other writers, part 2.

That last post was too long, but I have to mention this other writer.

A.J. Jacobs.

His name has been running around my university for a while, as the majority of my office has read his most current book as part of a book group. I first heard of him in my favorite magazine, Relevant, though the readers of Esquire have been enjoying his prose for decade or so.

His writing style is so engaging and accessible yet not dumb by any means. He sprinkles his text with allusions to pop culture and Jewish holy books alike. Jacobs also is able to characterize himself and others in a way that makes you feel like you're reading a well-developed novel. He is self-deprecating, but not to the extent that you dislike him as a guide through his adventures.

And adventures he has. Jacobs apparently has a flair for experimenting. This is evident in his latest book, The Year of Living Biblically, in which he does his best to follow all of the Bible's commands for one year. For a year, Jacobs wears white homogeneous cloth, lets his beard and hair grow long, carries a staff, and ties Hebrew Scriptures to his wrist and his forehead. A Jew by heritage and not by belief, he uses this time to search out the meaning of faith and what makes the Jewish and ultimately the Christian faith so compelling.

Some of his anecdotes are laugh-out-loud funny, as in the stoning episode (involving pebbles and an adulturer) and the uncleanliness of women episode (involving Jacobs's menstrating wife angrily sitting in every chair of their home). But when I wasn't laughing, I was learning. I was learning from Jacobs, a proclaimed agnostic, the ins and outs of the faith I claim for my own. I questioned along with him, but I never felt like he was judging or condemning what I believe through his questions. Not just that, he gave a real picture of what his life looked like at that time, with his wife going through fertility treatments and his realtionship with his son. At the end of the book, there was no amazing conversion. Jacobs cut his hair and went back to life. That's what the book was about: living.

Jacobs's first book, which I just finished this week, is another experiment titled The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World. This time, Jacobs reads through the entire 32 volume 2002 edition of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica (EB). Though not quite as engaging for me, as Living Biblically had a personal signficance, it was still a fun read as Jacobs attempted to regain the intelligence he felt he had in his youth. Along the way, he meets Alex Trebec, joins Mensa, and competes on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?.

One of the things that draws me to Jacobs's writing style is his intentional use of segments and format. I'm convinced that this generation of readers reacts more positively to segments in general, since we are bombarded with short pieces of information (i.e. Twitter), and Jacobs uses that to his advantage. In Know-It-All, he uses actual headings of articles in the EB. The following anecdote may have little to do with the title, but it breaks the narrative up into smaller pieces. And there is a flow of narrative, thematic pieces that tie the entire book together. Jacobs's life does revolve around the EB for a year, but other things are at work, much like real life. Readers learn about his intelligent father whom Jacobs has always tried to outsmart, his longsuffering and witty wife trying to have a baby, his supercilious brother-in-law who parades his pretentious knowledge for all to see. All of these storylines have some sort of conclusion by the end of the book, while being interspersed with random facts about Thomas Jefferson and mammals.

Jacobs has some other online Esquire articles that are similar in tone and style; his piece about helping his son's nanny create an online dating profile is humorous and thoughtful, as is his article about a weekend spent with Kato Kaelin.

I'd like to write like Jacobs, but I'd more like to write like myself. I feel like Jacobs is writing in his own voice, albeit one that is edited and stylized. I want to be funny and honest while writing about PNG, not take myself too seriously but write in a way that is true and good and myself.

Okay, I think I've spent enough time writing about others writing. I should really get writing myself. Soon, I keep telling myself, soon.

other writers, part 1.

I haven't just been sitting like a bum all summer, eating Tim Tams and not writing about Papua New Guinea. I have been reading, quite a bit actually. Mostly light things: Harry Potter, Bridget Jones's Diary, a complete history of Sesame Street. But when I'm not reading candy, I'm reading travel essays, as per my Richters.

