are the things we know about ourselves, but would rather avoid. We'd rather stuff away this dream or this talent or this issue that we know exists within us but for whatever reason it comes wrapped in fear or hurt or insecurity. Maybe we're supposed to be running toward these things, pursuing healing or an edging open of ourselves, but instead we're running in the opposite direction and calling that our "journey."

These are the signs. Right now I'm closing doors and taking a new path. I'm changing directions and I think that is ok. It is ok to pause and check the map and be honest about the fact that you might be trying to follow a trail that isn't going to lead to the destination you thought it would. It is ok to take a break, re-evaluate, and chart a slightly new course.

Sometimes we grow out of our spaces. Sometimes we're trying to squeeze ourselves into a place we don't fit. Sometimes we place expectations on ourselves and need to be honest and admit that we'll never measure up to that constructed ideal in our heads. Sometimes we're just blindly blazing forward out of fear or a binding tunnel vision. What path are you actually on? Do you need to change directions?

Watch for the signs.

.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.

.003 Work:Rest

This week has been pent up with stress and work and somehow we're still smiling over here.

It might have been the extra course (or two) that I took on this semester, but I'm suddenly finding that my workload has exploded and I'm applying to jobs for co-op like nobody's business and I'm attempting to have some kind of social life beyond my isolated desk chair at the risk of losing touch with the substance and beauty of the outside world.

Yesterday I took a walk in the sun, absorbing as much natural vitamin D as possible before winter closes in and really locks us indoors, and it felt indulgent and freeing and human in a centring kind of way.

I think that is what I'm re-learning this week. There is a balance of work and rest in life and we're called to both. Investing in work and detail is essential to finding purpose and meaning in life, but when that work:rest ratio becomes distorted, so do you. So does perspective. You will feel it when something inside feels a little bit shaky and restless and your thoughts start to circle and tighten up like they are being squeezed into a space that is a size too small. You'll feel it when the knots in your neck remind you that you've been staring at your computer screen for too many hours in succession without a break. You'll feel it when something about the day starts feeling stale or blunted, as if you've overstayed your welcome.

We know this, but we all need a reminder, too, now and then. We can't continue to produce high-quality output without investing in rich and fulfilling input. This is a lesson I've had to re-learn multiple times over. Somehow, I always forget.

A friend called me yesterday: a friend I haven't seen or spoken to in far too long. I had been working all day, sunk in details and resume building and thinking too much about myself, when my phone rang unexpectedly. I was pleasantly surprised and I picked it up and we had a simple, honest conversation. We were filling moments rather than letting them slip past, unnoticed. Redeeming time. It was like a breath of fresh air. When the conversation ended and I turned back to my work, I had a fresh vision and a little more energy to run on.

So, when you get to that stuck, stale place, go take the occasional walk in the sun or talk to a person or water a plant. Read something that isn't required or play a musical instrument and don't forget to laugh about nothing sometimes.

Remember that mindlessly looking at your phone or scrolling through Facebook or whatever probably isn't the best way to re-charge. Yes, it isn't work, but it isn't actual life, either. We reclaim and refill through experience and brushing up against what is real and true and substantial, not by tapping glass or gazing at a screen. What will probably fill you more is engaging with life, somehow. Aim for active, not passive. Tap into an emotion other than stress or seriousness. Massage some of those knots out of your neck.

I was talking to another friend today about how physical space and mental space are so easily intertwined. In school, it is easy to get stuck in my room all day long: studying all day, and then sleeping. We were talking about how we want our rooms to be places to go back to, places that indicate rest rather than all the work we've done that day. To separate work and rest in our minds, we need to separate work and rest in our physical spaces. For me, this means finding other places to work during the day, to avoid holing up in my room for hours on end, and let it be a place to unwind and shift away from assignments and rubrics and required reading.

I'm still learning how to keep my work:rest ratio in check. I'm still a little more stressed than I'd like to be and sometimes I forget to stop being so serious, so concerned, so self-focused, and to look outward more often. It is coming, though. The more I remind myself, the more I remember, and, slowly, I steal back my time.

