Redefining Communication

Are we redefining communication or stifling it?

In an over-communicative world, one has to wonder…have we communicated ourselves right out of something to say? Have we murdered the art of conversation down to abbreviations and symbols that will fit into one text message? While avoiding data-plan overage charges is a thrifty idea indeed, I worry that we may be robbing ourselves of true substance.

In addition to the instantaneous nature of personal communication, we’re suffering from other abbreviated forms of communication as well. If, during the few seconds it takes us to sign into our email accounts, we don’t see a shocking or moving headline scroll; do we even think to read the news? Have we become so accustomed to being spoon-fed that we fail to realize the reward of digging?

Today, I remembered an assignment I had in high school where, for economics class, we were told to keep a close eye on the economic nature of our country. In order to facilitate the important lesson, we were asked to subscribe to the Wall Street Journal. I had to wonder; do students these days get the pleasure of inked fingertips and the smell of the word press? Or, are they in their self-sufficient bedrooms, seated comfortably in front of a glowing screen, hoping to find just enough information to complete their assignment; all the while, attempting to make it look as though they understand the information?

As I scrolled through the homepage of my facebook account today, I found myself debating the pros and cons of this phenomenon. I cannot, even with my closet hippie tendencies exposed, proclaim that this form of communication is all bad. After all, most likely, I will post the link to my blog on facebook as soon as I hit the submit button. The fact that I’m writing in a blog at all is evidence that I too feel the urging for my voice to be heard. But has it cheapened sentiment? Is a “Happy Birthday” or “Congratulations, you’re {insert important life event}!” really the same pumped through facebook for all to see?

As I completed tasks around my apartment this weekend, I became acutely aware of my attachment to my cell phone. I love hearing from those that I hold dear in my life but when I add it up, I am fairly certain that the efficiency of my chores would considerably increase if I wasn’t at the beck and call of a text alert.

And full circle…

Is our society so obsessed with instant communication that we ourselves have single handily held the assault weapon to conversation, unknowingly? Have we advanced so far in the “instant” that when we’re in the presence of others, we’re all tapped out of things to say? After all, how many times have you heard someone (or yourself) say, “Did you read my post on facebook?” only to be answered with, “Oh yeah, that was funny, I can’t believe that happened to you!” I find that these moments are quickly followed by a labored pause and a fleeting thought of “well, there goes that story.” Are we so quick to click on “status update” that we lose the update all together?

Just something to chew on for awhile…

There's good stuff here...

Step back....look around....drink it in.....

I have to confess that the title of the blog is actually a quote from one of my favorite shows. During the spiral down of a once sparkling connection, the man pauses as he walks out the door and says, "There's good stuff here."

I've always been a firm believer that if you were, at one time, truly in love with someone or something or some place, remnants of that force will remain with you always. Pieces will break off as the years roll forward and float into corridors of your mind that may not receive much attention but that person or thing or place will remain loved on some level.

I'm not suffering from a break-up but lately, I have been suffering from a lack of connection with this place that I was once so enamored with that I picked up and moved. Losing sight of the beauty and allowing myself to feel as if everything has gone to shit. Apologies, there's not lady like way to say that particular truth. A version of tunnel vision descended and all I have been able to see is the ugly that the sandy beaches do a darn good job of covering up for the tourists.

The truth is, there is ugly everywhere, if that's what you choose to focus on.

Even in...gasp...my beloved home state, Indiana. The emotional connection I have with so many that still live there is what allows me to think of Indiana as this magical place where everyone is kind, everyone can be trusted and no one ever flakes out on you.

I have read a few articles lately about transitioning from where you grew up to a far away land that you chose to move to. I have particularly focused on articles that chronicled the experience of those that chose to do that "alone" or as a single little one. It seems that the cold, hard facts point to the fact that this type of transition is just plain difficult. It's takes well over a year to establish a sense of home somewhere when you're building from nothing.

Shockingly, contrary to my typical patient nature, I haven't been patient with this process or the people that surround me.

Put the hostility down and step away, Liz. No one is saying that where you grew up isn't awesome. That doesn't mean that Florida can't be awesome too.

3 wishes...

"Everything you have, inside and out, can be stolen from you if you allow it to be."