It's daunting, to be sure. One of the books titled The Best American Travel Writing (a big claim, no?) is a hodgepodge of different essays from all over the world: Africa, China, Bankok; even my dear friend Papua New Guinea plays a surprise appearance. I'm not sure what I should be learning from reading these essays. They're all so very different. Their common denominator is that they're well-written and well-researched. Each has those two vital components of story and facts, being informative about a culture while hiding it within plot. Some are better are hiding than others; the first essay, about chocolate, I find too dry, too journalistic, and too long, less creative nonfiction than just pure nonfiction. On the other extreme, you have David Sedaris's essay about traveling through the air with a sobbing seatmate; little research there, but a whole lot of personal experience. Most fall somewhere in between.

There's also the Thomas Swick essay disparaging other types of writers and elevating travel writers. He makes some good points, but I bristle a bit at his stereotypes, especially concerning memoirists. According to him, I'm probably a memoirist who has "appropriated place as nothing more than a scenic backdrop to the more important story of [myself]." But I haven't written anything yet; how would he know?

I wasn't expecting PNG to show up in the book. I opened the book randomly, as I tend to do, and read a sentence: "Two others chew betel nut, their mouths a bright, frothy red." Papua New Guinea! Of course, James Campbell's essay was about hiking across the island, following the trail of some WWII American troops. Most PNG essays concern some sort of wilderness expedition. No thanks, I say. Though it may be an interesting frame for my lack-of-hiking-through-PNG-wilderness essay...

Speaking of wilderness expedition, I found another book about PNG during my Powell's search. Titled Beyond Fear, it's about two guys who kayaked all the way down through PNG. I've only read the first chapter, and it is not well-written. I'll try, but it'll be hard to stand 200 pages of overabundant exclamation marks, poor dialogue, and unnecessary repetition. Self-published, too, which should have bene an indicator. It's times like this I hope I'm a better writer, that I'm not cluttering up the bookshelves of this world with meaningless dribble.

reentry, readjustment, review

As a psychology minor, I feel vaguely suspicious of dreams. I feel like they are often misleading and overemphasized. I am suspicious of those who find absolute meaning in their dreams. My overall view is that dreams are simply a result of the brain's synapses firing while sleeping. I feel that feelings are easily carried over from the worries of the day into our subconscious, so dreams are less literal, more figurative. Which may be obvious for those battling dragons or flying while they sleep. A greater stretch but one I am willing to occasionally support is that while we sleep we mentally work out problems and concepts that are flooding our mind. I don't believe every dream is a symbol, but I feel that dreams can potentially lead us to realize things about ourselves, whether it's a true insight or just a different way of looking at things. I also believe God can speak through dreams; I don't doubt He's powerful enough to prod the right synapse.

Still, I enjoy trying to search out meanings in dreams, to solve the puzzle of why something popped up or what it represents. It's more for fun, less life-changing. This is fairly easy for me, as most of my dreams are tied heavily to reality. Like my life.

All this said, I had a dream about a month ago.

Here's some backstory you may need. While in Papua New Guinea, in Lae at Martin Luther Seminary, I got the chance to talk to a wonderful woman named Dakis. Cyndi called her a rock star, and she was: the heart and soul of the place, a staple and an engine. At the end of our conversation, I commented on her black bracelets, of which she had a dozen or so lining her forearm. Goomies, she called them, and she proceeded to give me two. My first gifts from Papua New Guinea, far behind the already bilum-laden members of my team. I haven't taken the bracelets off since; they've been with me all around PNG, Australia, the US, Canada. Two little bands on my wrist.

Back to the dream. I dreamed I was in my room in Newberg, tidying up around my bright orange and green hippie polyester bedspread. Suddenly, without warning, the thicker of my two bracelets fell off my wrist and onto my bed. It hadn't been cut, or torn, or ripped. It just fell off.

That's all I remember of it. It was short and insignficant. But I woke up and thought, maybe this means something. Maybe it represents a loosening of my tongue, an ability to write, a freeing of my spirit so that the words could come and the experiences could be shared.

Then I proceeded to do nothing.

