the creed.

Right now, I'm sitting in Wood-Mar Auditorium watching my teammates rehearse "The Creed." We're in the theatre space, the place where a young girl arrived in New York in the 1920s to find love, the place where Harlequin watched women change genders to get the men they loved, and the place where three scenes showed broken people trying to put their lives together. This is our space, the only space where those in the theatre feel truly at home. Backstage are flats, leftover set pieces, table saws, ladders and paint cans. And we're adding our own story to this stage. That of the creed.

The first time I saw the George Fox University Players perform "The Apostle's Creed," it was a beautiful tangible explosion of culture and language. Represented was traditional and expressive, Spanish and French, sound language and sign language. It was a celebration of One God, many names; One faith, many tongues; One way, many road signs. The performers layered over one another, voice on top of voice, each saying the ancient words in a different way, creating a cacophony of praise. It was brilliant, in the lighted sense of the word.

And now we're doing our own version for our trip to PNG, with Pidgin and Arabic replacing Spanish and French. Languages we as team members speak, plus languages those we are visiting speak. A fusion. A messy, loud, jumbled confusion, speaking the name of Jesus. And it is the most beautiful sound - perhaps like what God hears at all times: the Creed in every tribe's tongue, even those that don't know his name.

We believe.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

The Apostle's Creed

I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Maker of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:

Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,
born of the virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, dead, and buried;

He descended into hell.

The third day He arose again from the dead;

He ascended into heaven,
and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Ghost;
the holy catholic church;
the communion of saints;
the forgiveness of sins;
the resurrection of the body;
and the life everlasting.

Amen.

it's all about perspective, part 2

Welcome to all of the new people that are reading. Well, if there's anyone that's reading. :) I sent out emails to a great amount of people this weekend. I was ready to invite you on my adventure, because I know I can't do it alone. Be forewarned, though: I'm going to be honest and vulnerable about what I'm thinking, feeling, and experiencing. I might not always be nice; I might not always be excited or happy. But I'm going to try to be real, or as close to that as possible.

After sending out the mass email, I got a beautiful response from someone. Her insight touched me. She said,

"As you wrote about you anxieties the thought that came to my mind was... who really are you writing this project for? Yes, on one hand you are writing for a group of people that will review your work in relation to the grant you received, but on the other hand, may I suggest that as you write to listen to your heart, go with your gut instinct (discerning), write from your heart, for I think when you allow yourself to be vulnerable is when you find Christ and through that blessing are able to bless others and glorify God. This project was impressed upon you for a reason. As I found in reading your blog, when you write from the heart and are vulnerable it is beautiful. I hope somehow this gives you a sense of freedom and encouragement. You are truly a gifted writer. Have fun with it, soak in it, and experience all that you can :=)"

That was just what I needed. I know in my heart that there is a higher purpose for this project, but I never really connected that with my anxiety of authorship. I am writing for the committee, but I'm also writing for myself (that I may remember this experience for the rest of my life), for others (that they may know what I went through), and the God that lives within me (that he might be lifted up through my words, my song of praise). The pressure I'm putting on myself is truly just me putting pressure on myself. It's my fear of the unknown; not just concerning the trip, but also what I will produce from the trip. I can't say, "Well, I plan to write a 10 page segmented essay about this lady with a red bilum that I see at the marketplace." But I have to trust that the images - the people, places, and things - that I see on this trip are put before my eyes for a specific reason. And it is because God knows that he has gifted me with the love of words and the ability to put them together. And he knows that I will do for those images in the best way I know how. That's all I can do, and that will be enough for my true Audience.

it's all about perspective, part 1

This doesn't directly relate to PNG, but I just wanted to write about it. And I'll make it relate in Part 2.

So I've had kind of a horrendous 24 hours. Little things have gone awfully wrong, which made them bigger and badder that they ever should have been. But I've realized in the last hour, that it's all in how you look at things. And I'll give you these examples (bad event --> good outcome):

Yesterday:
--group meeting from Hell --> hard to find anything good from this, but I think I was the rock in the group, which made me more confident in my leadership and interpersonal skills
--going to a Strike at which I wasn't needed --> got to reconnect with some people that I saw daily during Triumph but haven't seen since; also met a few new people
--silent homework party --> got a lot done, and was able to just exist in a room of people whom I love
--up later than I would have liked --> finished reading my book in preparation for my paper

Today:
--had to take nasty medicine (extra to the Typhoid, Malaria) to keep me from getting traveler's diarrhea --> I won't get traveler's diarrhea
--forgot Jessie's coffee at home --> able to go to Fred Meyer to buy a frame that the office needed; also got to bring the coffee to Jess and vent to her (always nice)
--had next-door neighbor/mom look at me with concern when I came around the corner a little too fast --> was reminded that I need to drive slower in my neighborhood, especially in the summer
--spilled coffee on my skirt --> at least it was a brown skirt!
--accidentally insulted Robin Baker, my boss and president of this university --> well, at least he was good-natured about it
--had to call the IRS and be on hold for 15 minutes --> a nice man faxed me my tax transcript and told me that my tax return is coming next week; also got to check my mail and receive a wonderful letter from my wonderful grandma along with some spending money for PNG

See? All things work out for good. And heck, it is the most beautiful day outside. There's no way that I can be annoyed. Though I should, perhaps, be writing a paper...

cast of characters

Just so you know who I'm talking about when I talk about people:

George Fox: the guy our school is named after; mostly I'll use it to refer to the university (also I may use GFU or Fox).