So much more than material possessions. I like my bed, my computer, my chair, don't get me wrong. But these things are just that....things. What I like even more is my ability to reason and conclude from the information around me. The gift that God has given me to deduce reality in situations and act accordingly. Three truths I came upon this weekend:

1) Cigarette companies and their executives could quite possibly be wealthy (or become so) at the hand of my health and risking of life. A truth that got me through a craving today that was so fierce, I found myself pissed at nothing. But I came out on the other side of the craving, not having puffed away on something that literally has no positive attribute.

2) A week ago, I started to embrace my love of eating at home and treating my body well with "whole foods" again. Nothing fancy or impressive but it hasn't been processed. I have enjoyed both the fiscal savings of not sitting in a circular line around a cookie cutter building for half of my lunch break AND the fact that my body has felt better.

3) My opinion, if true and holistically cultivated by yours truly is not up for debate. When I say I feel something, I am not inviting the verdict as to whether others are functioning in common thought.

And so...my health, emotionally and physically is a blessing that I've been given. It's about darn time I started taking care of both. This process of rebuilding may not be easy but after the year I've had...I'm pretty sure I'm up for anything!

Thank you, Lord, for your blessings and ability to change that which has not been working since June 2010.

Love is a Shelter.....

"Love is a shelter, in a raging storm. Love is peace in the middle of a war."

I absolutely adore the song "Love is Not a Fight" by Warren Barfield. I've loved it ever since I heard it first in the film "Fireproof" and then at my friends' wedding. It's a beautiful song that talks about love being a house that we enter in to, committing to never leave.

For me, it's always spoken to the level of commitment God has to loving us and the commitment he urges us towards in our relationship with Him; obviously, it can be applied to relationships with one another as well.

There's a line from the song that says, "And if we try to leave, may God send angels to guard the door." When I listened to the song tonight, it really struck me that whether life is easy or difficult, whether our days are short and sweet or long and challenging, God calls us to the same level of obedience. He calls us to that level of obedience because He loves us and He knows that we need Him in order to be truly satisfied and at peace in life.

I have continually attempted to challenge this notion, unintentionally. I'm not sure why, exactly but I am sure it comes down to a general feeling of undeserving. Why would God want me to be His child? We all wonder that from time to time because we know how imperfect we are. The beauty is that God began loving us prior to even creating us and that means that He knew exactly how annoyingly rebellious or dreadfully questioning we were going to be. He knew it and yet, He loved us enough to create us and send His son to death for us.

Life is unbelievably beautiful when looking through the lens I have been given as God's child.

Thank you Jesus, for your love and your forgiveness. Someday, we'll laugh about my foolishness....

Throwing darts in the dark....

"Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some under culture but mainly to save themselves, to survive."

An octopus whose tentacles were detached in a tragic accident. A cat whose whiskers were singed off when curiosity got the best of him with that sweet smelling candle.

Writing sustains this little soul and allows me to feel my way through the dark.

Sometime in the last few months, I stopped courting writing, however handsome he was to me at one time. I stopped making him dinner. I stopped telling him how dashing he looked in his smile. I allowed him to whither from lack of attention...from neglect.

Shame on me.

There's a scene from a movie where a woman describes the need for a man in a remote village to create a totem pole. She details his conversations about how the creation of the totem pole allowed him to fill a hole in his heart. She admits that she cried when she saw it, standing tall and carefully carved before her.

A visually artistic bone does not exist within my being. I'd force that realization upon my friends and family by taking art classes and sending my "works" across the country to sit atop mantles but...I love everyone too much for that madness.

My totem pole may not be visually striking but striking it is nonetheless. It is my personal belief that we are not given choices as to those things in life with which we are granted the ability to do with great ease. Writing happens to be a choice I was given.

As I sat mesmerized by a new album I acquired this weekend, I almost felt as if I was sitting in my old bedroom in high school. Hours spent listening to music (some good, thanks to the musical tastes of my family. Some, not so good thanks to youth and idiocy). The lyrics were what grabbed me. The words of someone who I never had the opportunity to meet (I'm holding out for a dinner date, Ben) somehow wiggled and wormed their way into my chest and compressed and released.

I read an article recently where the author purely and simply gave an urging to souls floating who felt as though writing were their insides. He said, "Write for no pay. Spill the guts of who you are onto paper or keyboards whenever you can. Tell your story or the story of others as if someone will one day give a shit. It matters. It all matters. What's floating around in there? It has substance because it is. So write without the paycheck and click clack those heels together the day someone offers you one."

