The Mouse That Roared

I’m not sure why I haven’t written. It’s not like nothing’s happened- and yet, it seems like nothing has.

I’m in my second-to-last quarter of college now. I graduate in less than six months. Isn’t that crazy? I mean, it’s it just mind-blowing? The sum of sixteen years’ worth of work, all coming down to this last stretch, this last sprint towards… another race. From a 5k into a marathon.

I’m beginning to get nervous. I mean, I’ve lived in this bubble for so long. This is safe, this is what I know. And now I’m about to be pushed out of that; it’s almost like a rebirth of sorts. I’m leaving the womb. Oh goodness, how’s that for dramatic?

But in all seriousness- what’s a girl to do? Find a job, like normal people do. I’m flirting with the idea of returning to Paris, but God and I have an understanding. If I win Jeopardy! and can pay off my student loans, then I’ll go again. It doesn’t take a lot of convincing, but there are always material limitations to just about everything.

I’ve been looking at jobs here, too. Here being in the States, and not in Paris. Here really meaning there, in New York or Boston. Cincinnati has grown too small for me- the ceilings are too low, the space too confining. What I miss about Paris is the potential. I need to breath that again.

Oh, I want to live. I want to really live, to be Vibrant. I have dreams that are more like feelings; nothing concrete, but something to aspire to all the same. To be warm, welcoming, successful, creative, expressive, Parisian, beautiful, wise, womanly, strong, independent, self-actualized, published, delicate, styled, poised, charming, modest, terrifying, exciting.

I just finished a rough story arc. It’s the first time I’ve ever completed something. The first time that all of the pieces of ideas that come to me have fit together in a way that makes sense, a way that I can follow. It’s a simple story- maybe predictable, but I don’t think so. But I’m proud of it, I’m proud of myself, and I want to put flesh and blood and nerve to these bones.

Oh I want so very much. And I don’t think it’s impossible to garner. I don’t want to fear failure, but I can’t help it. What if it’s all in vain? I can’t help but wonder. What if the past four years and the $20,000 isn’t worth it in the end?

But it will be. It must be.

I’ve been thinking about perspective a lot, lately.

I feel like children can see more than adults do- that they are willing to see more- yet everything must fall into place. There are good men and bad men- there are good dragons and bad dragons. Good and evil, black and white, all make so very much sense to a child.

Adults, I feel, can see less than children, but with a greater degree of variance. The moral nuances of situations are clearer; one can do bad things with good intentions, one can do good things for evil intent. But we have lost the ability to see more than what is put in front of us, than what reality tells us is present and alive or dead but real.

In middle school, I was the girl who righteously fought the 8th grade science teacher (the late Mr. Gladwell) concerning the prospect of evolution. Now, in my defense, he did say (and I do remember this because we all know the scary memory I have), “Anyone who does not believe in evolution is wrong” and absolutes like that don’t exist even (and especially) in science. But I’m willing to admit that, as a child, there were only two ways of looking at things. In this case, either God made the world or lightning did. And the passionate, untempered beliefs of my youth said that only God could have done it, in six days, six real days, and that was that, and I would martyr myself in front of the school for that cause (have I also mentioned how dramatic I was back then?).

Now, eight years later, I am taking Biology 104, a study of the origins of the earth and all life forms. And I won’t go as far as to say that my beliefs are being put into question- I know who I am and I know who made me- but it does open doors for nuance.

See, what I’m learning, both in Biology and Crazy Lady Class (when she’s not talking about aliens and space dust) makes sense. And I am so very, very grateful that I am in a place that teaches me new things, and to have a mind that has been opened by those around me. And yet, the more I learn, the more I have to believe that none of it was chance. That the earth’s distance from the sun, the tilt of the axis, the strength of the magnetic field and the chemical composition cannot all be at random. How could it, when I sit in a classroom, drinking Starbucks and learning about the origins of the earth from a professor and a computer and a projection screen, at a University that has been around for almost 200 years, when the people around me have thoughts and talents and dreams and hungers?