Rhett: director, professor, genius. He lived in PNG as a little boy while his parents were missionaries. This is his first time back in 20 years. I worked with Rhett on the last mainstage production at GFU. Thinker, mastermind, time-oriented, mildly sarcastic.

Jere: executive assistant to the Vice President of Student Life at Fox. She lived in PNG about 15 years ago for a few years with her family. I work with her in the Student Life office, and she is a hoot. Loud, blonde, endlessly funny with a wicked humor and love for animals, travel, and cooking.

Todd: Rhett's dad and the reason we're able to go to PNG. He has quite a few contacts in PNG, and he's there right now, teaching. He's also an adjunct theatre professor at Fox. He loves PNG, loves Pigin, and loves to laugh. Intense like Rhett, he'll be a good help to us while we're there.

Jessie: roommate. Junior. Nursing major.

Stephen: old friend. Senior. Spanish & Theatre double major.

Nicole: close friend. Senior. Spanish & Theatre.

Jordan: other token boy. Junior. Writing/Lit & Theatre.

Emily: fellow stage manager. Sophomore. Spanish & Theatre.

Karith: fellow writing/lit friend. Senior. Writing/Literature.

Cyndi: lover of the Beatles. Junior. Spanish & Theatre.

Whitney: sweet girl. Junior. Theatre.

And me. Sara: who-knows-what-she's-doing-here. Junior and a half. Writing/Lit & Psychology.

writing a script.

Part of the trip is performance, and performance in the context of culture. Our first stop in PNG will be at the Martin Luther Seminary in Lae, where we'll be hanging out with students and telling them our stories, as well as how they can use stories to make points in sermons and in interactions with others. Later in the trip, when we move into the highlands, we'll be traveling and performing with the National Performing Arts troupe. They will teach us some of their native stories and dances, and we will reciprocate.

(When I say "we", I mean "them". I won't be performing. No way. I'll be writing)

So we needed to decide what we wanted to share with the PNG performers. What was the quintessential American folk tale? What was our story? We wanted to share what impacts us and what our culture is. We threw around ideas of fairy tales, parables, and wild west folk tales. And during this time, we laughed and discussed, debated and pondered. And finally came out with the story of King Midas.

Midas and his golden touch isn't really native to America, but one could say that few stories are truly unique to any one culture. But the Midas tale is one that nearly every American child knows, and one that is dear to our hearts. The moral is one that we respect, but never truly master until it's too late: greed leads to pain. Obsession leads to loss. Materialism leads to destruction. And yet we still pursue the golden touch, convinced that this time it'll be different.

So a group of us started talking about creating a script for Midas. The first thing we needed to do was share the original story. We cannot assume that PNG knows the same stories we do. Then we wanted to make it personal, show how this happens in the corporate world and our everyday lives. We needed to apply it to our own lives; we needed to incriminate ourselves and remind ourselves what we can lose.

We talked, and then our time was up. And I got home, did my homework, went to bed at 11:30. I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about the ideas I had for the script, the different elements we talked about, what it would sound like and look like. I had no choice but to get out of bed and write.

Two hours later, I had a 7 page script. It incorporated what we discussed in class, and it was FUN to write. It's been a while since I was truly excited to write something creative. Something that I happily lost sleep over. And then I started getting nervous.

This is different. This is vulnerable. I have to let others into my process, give my words up for critique. And this is something I've never done before; I usually wait until I'm good at something before I let others see me do it. Not only that, others will see it performed. My words may touch someone, or they may fall flat. Either way, I get to watch it.

The first class period after I wrote the script was scary. Rhett, the director, had feedback, my fellow students had feedback. I needed to take it in, not take it personally, and try something new. And I did.

The script is still a work in process, and it will continue to be for a bit longer. But I'm proud that I actually feel like I belong on this trip for once, that I'm part of it and that it needs me. They all need me. It's a good feeling.

Oops...

Well, I haven't blogged in quite a while. So much for my idealistic plan. School has been gearing up and going fast; I'm barely hanging on. Between papers, projects, friends, jobs, and other campus activities, I feel like I've been running so fast I barely have a moment to look around and enjoy where I am, where I've been, and where I'm going. But one more week of classes, one week of finals, and then: PNG.

