pajama day (and other mortifying memories of a thirteen year old girl.)

one step forward, two steps back.

just when i think i have turned a new page, the old feelings, the old ways, the anxiety and nervousness find their way back inside me. and i am thirteen all over again.

like that time when it was "CRAZY week" in Junior High school (Pajama Day to be specific) and I did not have the courage wear real pajamas. So I wore sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt instead, just in case. That way if it turned out that it wasn't cool to wear pajamas, maybe my outfit could be pulled off as just being "casual" and no one would really notice. And if, on the other hand, it was cool to wear pajamas, they could be put in that category too. Either way, I was safe.

When I got to school, the first thing I noticed was that the coolest girl- Whitney Cooper- was wearing real pajamas. Baggy pajama pants with pink clouds on them, puffy slippers, and a matching sweatshirt. and all the other cool girls were wearing pajamas too, together. dangit! my halfway pajama outfit did not cut it.

Then i went to Social Studies class, and our teacher, Ms. Henderson, said that she would give extra credit points to the students who wore pajamas that day. She looked at my friend Sara and me (apparently Sara had the same insecurities that I did, since we were wearing similar outfits- in fact, we may have collaborated on our idea the night before) and said, "Well, I can't tell if you girls are really wearing pajamas, so I don't think you qualify for the extra credit points." I was mortified. She said it in front of the whole class. And i felt so embarrassed.

The next day, it was "Backwards Day." This time, I thought, FOR SURE, i'll get it right. So I put on my overalls backwards (with one strap undone, of course), and even came up with the creative idea to wear a bun on the front side of my head instead of on the back. My rationale was that, since, obviously, wearing real pajamas was the "cool" thing to do the day before, I would be super cool and go all out for "Backwards Day." So my dad dropped me off at the school parking lot, and the first thing I heard when I stepped on campus was this group of teenagers laughing to themselves, making comments, and looking at me. I didn't know who they were, but none of them were wearing backwards clothes. I remember I bolted straight to the bathroom, shook out my hair and switched my overalls around, and then tried to walk out acting like I didn't notice, when really, I felt completely mortified at myself. again.

I look back at this memory and laugh. I tried so hard. SO HARD. This beautiful, thirteen year old girl, that I have come to love; for her bravery, her kindness, the gentle and sweet way about her. Her courage to speak up when things were not right. Her creativity and wackiness and enthusiasm for life. Her heart for animals and people. Her strong convictions and desire to help. This girl is special, and I love her to death. And she is still inside me, making herself known in awkward and spontaneous ways, even at times when I would prefer that the grown up, more confident "me" would put her best face forward.

But things are different now. For the first time in my life, i am beginning to welcome her. to love her. to be kind and caring towards her. this young girl does not deserve to be shamed any longer. she never did. and i am making the choice to never do that to her again.

When I think back to this story, and remember other equally mortifying moments that occurred during those fragile teenage years; when hair was beginning to grow in awkward places, when pimples began rearing their ugly heads, and limbs and bumps awkwardly began spurting out everywhere, i laugh and i love. i feel the pain and the devastation, and i cry. and i grow to care for, and even like, this thirteen year old girl inside me. and this four year old girl. and this twenty-seven year old woman that is still learning. progressing and regressing. one day at a time.

among the trees

I was told that Mary Oliver, during one of her poetry readings, was asked the question about what she thought about kissing on a first date. She, a 75 year old woman, responded, "Why wait till the first date?" i love it her sassiness, and her writings. this poem brings delight, and simply moves me.

among the trees

when i am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

i would almost say that they save me, and daily.

i am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which i have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, "stay awhile."

the light flows from their branches.

and they call again, "its simple," they say,

"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

Mary Oliver

tired.

yes, i feel tired. i am tired of praying - my words feel so old. tired of picking up my Bible and reading - it feels heavy in my hands. where do i start? these words are familiar, i have read them before. there is no mystery here- i have this god figured out.

tired of Christian radio and emotionally-charged music and sermons on CD and Christian "self-help" books; of "Becoming a Contagious Christian" and "making friends" in order to convert them. tired of fear-based religion- fear of sex; fear of alcohol; fear of dancing. and i love to dance. fear of the "other," of the "gray" areas in life, where things are messy and not as clear-cut as "black and white."

tired of One-year Bible reading tracks and programs with acronyms like "H-E-A-R-T" that are meant to lead us to the "goal," whatever that is.

i am. so. tired.

and yet, there is this longing. i don't know what it is, and i can't figure it out. but when i settle down and sit quiet, long enough to listen, i can feel it. i don't know what to do with it or where to go. and i weep.

i am at a loss for words. i don't know what to ask for, or what to say. my hands feel limp, and my body is numb. i am at the end of my rope, hanging on by a thread, and tired. longing for what? i don't know. maybe something "other" than me.