.002 Creating Space

It has become a routine, now, that a friend and I meet in the chapel three mornings a week to pray.

Eight-thirty. The sun rests at the optimal height to stream through the stained glass windows, throwing colour all over the carpet where we sit.

We sit down, maybe read some scripture, share some joys or worries we're experiencing, and then we end off with prayer. This whole process takes all of twenty minutes, but it shifts the entire tone of the day.

The reason we began doing this stemmed from a conversation about carrying our faith over into university and how to live it out practically. There are choices, time constraints, assignments, voices telling us who we should be and how we should conduct ourselves, and other noise to wade through daily, constantly, and in the juggle and balance of it all it is easy to let faith blend into the din. It is easy to become distracted by all these other things to the point where priorities and perspective warp and prayer becomes an afterthought.

I've made a conscious effort this semester to be responsible with my time. First year I went to bed late and slept in late. I procrastinated too much and chose social activities over work priorities more often than I should have. This year, I wanted something different. I wanted to use my time and resources well. Part of this decision included intentionally and consistently getting up earlier, and this morning chapel prayer offered a meaningful reason to do that.

It is one thing to pray on your own, but praying together is enriching in an entirely different way. Faith is a journey, and not one to stumble through alone. These morning prayer sessions are a connection point, a crossover of two journeys and a way to acknowledge that we're walking together; we're not in this alone. We pray for each other and people we know and we wrestle with the question of how to live with purpose and mission where we are here as students.

This "lesson" really is a journey of creating space. Carving out time to be still and connect in a meaningful way, even if it is for only twenty minutes, or ten, changes me in subtle, small ways that stack up into bigger change. I find myself a little more focused, a little more hopeful, a little more peaceful, a little more content, and slowly my perspective shifts.

There is really no planned structure to this morning prayer and the time length varies, but it allows for a kind of inner breathing room and an openness with another person. We share hopes and worries and truth and we learn through this process. We've learned that sometimes God says "no" to things we think are good for us and opens other, different doors for us to explore. We've learned that sometimes finding God's will looks a lot more like taking a step in faith than searching for banners in the sky.

So in answering this question of how to live with purpose as a student, I'm learning that one of the starting points is how I view and capture my time. I have influence over how I fill it, whether that be the specific task or activity I engage in, or simply the attitude I walk in with. Time is my canvas and this purpose is found in how I choose to colour it in.

The World Isn't as Bad as You Think .001

School has started and I'm venturing into another four month stretch of study. Normally I'm all wrapped up in the newness, squinting at the blank slate with so many plans of how to fill it.

This year, though, I'm strangely indifferent. I'm in a bit of a "been here, done that" mental state and excelling academically isn't my driving goal. Another term, another essay, another assignment: they blur together into numbers and lately I've been thinking of new questions. I'm scratching out some of my lists and reorganizing some of my priorities.

How do I live with purpose as a student?

I know that I live as my best self when I'm serving or caring for other people. In that place, my motivation is sharpened and I live with more meaning and intention. As a student, though, it is easy to slip into the rut of routine and due dates and hashing through abstract questions in stuffy classrooms.

I know I'm investing in my future and I enjoy what I study, but I need more than that to fill my days. I need something to spark my imagination and challenge me to grow and offer meaning in a place beyond myself.

How do I get there?

My challenge to myself this semester is to live with intention and awareness. There are so many creative ways to extract meaning from the day. I want to use this space more often in that process of untangling.

One of my broad goals this semester is to legitimately learn something new, if not every day, then at least every week. This could be classroom learning or life learning, but I want to open my definition of education and glean as much out of this university experience as I can.

Maybe I'm making assumptions, but this exercise shouldn't be difficult. Often it is just the practice of noticing and naming something that pulls it up from slipping between the cracks and often that is enough to tilt perspective or refresh vision or offer purpose to an otherwise empty or flat day.