Building totem poles one letter at a time.

Does it really?

" Come on now! No one is a one dimensional piece of art. Everyone is one of those mixed media pieces. You know the kind I'm talking about. Those canvases that have all that shit on them? The ones where you stand there and wonder if you're seeing painted bristles or hair. We're all one of those."

When I heard this quote today, it immediately made me laugh out loud like a crazie in my tiny studio...sound bellowing off the walls and floors at a deafening intensity. It made me laugh because I think we all have moments where we surprise ourselves with our own thoughts. I find myself physically reacting to those thoughts sometimes, as if I am in shock of my own hamster wheel. It's humorous really, when you think about it. That you can know people for years upon years and yet find yourself in a wine-shooting-from-nostril situation as they verbally spew their innards over dinner.

I like knowing that even my own words and actions surprise me at times. It's even more entertaining than being shocked by others. I mean..you kind of expect to be surprised by thoughts that don't originate within your being, you know? If you are able to pull rabbits out of your own hats and find yourself gagging on handkerchiefs you weren't aware you swallowed, that's pretty damn amazing, if you ask me.

I started thinking about things that I was surprised by and came up with a list of five before my attention was grabbed by a Band of Horses song:

5) Even with a degree in hospitality and a love of cooking, I would take a Totino's Party Pizza over any five star spread any day.

4) Sometimes, I crave thunderstorms here like I craved sunshine in Indiana.

3) I don't feel the need to express everything and I'm pretty sure that will stick with me through all the days.

2) I am a sucker for Lloyd Dobler and I'd pretty much melt for a boom box situation, even if it is a little creepy when you really think about it.

1) When people ask me what my favorite music is, I get legitimately stressed out.

"Um...you're real but you hide it well? That didn't make you feel better, did it?"

Looking in from the outside

"Every form of addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol, or morphine or idealism."

It's so easy to let the glasses slip to the end of our slightly turned up noses and judge. When we cannot, for all the thinking and over thinking in the world, wrap up the actions of others into understandable, delectable little packages, our instinct is to judge.

An innate response to that which we cannot understand. Judgement, however prickly and ugly we may know it to be, is fostered in us from birth.

Interestingly enough, judgement can serve us impeccably well in instances where we judge our surroundings or actions as negative and run screaming in the opposite direction. That kind of assumptive thought is an element necessary to survival for which we should be thankful. On the underbelly, however, judgement can scoop us up, grasping directly under our arms, and float us neatly to a resting place atop pedestals for which we are unfit to stand.

I came across this quote when I was reading an article the other day (listed above) and for whatever reason, the matter between my shoulders hasn't been able to release it from the grips. It struck me in a palpable way, this notion that addiction is imbalanced and, in my opinion sad, in whatever form it lives and breaths.

Sometimes, I imagine addiction as a little troll, dwelling right behind the flower patch that's so tempting to stick your nose into and take a deep breath. Just patiently waiting to reach up with grubby little troll hands and replace the flower with poison the minute your eyes close in an attempt to fully appreciate the scent.

However you look at it, whatever your opinion or lack of opinion may be, whether you've spent hours or seconds thinking about addiction, I think we can all agree that addiction is a nasty beast.

The interesting element to addiction is that it robs not only the addict but all those that love and admire that addict, of that person. Losing someone while standing face to face with them is a completely different kind of loss. This tangible loss in indescribable. Watching a person melt before your eyes as if you were indulging in a midnight showing of The Wizard of Oz is an experience that haunts you.

The haunting is strongest when you allow yourself to question not only the motivations of the lost but also the motivations of the remaining. When you begin to investigate the demise from angles scientist everywhere would be proud of and are repeatedly left empty handed, the loss turns on you like a trick mirror in a fun house.

The who-it's and what-it's and why-it's of addiction will always be with me. Grieving the loss of someone who still walks and talks has been an out of body experience from which I am certain I have learned something; yet uncertain of exactly what that lesson may be.

For now...I find myself grateful that I am beginning the process of separating the addiction from the person and accepting sad facts to be sad facts.

Tackling the why-it's? I'll leave that for another day.