And yet, it still makes sense.

And so, I have to figure out how it all works together.

We learned today about how the early hominids who ate meat likely helped in their own evolutionary branch, since the protein in the meat may have helped with the development of the brain, leading to larger brain size and more capable thought. And yet, in Genesis, it is not until after Noah and the Flood that it says men began to eat meat.

Perhaps our Adam and Eve were not pale skinned, smooth-haired beauties who looked just like us, but rather hunched and hairy, with thick foreheads and strong jaws. Perhaps God, while making us in his image, left room for us to change and grow as his earth changed and grew. He’s smart- He would know to do that.

I love the thought of faith like a child, and that faith helps to keep us like children. Not in a governed, dependent way. But one that speaks of unbridled love, a willingness to believe in the fantastic, and a hope for happily ever afters.

I miss a place where the possibilities are endless. Wheere there is always opportunity for beauty, growth and wonder.
How can we move a sapling from the greenhouse to the forest, and let her feel the vastness of it all… and then force her back into that tiny glass room?

Maybe this is why I like change and Christmas so much.

Restless. Anxious. Trapped in a place that’s too small for me.

Note to self:

Pretending like things don’t exist does not make them go away.

Just another dreary day in Paris.

We’ve had horrible weather lately. Well, not horrible, but it went from pleasantly warm and sunny to all of a sudden severely overcast, cold, and windy. I detest the wind. Today it seems like the sun is making a brief cameo every now and then. Today, I’m going to try to get out to the Louvre and take myself on a tour, and I’ll probably take a walk on the Seine. I’ve got a whole list of things to do before I leave, and I head home in 19 days. I’ll be spending six of those in Denmark with family (yay!), so it’s like… Parisian Crunch Time.

I am happy to be coming home soon. To be back among people who love me- it’s hard to be away from them. And I’ll cease being a constant drain on my parents, poor souls. I really do detest feeling quite helpless and quite lump-like. Oh, to have a job and to make money! Sounds blissful, doesn’t it? I’ve applied to a few places already, but it’s hard, with being on a different continent and all. When I get back, I’ve plans to troop around and see if I can find something. There’s a lot of stuff within bussing distance, and while it’s not so glamorous, I’ve taken the Metro enough now to know that public transportation is a nuissance at times, yes, but useful.

Nineteen days. I hope I can surive for so long. Luckily, parents are (and I say this with the full knowledge that one of them may read this) wonderful things, for taking care of me when I don’t rightly deserve it. There are a lot of things I wish I could go back and do differently. That is, a lot of things I wish I would have known before I came, a lot of lessons I wish I had learned before hand. I don’t much care if learning is all part of the experience; there are some parts of the experience I wish I could have done without.

But I’ll make it through. Somehow. The only thing that really worries me is that cell phone bill that’ll be coming up soon. How does it happen that things happen, things that are inevitable and not really altogther quite my fault, things that are necessary and just unavoidable, and yet the innocent (me) have to pay the consequences for them? I know. That sounds horribly immature, and any other person over the age of 17 is probably reading and snickering. But it’s the truth. It’s a rather unfair question. 

I am the starving artist of Paris.

Written Monday, dans le Jardin du Luxembourg:

I find myself in this jardin again. The daffodils have faded as summer continues to move her army of sunshine northwards, towards this soulmate of a city. On my way, I bought gelato from the small Italian cafe near the gates to my garden. It helps me to blend in among the children as they kick a ball, build castles in the dirt, and run amok on the playground. I walked past the crowds of old men playing bocce ball, the browning teenagers around the fountain of the Medicis and all the French queens that surround it. I was on a search for mimes- the fliers told me they would be here- but I couldn’t find them through the melodic silence of the birdsong and childsong.