I've been silent for a long while. It's hard to believe I've been back from PNG for two months; it's even harder to believe that I even went to PNG. I have the pictures. I have the bilums, the bracelets. But it seems like a million years ago. I have become so acclimated to the US that PNG seems like a waking dream.

When I came back from PNG, I couldn't write about it. I was overwhelmed, I was exhausted, there was too much to process and too much to understand. I could barely exist, because I didn't know how to exist; I didn't know how to be me, and I didn't know who "me" was, now that I had this piece of PNG within me. I came home, I slept, and I tried to limit peppering my sentences with "This reminds me of the time in PNG when..."

Now, many weeks later, I fear that I've hit the other side. I don't remember. I can't feel it anymore. The flowers are fuzzy shades of orange and red, no longer vibrant in my mind's eye. The memories no longer crowd out everything else; I've succeeded at stuffing them behind what is more impacting to my everyday life.

This summer has been difficult for other reasons. Big life changes are approaching for those I love: a giddy best friend/roommate planning a wedding, a friend moving to Mexico for four months, another friend unreachable through the haze of theatre, another friend in turmoil over the most important relationship she's ever had, another friend just plain gone. And me, I'm trying to find a place. I'm trying to learn to dream again, to risk and perhaps fail. I'm trying to decide where to go next, because real life is edging closer; I can see the seam of her cloak as she hides behind textbooks and workstudy schedules. Emotionally, I'm ridiculously unstable.

Honestly, I haven't processed through what I experienced in Papua New Guinea. Like usual, instead I discount my experience, saying it wasn't valid, it wasn't good enough, it didn't make an impact, and I don't remember. But I need to work through what has happened, because I know that it made a difference to me. I know I'm different somehow; I don't like the difference thus far, but I'm hoping that what I'm living through now is simply the response to the repression of life-altering events. To relive my experience, to give it a voice and a purpose, to give it life and meaning? That is when I will be more whole.

But as always, I am afraid. Going to Papua New Guinea, that was a challenge. That was scary. But I didn't do it alone. What happened to me also happened to us. This new challenge, this writing? This is solo. I am alone, and battling tiredness, old movies, youtube videos, long phone calls, cold office buildings, and fear of the future, all the things pulling me from the words that I need to speak.

I have to speak them, so I'm breaking my silence to hopefully produce something that will give someone an idea of what that beautiful tropical warm glorious place is all about.

strange.

This morning I woke up at 9, got ready for the day.
Went to Chapters. Saw Polly Peterson, Robin Baker, Dave Johnstone, Mark Pothoff. Got a vanilla steamer and a bagel with cream cheese.
No surprises.

It's like I never left. How can it possibly be that way? Why is life so normal?

And yet...I went. There are pictures. There are memories. There is a journal full of events.

Now I'm in an airport again. Ready to leave for another country. Canada, here I come. And processing must happen.

ukarumpa.

This is my first actual PNG blog, two weeks into the trip.

I’m sad about that, for I’ve had more amazing experiences in these last two weeks than I’ve had in the last year. But internet is hard to come by in this country: expensive and uncommon. And so the blog of my experience suffers.

But I’ve been writing a lot, barely able to keep up on my journaling for each new day. I try to take every spare moment to write down thoughts, events, quotes. Occasionally, life gets in the way, and people take preference over reclusive scribbling.

We’re in Ukarumpa, in the highlands. Ukarumpa has been called “Little America,” a better term maybe “Little Western Civilization” as there is a multitude of Western cultures represented here. It was a hard transition from a campus of black nationals who we got to know and love to a town of white expatriates who look and talk very much like we do. We don’t miss the heat and constant stickiness of Lae, but we do miss the friends we made in a few short days.