We are a little more than two weeks away from heading off to Papua New Guinea. It's becoming more and more real, as I start checking off things on my to-do list of things that need to get done before I get on that plane. I've been so focused on passing my Literary Criticism class that I've barely thought about this three week overseas trip that I'm taking. But it's edging closer and closer to reality.

And I'm nervous.

basic travel writing observations.

In reading a few travel writers, it seems to me that shorter is better. This may be because the two books I've read are composed of shorter pieces. It just seems that the more focused a piece is, the easier it can be transmitted. The Foreman book (You Can't Get There From Here) was a cohesive narrative, with topical chapters focusing on a particular country separated by segments. The Potts book (Marco Polo Didn't Go There) was a collection of previously published essays, so it was more fragmented. This culture is used to short sound bites versus a longer narrative; think Twitter for goodness sakes. I think of travel narratives from long ago -- Lewis and Clark's diaries for instance. Those don't really fly in this culture. We need shorter fragments for our shorter attention span.

For me, as I write, I need to divide this trip into segments with themes. I need to be focused, to have a reason for each specific fragment. Each essay needs to make a cohesive whole, be wrapped up in itself. It needs to have purpose. I'm not really sure how to predict what I'm going to write about before I go. I have no idea what I'm going to experience. I want to be open to what I'll come into contact with. I know that publication will probably happen in segments, which is why I can't just write one whole piece. I also need at least one piece that could work for the George Fox Journal, one that may be for Juniors Abroad, and one fro the theatre. I hope I have enough to say; we're only there for three weeks.

Side note: what kind of persona should I adopt? The rookie traveler? An observant outsider? What will it be like? There are way too many unknowns.

anxiety of authorship.

I never would have imagined a world where I would be succeeding at my gym goal and not at my writing goal. I just have hit such a dry spell in my writing in all arenas. Which is ridiculous, since it's the only thing that really makes me feel like me. Feel balanced, sane even.

I'm feeling pressure with this project, a sense of anxiety. There's so much about it that is just intense and scary. I've never had to write before. I've only ever written for fun, for sanity, for me. I'm barely at the place where I let others read my stuff, and 9 times out of 10 I don't feel it's any good. But now the Richter committee is putting thousands of dollars behind me, and they are expecting a return. I have to give them something, preferably worth of the five grand. Now I must create. And that scares me.

I never expected my proposal to be accepted. I never expected this chance. But I have it. Now what?

I'm anxious, too, about my writing as it relates to everyone on the trip. Few of them are writers, and they don't understand how narratives are crafted. I don't want anyone to be offended at my portrayal of them - or my nonportrayal. And I myself struggle with the line between fact and fiction. I suppose "real" writers don't worry about this; they let the chips fall where they may. But these are fellow students, adults I respect, friends. I don't want to alienate anyone; I don't want to hurt anyone with my writing. I want my words to bring life, but I also want to represent this experience in a way that resonates with humans who have never even heard of PNG. I'm just afraid those I travel with won't understand my art.

And I'm simply worried I won't be understood. That what I produce will not be up to par with the expectations of others. That I won't move anyone, be published, be recognized. I've never sought that before, truly for fear of being crushed. Now I've got to step out, be vulnerable.

This anxiety of authorship (to borrow a term from feminist writers Gilbert and Gubar) is my Achilles heel. And I'm showing it and praying that people will respect it and/or me enough not to shoot me. Because that may kill me.

For a person such as I who has almost too many future options, I need some direction. I'm hoping that is what this trip will do for me in some fashion. What I'm hoping is that it'll light a fire in me, not stomp on those smouldering coals that are already so weak.

These are some of my anxieties about the writing of this project. Simply the writing; I've got pletny of others about the trip itslef. But there's time for that. And writing these down made them real, made them solid and less amorphous, more distinct. And hopefully less scary.

airports.

Airports and airplanes have got to be some of the most intriguing places on earth. As I sit here in Portland International Airport, just watching the people go by, I understand why there's an influx of essays having to with the airport. I dare not add to the mix, but there's a certain sense of mystery, intrigue. I can't help but wonder why they're all here, where they're all going. Are they arriving, departing? Is this home, or just a stop on the way? What is each person's story, each person's family? Their work, their passions? Who are these people, and why are they here? They hurry past, eyes on some invisible goal: a connecting flight, a loved one just outside the gate, a business meeting or job interview. They all have pasts, they all have futures. They're all moving. The young man, only 12, on his first solo flight...or 5th. The elderly couple, holding hands, visiting grandchildren...or maybe a lover's getaway? The man in the suite: here on business, or here for pleasure? All of these things race through my mind. And what do people think of me, sitting alone? What will they think of us when we go to PNG? What will it be like to spend 14 hours on a metal bird with strangers and friends? Airports have so many questions.