What will I do without this place? What will I do without this hotbed of poetic impulse, this nest of elegance and beauty, this place of amber and emeralds, this living museum?

People gather amongst the tables of the anonymous cafe. Lovers stroll. Lifelong amies sit and chatter in the shade. The wind stirs petals from the trees. And I long for a friend- I’ve saved the seat beside me for you.

Paris is not a city where one is meant to be alone. It’s very nature inspires love. It’s very purpose is to bring our pre-ordained souls together. But she is not so unkind as to forget the violets among the tall trees. If we’ve no companion of our own, she assists us in the creation of dreams, which will never leave and never die. Dreams of the stories we might write, and the stories we might live. Ideas of who we might be if we really did try our best, and the hopes of what might happen if we could find someone to love us just as we are. She reminds us of heaven, and drives off the loneliness of hell. She makes me want to be better than I am, and I pray she will never change.

I know I should write about my trip, I do, but I don’t much feel like it at this moment. I’d rather write about something else.

Fashion

But in a good way. In that, it’s something French women definitely get right. I’m sure that’s not surprising, but I’m not talking about haut couture and the Champs. Because while all of that is nice, I really want to focus on the attitude. The air.

I absolutely adore how French women dress, and believe me, I’m trying my best to fit in. I’m wearing a navy blue dress right now as I type this, that I wore all of today with red and white striped peep-toe flats. Not that what I wear should be all that interesting if I don’t have l’air.

I love how French women aren’t afraid to be feminine. In the United States, a young woman wears a skirt or dress and people ask whom or what she’s dressing up for. I think we’re afraid of being feminine, that no one will take us seriously. Which very well may be true.

In France, women make 80 cents to the euro that men make.

However, in the United States, it’s 69 cents to every dollar that a man makes for the same education level, ten years out of college.

French women aren’t afraid to be feminine, and they’re refreshingly modest about it. Most skirts here touch the knee or just about. Plunging v-necks aren’t all that common. While in the United States, young women wear mini-skirts no wider than the length of a hand, and cleavage abounds like none other.

Femininity is something to be embraced. In the way we act, yes, grace, femininity and modesty are to be prized and sought after. But shouldn’t they also be in the way we dress? What’s wrong with skirts and dresses? It doesn’t make me any less independent, any less intelligent or useful to society.

Sometimes I think the most unliberated women are the ones who are so defensive, so angry at men and society, who think that men and women are truly “the same.” Equal in all manners of political, civil, cultural, economic and social rights, yes. But the same? Hardly. Why are we so afraid of being women? And isn’t it disrespectful to the rest of our sex to think that we are all “the same?” Isn’t it strange to want to be considered the same as a man, when really, women have a beauty, a grace, an elegance and a mystery all our own, created to be a perfect complement to the ways and practices of a man?

A while back, on Roger Sutton’s blog (see right- he’s the editor of a children’s literature publication called the Hornbook), he had a discussion on stories about girls dressing as boys. The general idea was that there are very few stories where girls are heroines through girlish activities- that, for a girl to be a hero, she must cast off her feminine tendancies and adopt a male persona to succeed. There are a plethora of books about girls dressing as boys and becoming heroes; and how many stories are there about boys dressing as girls to save the day? I certainly can’t think of one. And if there are any stories about boys dressing as girls, one can be sure that it’s a less than honorable thing to do.

And then, I suppose I need to find that balance where I can allow my feminine side to grow, while still pursuing that adventuresome spirit that I’ve been given. And I’ll admit, in my own progressing story, the heroine is a girl who is forced to participate in some traditional “manly” roles; she witnesses battle, defeats an evil lord, steps up and takes life (if you’ll excuse the phrase) by the balls when the men around her simply won’t. But I’m striving my hardest to keep her feminine, to allow her to explore that side of herself in the same way that I want to. Lord forbid she turns up horribly asexual.

Anyway. I suppose the point of this post is to say, Go Ladies! Ladies. Embrace modesty, grace, gentleness. Life isn’t a war. It only turns out that way when we make it as such.

