4 CommentsA real ‘bloggernacle’ welcome
“The dot,” as I tend to refer to my blog when I speak about it, has felt a little like a voice crying in the wilderness lately. Of course it’s no great herald of glad tidings of great joy and all, but still, since readers started dropping like flies once I mentioned that I’d gone back to church, my site felt more and more like I was just sitting around talking to myself, which, y’know, just isn’t that fun. I literally had to make myself post. It’s hard to feel like you have something to say when there’s nobody to listen. As I tend to say, blogging is more fun with readers!
I got a very exciting steal-my-breath-away email this morning from Geoff J, stating that, at long and gleeful last, my request to get my little ol’ isle of the sea charted has been heard. Aaaw yeah, ladies and gentlemen, check out box #6. All the scufuffle about T&S moving to box #3…I don’t know what they’re worried about, it’s just getting them closer to the action–’cause we all know box 6 is where it’s at! 
And that’s not all. A few weeks ago, David Sundwall added me to his comprehensive listing, even when I was only a few posts in after coming back to the church. My next big surprise was a FMH sideblog link from fmhLisa when I had emailed her asking for her input on an entry of mine. (Like I said, blogging is way more fun with readers.)
Thanks to the vodoo magic that is Technorati, I see that I’m also in the Notes from all over sidebar on T&S, and, as if that were not enough, in a recent round-up of interesting women’s reading over at ExponentII. Wow!
So, yeah, I’m finally finding a place for myself in the ‘nacle. When I find myself snarked, I’ll know I’ve really arrived. My apologies on the brazenly shameless, utterly vulgar metapost, but I had to throw a party somewhere…
Update: Ain’t that the way it goes…The dot’s been down most of the morning due to some SQL server issues (compounded by mild incompetance on my part). It’s all fixed now. Sorry to those who tried to come by and check it out. Reposting now. RSS errors should abate now, as well. Can I just say, yet again, that DreamHost rocks. Hardcore, yo. You know it. I have the best webhost on the planet. Virtual kisses blown out to whoever at DH hammered out the database server problem for me…
Three years and counting starts over now.
Birthdays are fun. Even blog birthdays. Just two days.
Three years ago day-after-tomorrow, I started blogging. Yeah, it was pretty lame; I know. I got better! < / John Cleese > Like the people who write them, blogs change over time. Luckily mine, when I write in it, has been steadily changing for the better over the last few months since jumping ship on livejournal and launching Naiahdot.
It’s time to ruminate over my statements for the year and draft new ones. I’ve been very aware that this time was coming for the last few months. It’s the time that I’m supposed to make a permanent decision about my name, as well as check up on how I have done on the goals and values that I chose to focus on over the last year. It seems simple enough, and yet, after the unexpected major life change in which I found myself in early September (and still find myself, actually), I have been in a near-constant state of moral reconciliation.
I have mentioned in passing what happened, trying to keep it’s focus small, but it has taken up a great deal of my thought over the last few months. It seems that my long strange trip of the last three years is at an end. On September 4th, with her father out of town and unable to take her, I gave my daughter a ride to church. Innocuous, right? I figured I would just ‘dress the part’ and participate politely, and come back home the same as I’d left. I was wrong. Oh, I dressed the part just fine. When I walked in to the kitchen just before leaving, Rob looked up at me from his chair and drawled out “Mormon Up!” Ha. Ha. Ha. I was so amused. Granted, he had reason. I was wearing a denim dress with lovely cross-stitch flowers on the front. I like that dress; that’s why I never got rid of it, but this wasn’t exactly the kind of stuff he’s used to seeing me in. Happily costumed, I participated just fine, bowing my head and raising my hand at the right times. On the narrative level, my ‘masquerade’ went of without a hitch.
Sure, I was sticking to my planned actions, but under the hood I was a mess. Operation Covert Church Attendance carried a danger I had not anticipated. I have spent the last three years convincing myself and anyone who would listen of how justified and just plain right I was to have broken with the church. Here I was, though, in the middle of it, and unable to escape just how good it felt to be there. My mind was not full of indignance or superiority, or pity for all the poor fools who believed this stuff. My heart pounded in my chest with an intense–and intensely confusing–sense of truth. The Spirit. The still, small voice. Home. Welcome. Welcome Home. Time to let it go. Beat. Beat. Beat. Breathe. Beat. On and on.
Every time I bowed my head as a prayer was said, it was like a sound of rushing wind in my ears. My chest cavity did not feel big enough to contain the pulsing, pounding renewed life I felt. It was as if, like the Grinch, my heart had grown three sizes that day. There I was, my head so sure, and my heart so sure–only sure of opposite truths. I felt a little ill, a little dizzy, and a whole lot scared. My base assumptions, the foundation from which I looked upon the world and built my views had undoubtedly been shaken. Shaken to it’s core. Sitting there, in a peaceful church meeting, I was *so* ‘fight or flight,’ and yet I could do neither. Surrounded by people, I still felt all alone, and then, it happened.