Lesson .001

Last week I was running to class and uncharacteristically stopped at a bulletin board to skim over the explosion of papers stapled haphazardly all over the wall. I moved one piece of paper and found this note hiding underneath.

It caught my attention and I smiled. Sometimes the very truth we need to hear is stapled to a bulletin board and we rush past it because we're locked in on time and responsibility, or we're too focused on the crazy mass of advertisements and other notices vying for our attention to see the honest humanity of a scribbled note.

The world isn't as bad as you think. Collect those bright spots in your days, in your weeks, and cling to them like treasure. Yes, the world can be a dark and scary place. Yes, the world can wring your heart and leave you with wounds and questions, but there is beauty and good as well. There is meaning to be found. The more I learn, the more I find that this is a truth. The more I learn, the more I understand that this truth is often difficult to find.

However, sometimes all I need to do is stop for a minute and look at a bulletin board.

The Pinch Space

After an extended writing hiatus, I've finally returned to this space a few months older and maybe (debatably) a little wiser. Summer had its own lessons to teach me, and they may slide their way into this place when I've had the time and distance to untangle it all.

Right now I'm standing on the threshold of a new season: that vaguely foggy, uncomfortable middle gap that collects time and I always get a little restless in this place. I'd rather not let go of the old seasons I walk though. I'm the one who, once that ship has sailed, stands on the dock and watches until it disappears beyond the horizon and then I wait a little longer still, just in case a wave might raise it up for one last glimpse. In this case, I'm shifting from summer and work back into university for my second year.

It might be the period of life I'm in, but I'm a bit of a nomad. I feel as though I'm always living out of a suitcase, flipping between homes and cultures and communities and as much as I love it, the uprooting never fails to pinch, somehow. That pinch, though, is becoming more familiar and less scary as our paths cross more frequently. It is almost an acquaintance to me at this point. We meet again.

I guess I appreciate that pinch, in a way. It reminds me to be thankful for what I've been blessed with in the seasons passed, and it forces me to look ahead with a sense of adventure and a perspective of possibility.

I've also found a bit of a rhythm, or a strategy, if you will, for surviving the transitional period:

• In my world, there is nothing that spinach can't fix: Or kale. Or pears. Or peppers. Essentially: eat as healthy as possible. I want to eat all the ice cream in the world when I feel a bit adrift, and sometimes I do, but I know that I feel infinitely better when I eat healthy and take care of myself. That is just motherly advice from me to you.

• Resting space: I'm beginning to see this middle space as more of a gift and an opportunity to reflect and gather myself before diving into my next season. As chaotic as it may be, I take it as a chance to fill myself in small ways. I listen to really good music, pray, read my favourite books, write, bake, etc.

• Look foreword: Personally, I always need a goal or a challenge in life to work toward, or my motivation and demeanour will flatline. The pinch space is always a place where I set some new goals, pick out some new things to get excited about, dream a little. I always pray about these things, but part of the process usually involves lists and Pinterest, on occasion.

• Talk: Sometimes an honest conversation or two with a wise person can be the most healing medicine. Conversation has a way of kneading out little fears or insecurities I didn't even know I carried, and speaking those into open air, to another person with doubts and worries just as human as my own, has a habit of dissolving their weightiness. Tea also helps this process.

• Debrief: I try to extract as much meaning out of life as I can. When a season ends, I usually look back on it and try to nail down what I learned, how I grew, or mistakes I made. I also try to carry that gained experience into my next phase of life in order to apply it in a new context. The pinch space is where I sort out some of those lessons and ask questions about myself, life, God, relationships. Some questions have answers and some remain open ended. Those open ended kind are the ones I carry with me into the next season to view in a different light, and they are often the questions that shape me the most.

Rather than idle time, I'm learning to view the pinch space as a bridge or a connection. It is a gift I can use to collect myself, to transition into a new season with a clearer vision of where I came from and where I am going. It is a season in itself, and it can teach me and shape me and possibly heal me as well, if I allow it to. I'm learning to use it, to say thank-you for it, and to appreciate the unlikely gifts it can give me.

Thank goodness for the pinch space.