I suppose I should write about my trip, but I don’t want to. It didn’t exactly go as planned, and now I’m… now I don’t know what to do with myself.

I just don’t know what to do with myself.

My voyage, on the whole, was stressful and caused much hair to be broken and pulled. I have deep feelings that say I should have known better, that spending so much money was a mistake. That now I have no one to blame but me for my own extreme lack of funds. I’m embarrassed to ask my parents for money, though I know they give me what they can.

I’m tired of this trip being dotted with instances that I would rather do over again. Where has my judgment gone, and did I really have any to begin with?

In other news, rumor has it that the terror alert level in France is scarlet. That’s the highest it can go. That’s just rumor, though- I haven’t been able to find anything on BBC, CNN, MSNBC, or anything else, not even the French Prime Minister’s website or the US Travel Department. It has something to do with a bombing in Algeria some days earlier- I really have no idea as to what is going on in the news right now.

Aside from that one thing. But I’m ashamed of the media, so I’ll not talk about it.

To sum up, this has been a rather depressing post, and I will probably spend the rest of my time in France huddled in a corner, because I’m poor and just wanting to go home.

I don’t want to just want to go home.

Love it.

I’m sorry I haven’t posted very much here lately. I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately. For instance:

Thoughts from the Luxembourg Gardens

It is April second, and I feel as if the world has suddenly burst into song. I am in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and the world has come into being. The trees are blooming and so have the Parisians, who are out in droves. They line the paths, sitting in lovely, though rather uncomfortable green chairs. Every now and again, one must assume there to be a rogue American among the pack. It’s a quiet place, filled with the soft sounds of children playing, people speaking, the sounds of the birds and the falling of sunbeams. It is untouchable- I almost feel as if nothing bad has ever happened here. Somehow, it is already 3:30, and I have class in a half an hour. Where did my time go?

…

I think I may be afraid of falling in love. I’m afraid that I just might not be any good at it. And yet, my mind is begging me to reconsider why this is even a big deal, considering there’s no chance of hurting any feelings, or being missed like that. My mind and my heart war constantly.

…

What am I becoming? What have I allowed myself to fall into, to be tricked into? Call me back, won’t you? Show me that ever elusive balance of culture and Christ. Draw me back to you. Please. I’m desperate without you- I don’t like how my soul feels. I don’t like feeling like a part of me is missing, and I just can’t seem to find it.

…

Today is Good Friday. Today, we acknowledge your death on a cross. But let us not forget that you also rose to life again. And in the same way, let me rise from the ashes of this person whom I have become. Let her die and let the true me be ressurrected. You’ve given me a beautiful place in this world; let me be beautiful enough to belong to it.

I have a hard time dealing with not getting what I want- rejection. You’d think I’d have come to accept it, with all those years spent in theatre. But, no. No, I pretty much always got what I wanted there. And if I didn’t, I got something else and I turned it into what I wanted. It wasn’t hard to do.

I’ve never imagined that there would really be some things that I’m just not able to do, or to achieve. Perhaps that’s the shattering of my American Dream.

It’s not a lesson I want to learn, though. It’s not a lesson that I, honestly, think I should have to learn. Perhaps some of it is pride, or hubris, or whatever you’d like to call it. And I’m not saying that success is something that comes easy to me. I’m fairly mediocre in most things.

Maybe I just haven’t ever really set the bar so high for myself? Is that it? I’m used to getting what I want because I never try for the bigger things? And now, here I am, hoping to God, near tears, that somewhere within the next eight hours I get an email, or a phone call, or something from the States that says, “Yes. You’re good enough. Yes, you’re what we want.” But sadly, I’m beginning to lose hope in it.

But I never, ever thought I wouldn’t get it.

Not getting what you want, really, it stinks. I feel barren. One dream just doesn’t look feasible- so where do I find the next?