So on my morning facebook sojourn, I stumbled across this article (through a friend of a friend?):
11 things to know at 25ish
I found it thoughtful, wise, and generally good down-to-earth advice. Especially since I am doing nearly all of the things on it. :)
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
extravagance
Sometimes it's tough being a poor grad student. Today I heard about Canucks tickets being scalped for less than a thousand dollars as a *decrease* and I sighed...that's two months of rent. Or several months of groceries. How on earth can someone justify such extravagance?
Then I place my own life up for sale.
My life includes a a roof over my head--a roof that shelters me and many others in an expensive Vancouver neighborhood. It's my own room with a warm bed, donated flowering plant and stupendous view of North Van across the water. It's a shared kitchen where we talk about the day, envy other people's good cooking, and sometimes people leave out cookies on the free board.
My life includes food to eat; professional medical care (physical and psychological); a cheap bus pass and reliable public transportation system; a bike to ride; the advent of summer after an endless rainy spring.
My life includes learning ideas that are not mere abstract concepts, but breathing wisdoms to be inhabited and worn to change the world. It's the classes at Regent, the public lectures, the movies shown, the prayer retreats, the conversations in the atrium. It's chapel and singing songs and taking communion together.
And my life includes people. It's the crowd that assembles for community meals on Wednesday nights and it's Davi serenading the house with hymns and praise songs. It's the folks I'm planning to live with next fall. It's the kindly couple who sit in front of me at church. It's spot prawn dinners and hockey-watching with friends. It's the brilliance and kindness of my peers in class. It's the pastoral care, advice, teaching and lived life of Regent faculty and staff. It's exchanging letters and emails with dear friends from far away; it's being able to go home and spend time with my family. It's the gift of a new but beloved relationship.
How on earth can someone justify such extravagance, indeed.
Then I place my own life up for sale.
My life includes a a roof over my head--a roof that shelters me and many others in an expensive Vancouver neighborhood. It's my own room with a warm bed, donated flowering plant and stupendous view of North Van across the water. It's a shared kitchen where we talk about the day, envy other people's good cooking, and sometimes people leave out cookies on the free board.
My life includes food to eat; professional medical care (physical and psychological); a cheap bus pass and reliable public transportation system; a bike to ride; the advent of summer after an endless rainy spring.
My life includes learning ideas that are not mere abstract concepts, but breathing wisdoms to be inhabited and worn to change the world. It's the classes at Regent, the public lectures, the movies shown, the prayer retreats, the conversations in the atrium. It's chapel and singing songs and taking communion together.
And my life includes people. It's the crowd that assembles for community meals on Wednesday nights and it's Davi serenading the house with hymns and praise songs. It's the folks I'm planning to live with next fall. It's the kindly couple who sit in front of me at church. It's spot prawn dinners and hockey-watching with friends. It's the brilliance and kindness of my peers in class. It's the pastoral care, advice, teaching and lived life of Regent faculty and staff. It's exchanging letters and emails with dear friends from far away; it's being able to go home and spend time with my family. It's the gift of a new but beloved relationship.
How on earth can someone justify such extravagance, indeed.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
revisiting Christian imagination
One of the classes I took this past term was "The Christian Imagination," which seeks to be an exploration of the arts, theology, and what the two have to say to each other. While reading through some old journal entries last night, I found the following insight, which struck me again as important for both artists and theologians.
"It's not about you, the artist, but the creation itself and the people whom it is serving."
This became a growing conviction of mine throughout the course--that art should not be the work of one autonomous individual but must exist in the context of a community's life.
"It's not about Marja, but the act of teaching and her students."
Marja, the founder of the school where I worked last year, is indeed a saint, for the very reason that she deflects all attention from herself to the more important work of teaching, and students.
"It's not about Father Dunstan but his art and its service to the abbey."
One of the artists we visited as part of the course was Father Dunstan--who "gave up" a career as a professional artist to become a monk--and has continued to be an artist in the service of his community.
"So my own project shouldn't be about me, the artist, but the work and who I'm trying to serve."
I didn't consciously remember this when I formulated my final project for the class, but as it turned out, the bulk of my project was teaching people to dance--serving the art and the class community.
"Pastor's sermons, then, first and foremost, should be an act of Christian imagination."
Serving the word, the congregation.
"It's not about you, the artist, but the creation itself and the people whom it is serving."
This became a growing conviction of mine throughout the course--that art should not be the work of one autonomous individual but must exist in the context of a community's life.
"It's not about Marja, but the act of teaching and her students."