Lae seems a world away from where we are now. My Lae is Todd’s house that the entire team stayed in for six nights, sleeping on mats with the windows open. Hoping that the power didn’t go off during the heat of the day and take our cool ceiling fan air. Seeing little 6-year-old Mainu at our door, wanting chocolate and Stephen. The silent and cool mornings, with my teammates writing in their journals, reading their Bibles, closing their eyes to listen. The birds outside the windows at all hours of the day and night. Mama Jere in the kitchen, delighted to make us food and do our laundry. Waving and saying “Apinun” to each passerby. Having brown faces light up when you walk into the room, not because you’re white but because they know your name and they know you want to hear about their lives. The feeling of community. And stories.

Ukarumpa is different. The entire team is staying in the homes of host families, so we’re separated most of the day until we have to perform. I feel secure with my teammates; without them, I feel vaguely off-kilter. And the entire town is so different, so..comfortable. So not Lae. But we have been welcomed here too. Our families have accepted us into their households with smiles and joy. We walk up and down the hills in the cool air, not feeling wet at every moment. I even wore pants this morning under my dress (it’s 4:08 PM here). The birds are different, the trees are different. Life is different here. We’re working mostly with Europeans, or at least English-speakers. But they need to express their stories just like the New Guineans do. Ukarumpa has been a challenge to our expectations and preconceived notions.

God has been surprising us every step of the way, from Emily being able to communicate with two deaf New Guinean teens, to an amazing youth worship service last night where we jumped and dance and laughed.

We went to the market this morning, and got some amazing gifts for ourselves and others. But as I was walking around, each thing I saw triggered a memory. I realized that nothing I bring home will ever do justice to this beautiful country. My faulty memory won’t even be enough. Which is why I will write.

I’m not thinking about what I’m going to write yet. I just want to live each moment purely and truly.

Please keep praying. There’s been talk of some unrest in Goroka and Lae, perhaps just as a result from fortnight last Friday, payday and a night of major alcohol consumption. Pray for safety as we travel to Goroka on Wednesday; also pray for strength and willingness, as we enter a cultural experience unlike any we’ve had yet. I’m sure I’ll have much to write about from there. Also, pray for health for our poor tummies. Everyone has been having some digestive issues lately, and it’s not helping our energy level.

And pray for us as we go, that God goes ahead of us and prepares amazing people for us to meet and talk to.

Love from all of us here in PNG: Sara, Jessie, Stephen, Nicole, Cyndi, Whitney, Emily, Karith, Jordan, Jere, Todd, and Rhett. We are safe, we are well, and we are changed.

lae.

Hello from Papua New Guinea.

Internet access is very limited, so I can't really write everything that is happening. I've been writing pages and pages in my journal, just so that I can remember everything when I come home. So expect more when I arrive back in the States and internet access is prevalent.

This is place is unlike any other that I have experienced. So hot, so humid, drenched in sweat 24 hours a day. Massive coconut trees. Pounding rains. People that are so kind and beautiful, so giving of what little they have and so happy just to shake your hand and say thank you.

Martin Luther Seminary, where we've been for the last five days, is a beautiful place with beautiful men and women that love the Lord and love us.

I cannot say enough. But that has to be enough for now. There is so so so much that I want to say but I have to go. Know I'm safe, I'm being brave, and I'm going strong. Prayers: please keep them coming, and love: send it over the ocean to me.

australia.

This will be quick since I have less than 3 minutes left on my internet cafe card. :)

We're in Australia, safe and sound. The trip was long but amazing, and today has been long (and amazing). And it's only 3:40 pm (though my body rejects that). We got to pet kangaroos and hold koalas today, and it's been a great day. I am TIRED.

Tomorrow we head to PNG, so there the true adventures begin. The hot, sticky, sweaty adventures!

More to follow! Thanks for your love and prayers.

away we go!

1 hour and 27 minutes before the team is meeting on campus in the Ross/Bauman parking lot.

Then to PDX for tickets and checking luggage.
Through security to the terminal.
Wait.
Flight to LA at 5pm.
Dinner in LAX.
14 hour flight to Brisbane.
Customs at some point.
Day in Australia: koalas? Beach?
Overnight at host homes.
Flight to Port Moresby.