Brothers and sisters reached in to my storm and called me out. I’m not talking the polite “Oh hi, nice to meet you; thanks for coming.” I mean, real, genuine, engaging interaction–one after another. Freindships, connections, and trust founded brand new on the spot. I wasn’t going to get out of there unnoticed, and, frankly, at that point I didn’t want to. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back, but I certainly wanted to be real and honest with these people who felt to me like unmet family.
In Relief Society (the women’s meeting), I stood to introduce myself, and my head did it’s best to get my prickles out to guard my vulnerable uncertaintly. “I probably won’t be back next week, but I’m here now,” I blurted out at the end of what I was saying. Some part of me needed to push away all this warmth and kindness that I hadn’t expected. It was stifling my negative thoughts and constructs that had maintained my distance from this Truth right out my mind. I did the best I could to hold that distance with faltering arms and quivering muscles. When the third hour was up and it was time to leave, I felt as if I’d just barely been able to keep it all at bay.
That week was an odd meander through a dark cloud of uncertainty. I was walking around with this huge delta between my head and my heart. My head still blamed a lot of people for a lot of wrongs that had hurt me badly and driven me away, but my heart could feel that it was time to let it go. The people in this ward are so nice, and so caring. I actually worried about how they would feel if I didn’t come back. They had done everything so very right. By right, I mean to say that they were not at all fake or plastic or phony. There was no ‘friendshipping’ in their eyes (the conscious befriending of someone with the intent to get them to join the church–a practice now somewhat frowned upon), only genuine welcome and kindness. I wanted them to know that even though they had been so kind, and done it in the right ways, that I just couldn’t come back.
That wednesday, I got a call from Sabrina, the Relief Society president, and, thinking to tell her why I coudln’t come back, I invited her over to talk. Mind you, I did not talk about these things much at all–even to people to whom I am explaining why I left the church. I really consider the stories of a lot of what I went thorugh to be ‘spiritual poison,’ and I have no desire to spread that around on anyone, to any end. The missionaries once tracted in to me at home one day, and I stepped outside and calmly explained to them that I had left the church and no I wasn’t interested in coming back, and yes I had good reasons, and no I woldn’t tell them what they were because they were spiritual poison, and they didn’t need that on their missions and would they kindly not come back. As I spoke to Sabrina on the phone, though, I just really felt, strongly that it was ok to talk to her about it. I felt intensely like I needed to explain to her why I was gone and was going to stay gone, and oddly, I felt like she would be ok–perhaps by virtue of her calling as RS president, I don’t know, but there I was, asking her to come over and listen.
I couldn’t escape the feeling that all of this was happening so fast around me. In the time between her phone call and her arrival, I called Michael (my ex-husband, very good friend, and strong faithful active member of the church) in a panic, “I JUST INVITED THE RELIEF SOCIETY PRESIDENT OVER AND SHE’S COMING!” I had already explained to him some of my uncertainty, my ‘crisis of anti-faith’ and he told me to just relax and talk with her and assured me that I could call him again after. Needless to say, I did call him after she left and many many more times than normal over the next few weeks.
Sabrina came over, and I talked for ages. I’m not sure how long, but given everything that was said, it must have been long. She listened, she cried, and she asked questions that made me think. She left me with a scripture and a prayer–a welcome prayer. Then, I found myself even more uncertain. I had been telling myself, and even her, that the reason I was doing this was so that she could know and explain to anyone from the church who would reach out to me that I couldn’t be brought back. My logic was tight. Yes, I always admitted that some part of me still believed that the gospel was true, but that the church was human and fallible, and therefore flawed and not something I wanted to be a part of. I was making my own way in the world, deciding my own morality, reinventing every whit of every wheel. Granted, a lot of the wheels that I came up with looked an awful lot like the church’s, but they were mine, and I did cleave unto them, if you know what I mean. For all that I was so busy telling her why I had to stay away, in retrospect I see now that I was finally unburdening myself. I listed off all my reasons as I recapped the whole thing to her, literally ticking off on my fingers the handful of experiences where things went awry. It was funny, though, that for all that I had several of them, as I listed them off all together, they did not seem so tight as they had before. My ‘proof’ was wearing thin.
Laying everything out to Sabrina only widened the gulf between where-I’d-been-for-three-years-and-counting and where-I was-now. With my head and my heart at such odds, I needed to take some steps to bring them back into line. I needed information. My brain needed input. I had to test this some more. My morality and values are based a lot on logic and reason. Scientific Method (observation, hypothesis, test) dictated that I do a little more poking around in here. It was time for some spiritual experiment. I decided to take out two birds with one evening out. Bellevue. I had to go to Bellevue. Ironic, eh? The center of spoiled well-to-do housewives, overpriced mall shopping, and suberban snobbery just happens to also have, almost right next door to each other the perfect venue for potential spiritual experience, and a great source for brains needing more information on spiritual topics. (A good adage to live by–When all else fails, go to a bookstore.)