Marja, the founder of the school where I worked last year, is indeed a saint, for the very reason that she deflects all attention from herself to the more important work of teaching, and students.
"It's not about Father Dunstan but his art and its service to the abbey."
One of the artists we visited as part of the course was Father Dunstan--who "gave up" a career as a professional artist to become a monk--and has continued to be an artist in the service of his community.
"So my own project shouldn't be about me, the artist, but the work and who I'm trying to serve."
I didn't consciously remember this when I formulated my final project for the class, but as it turned out, the bulk of my project was teaching people to dance--serving the art and the class community.
"Pastor's sermons, then, first and foremost, should be an act of Christian imagination."
Serving the word, the congregation.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
victorian novels and vancouver spring
So the theme of the week (being performed with varying amounts of gusto) is waiting.
- Variation one: Vancouver spring
Everyone, without exception, has been saying this is the coldest, wettest, latest, most miserable spring in ages. And we keep saying it, over and over, because summer keeps not arriving. The momentous occasion of a few weeks ago is sadly becoming a distant memory.
But we wait. Summer IS coming (and is apparently going to be a scorcher when it comes). Wait, wait wait.
- Variation two: Victorian novels
I just finished reading North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell, for Mapping Gender, one of the courses I'm auditing this spring. I wonder sometimes if the reading energy of my youth has been permanently damaged by my now five years of post-secondary education--I now find it more difficult to really sink my teeth into a novel and become completely absorbed. Especially when said novel is Victorian, and thus contains a) at least a few descriptions that cause me to roll my eyes and b) a plot that moves at the speed of molasses.
Of course, that's what I would have said three days ago, when I was stuck around the halfway point of North and South. I was starting to see major themes developed and kicked around, the tension between the two main characters was building, and I just couldn't seem to plow forward. It took a moment of stepping back, realizing that I was perhaps more engaged with the characters than I would like to admit--and then charging forward with the leap of faith that if I read the book straight through to the end, it would somehow be good.
The amazing thing--it was. I had forgotten that the slow development of plot at the beginning of the book means that once you move past halfway, things began to happen with a kind of tragic inevitability--you KNOW what's going to happen (mostly) and yet you can't stop reading because you can't wait to see it happen before your very eyes. There's something very satisfying as the whole tale sweeps together loose ends in a way that is both painful (people die, hearts are broken) and joyful (redemption occurs! relationships are made!).
So note to self: Victorian novels require waiting. Sometimes even waiting past the midway point. But you read through the beginning, even savor it, waiting for the great conclusion that you know is coming. Perhaps this philosophy will finally get me past the first 300 pages of Middlemarch until the end.
- Variation one: Vancouver spring
Everyone, without exception, has been saying this is the coldest, wettest, latest, most miserable spring in ages. And we keep saying it, over and over, because summer keeps not arriving. The momentous occasion of a few weeks ago is sadly becoming a distant memory.
But we wait. Summer IS coming (and is apparently going to be a scorcher when it comes). Wait, wait wait.
- Variation two: Victorian novels
I just finished reading North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell, for Mapping Gender, one of the courses I'm auditing this spring. I wonder sometimes if the reading energy of my youth has been permanently damaged by my now five years of post-secondary education--I now find it more difficult to really sink my teeth into a novel and become completely absorbed. Especially when said novel is Victorian, and thus contains a) at least a few descriptions that cause me to roll my eyes and b) a plot that moves at the speed of molasses.
Of course, that's what I would have said three days ago, when I was stuck around the halfway point of North and South. I was starting to see major themes developed and kicked around, the tension between the two main characters was building, and I just couldn't seem to plow forward. It took a moment of stepping back, realizing that I was perhaps more engaged with the characters than I would like to admit--and then charging forward with the leap of faith that if I read the book straight through to the end, it would somehow be good.
The amazing thing--it was. I had forgotten that the slow development of plot at the beginning of the book means that once you move past halfway, things began to happen with a kind of tragic inevitability--you KNOW what's going to happen (mostly) and yet you can't stop reading because you can't wait to see it happen before your very eyes. There's something very satisfying as the whole tale sweeps together loose ends in a way that is both painful (people die, hearts are broken) and joyful (redemption occurs! relationships are made!).
So note to self: Victorian novels require waiting. Sometimes even waiting past the midway point. But you read through the beginning, even savor it, waiting for the great conclusion that you know is coming. Perhaps this philosophy will finally get me past the first 300 pages of Middlemarch until the end.
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