And we're there.

Officially, we'll arrive in Papua New Guinea on the 7th of May, which will technically be the 6th here since we'll flight right over Cinco de Mayo. We'll be 6 hours ahead, in terms of jet lag. The wall of humidity (currently at 95% in Port Moresby) will knock us on our backs as we step off the plane; the bugs will be big, the air hot, the language unfamiliar, and the faces much tanner than our own.

I can't believe today is the day. I'm still not prepared, I'm not ready, I didn't do any research, I didn't read enough, I didn't study the language or the culture. I need more time. And yet, me being who I am, I always need more time. I never feel prepared. So the thing to do is go.

Go fast, go far, go strong. Be brave. Eyes wide, heart wider, and mouth closed so that ears can open. Step out with faith and love, smiles and laughter, and kindness that needs no words but instead shines.

I'm super scared. I had trouble falling asleep; I woke up far too early this morning. Stephen, Jessie, and I have been racing around Newberg, getting snacks, sending letters, making copies. The apartment is clean for our return; leftovers are out on the table for lunch. Bags are packed, mine clocking in at a light 38 pounds. We're all set to go. Except that I'm scared.

We're supposed to bring our patience along, said Rhett. We're supposed to hold our plans loosely. We're supposed to take things as they come. I'm not good at any of those things. And I have no idea what to expect, except at some point apparently some body painting and (topless) tribal dancing around a fire until daybreak.

I'm oh-so-afraid, but I know this will be the biggest adventure of my life thus far. I don't put myself out there very often, but I have no choice now. I'm leaving in 1 hour and 17 minutes, and I'm not coming back the same woman. I'm hopeful of that.

I know God has prepared this for me. Know why?
Because I got the Richters Grant and I didn't have to pay for this trip.
Because my job to do is what I love best: write.
Because three of my closest friends will be with me.
Because there are missionaries from Grace Baptist in Calgary that are in PNG right nowwhich my mom found out the week after I got the grant.
Because I got Chacos for $35.
Because I got to write a script for our team.
Because I have people praying for me.
Because my mother emailed me and told me that she is proud of me, and to go and blossom into more of who I was created to be.
Because Jon Acuff wrote about God not needing me.
Because Pastor John's sermon yesterday was about living in God's peace through prayer and release, no matter what comes my way.
Because Omi sent me $150 for everything I needed.

Because the Kelm family verse this year is Jesus' words in Mark 6:50, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."

I do not need to be afraid. Because this trip, this is Jesus. Jesus will be in every face I see, every experience I have. Because Jesus is present, with me, alongside of me, within me, throughout me, and covering me, I do not have to be afraid. And I will take the courage of my Saviour as I go, and write, and cry, and laugh, and sweat, and sleep, and sing, and walk, and learn, and grow, and change.

Pray me there, my dear and loving friends. Pray me home. And pray for transformation and safety along the way.

PNG, here I come.
(PAPUA NEW GUINEA, HERE I COME!)

1 hour and 4 minutes. Ready or not, here I go!

insights.

There's this blog I frequent titled "Stuff Christians Like," written by the very funny Jon Acuff. The site is a blatant rip-off of the successful "Stuff White People Like" site, but has a wonderful satirical tone that both pokes fun at the Christian subculture, while also celebrating and questioning why this subculture functions the way it does. It's written by someone on the "inside," who both smirks at Christians while proudly claiming the title. It is one of the funniest thing I've ever read, which is why I visit the blog daily.

Every so often, Jon writes a personal blog that isn't humor-focused, but instead relates what he has been learning in his own spiritual life. I've found that these insights often speak to me profoundly and have some relation to where I am in my own spiritual jaunt.

Most of the blog titles are numbered and detail the stuff Christians like. A post from last week was titled "Thinking God Needs You." Jon, as a writer finishing his first book (based around his blog concept), has been blogging about the whole process. Here's part of what he wrote:

"I started to get fearful about posting on the site and writing the book because I didn’t want to mess up whatever it was God needed me to do.

In the midst of that time, God reminded me of a powerful truth, “He doesn’t need me. He loves me.” There’s a big difference between those two things.

Need is a partnership.

Love is a relationship.

He doesn’t call me on this adventure called life so that I can, with my deep pools of awesomeness, release some sort of handcuffs He’s wearing. He calls me on this adventure because He knows I love adventures and He enjoys seeing me do things I love.

The more time I wrestled with that thought, the juxtaposition of need vs. love, the more I began to think that I had this whole thing backwards. Maybe if I listened to God and was honest with Him He’d whisper to me:

“Let me be clear. I am God. I am complete. I do not need your additions. I want your work to be an overflow of love. I want to pour so much love and strength and truth into you that you cannot help but do things. Add to the world. Add to the people around you. Overflow on them what I give to you. Not because I need you to do something but because you can’t help but go out and share the love I am overflowing in you."

Does God call us into big adventures that take us across the planet and across the break room at work? Without a doubt. Does He have a purpose for us that He loves seeing us fulfill in obedience? Certainly. Does He call us into those adventures because without us He can’t complete the work He intends? I don’t think so, because that would make Him an “almost god.” As in, He was almost able to tell people about His deep, ridiculous love for them online but He needed me to write the Stuff Christians Like blog first. Ha, that’s just silly."

This was something I definitely needed to hear (read?) at this moment. I've felt anxious and nearly stuck in my fear because of my uncertainty about what I'll produce after this trip. But I truly believe the only reason I'm going on this trip is because Jesus wants me to go. How else would I be able to go overseas to Papua New Guinea, get paid to go, and be forced to do the thing I love? And because of that, I don't need to be afraid. To quote Mr. Acuff again, "He calls me on this adventure because He knows I love adventures and He enjoys seeing me do things I love."

God doesn't need my words; he created them. He loves them because he loves me; he delights in them because he delights in me. He made me this way, a person who thinks and feels in metaphors and irony, in parallel sentences and creative essay structures. And to deny that part of myself would be to deny what God has created in me.

I love insights from unexpected places. Thanks, Jon.

[Read the entire post here: http://stufffchristianslike.blogspot.com/2009/04/527-thinking-god-needs-you.html]

2 days.

2 days. 2 days. 2 days.

And it still hasn't sunk in yet. That's slightly unsettling. I feel like it should be more real. I feel like I should feel something, anything. But instead I just feel tired, worn-out, emotionally exhausted. It's called "the end of the semester."

Still, I keep getting glimpses of the reality, that sick feeling in my stomach that is a mix of anxiety, appreciation, and excitement.

I had a glimpse when I turned in my Lit Crit paper last Friday, and the major stress of the semester was done.
A glimpse when the theatre department surrounded us and prayed for the entire team at theatre banquet last Monday.
A glimpse when I called my bank to tell them that I'd be using my ATM card in Australia and Papua New Guinea.
A glimpse when it turned May.
A glimpse when I had no more finals to check off my list.
A glimpse when I watched dear friends walk across the stage to get their diplomas today and I realized that they were done with college, school was over for the year, and I was getting on a plane in 48 hours.

I'm not sure what to think. I don't have any frame of reference for PNG; I have zero idea of what it's going to be like. Maybe that's good, maybe that's bad. But it is, and I know it'll be the biggest adventure of my 21 years. Thanks for going with me on this adventure; I'm stronger because you're behind me.

I really need to start packing. Really badly.

Tomorrow.

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.

i need to have a plan.

--take 1 hour after class on Mondays (8:45 – 9:45) to write/blog about experience
--take 1 hour on Sundays after church or after college group to write/blog about experience
--read 1 book a week about PNG starting after Spring Break
--take note of elements of culture, travel writing
--read 2 books during Spring Break
--contact Rolf Potts during Spring Break
--order tape recorder by April 1st
--review vocab on Wednesdays
--go to the gym 3x a week