I have always maintained, over these last three years, that one of the things I miss the most about being active in the church is the Temple. A couple of times, I have even teared up while driving by on 90. It was something that still called to my head as well as my heart. If I went there and that call fell flat then I could write all the confusion and emotional sensation as a fluke. As for the bookstore, I had a pressing desire to find a certain book, a book written to me, something to map out my potential road. I also wanted to pick up a new copy of the Book of Mormon. Just before that fateful sunday, President Hinckley had issued a challenge to the membership at large to read the entire Book of Mormon, cover to cover before the end of the year. I felt impressed to give that a try. I still wasn’t sure what I was doing, but it at least gave me a place to start, and I needed one–badly.
Mind you, I already have two lovely leather-bound quad-style copies of the scriptures, but I coudln’t look at those now. My old notes and highlightings were in them, and I felt like I needed to see these words anew, with fresh eyes, with the eyes of who I am today. Thus a stop at Deseret Book was doubly called for. So, we went.
All week, I had been wondering when sunday came if I would be going again to church. I really did not know. I thought, if anything, in the name of experiment that I would go and see if it felt the same. Of course, just after deciding on that, I would think that perhapes I needed to stay away and let the feelings cool, lest I get too caught up in it. The experiment of a trip to the temple made the decision, the call did not fall flat. Kneeling on the cement by a little tree with my daughter, we said a prayer together, and, there it was, my confirmation–clearer than all that spiritual noise I’d been hearing at the church. It was that unmistakeable, palpable spiritual ‘lift’ that one feels when faced with Truth divine. Carrying that sweet confirmation with me, I still wandered with an uncertain mind.
My trip to the bookstore did not yield that hoped-for book, but I did come away with the sense that, perhaps, I need to write that book. I did pick up a teeny-tiny Book of Mormon. It just felt right. I could keep it in my apron pocket during the day. (Yes, I wear an apron. So what?) I managed to score one of my favorite kind of scripture-marking pencils in a nice, little set, and thus I was ready to tackle to Book of Mormon in it’s entirely. For those unfamiliar with the Book of Mormon, it is somewhat akin to the New Testament, by way of length & language, and certainly of the same profound nature. It’s not exactly light, saturday afternoon reading, but like it’s fellow scripture, it has rewards a-plenty for those who choose to plough through it. Little did I know that I’d find my first, and most profound, on the very first page. The title page, to be exact.
This is getting pretty long, and I need to go get Katy at the bus stop in a few minutes. I’ll pick it up there later. Heh, I’ll edit it later, too. Sorry about typos, etc.
What do you want from me?
Mind you, the question is rhetorical, and blatantly keifed from Pink Floyd. Don’t take it too seriously.
This is the first, and certainly hoped to be the last, blog entry that I ever have or ever will make along these lines. I might link it permanently to the front page, should the topic ever arise again. It has come to my attention that I have been misreading the hit stats for naiahdot for sometime. When my mistake was cleared, I went into what could only be described as a chocolate/vanilla twist cone of shock and amazement. I was proud of myself, and I was terrified.
When I say that I’m “just a grown-up geekgirl trying to make sense of it all and slay a few teenage demons along the way,” I’m not kidding. I’ve never been comfortable with any sort of spotlight, unless it was on my terms. I need to keep reminding myself that everything on naiahdot is on my terms. Only, I’ve just found out there’s a hell of a lot more of you out in the audience than I thought. As of my last check, which I’m not making anymore, unique IP hits were running over 550/day not counting my own clicking around, editing, & maintenance. I’ve had a serious case of stage fright for the last week (since that last check).
It’s not as if I did not know that this was a public forum. Knowing that strangers could and might see it, keeps me from spewing useless, mindless, nonsense. It gives me some standards to keep. Unlike a lot of bloggers, I am not an actor, an author, a politician, a musician, or other person seeking spotlight in another arena; I have no claim to or hope of notoriety or fame of any sort. So far, I *just* blog. I blog because it works for me. When I take my experiences and observations and distill them to text, it gives me a better handle on things. THAT is why I do this.
I’ve had a lot of rejection in my life, and that all culminates in a serious weakness for and wariness of any sort of acceptance or popularity. I’m having a hard time getting your eyes out of my head. A new, but nonetheless valued, friend had some really wise words for me on this score, and I haven’t forgotten them. I just needed to shake this off. In the end, it IS my website, and I will continue to write it just to write it. Every blog I’ve started, I always begin with the line “Welcome to my world.”
This is my world, or rather a peek on it through my unique window. All of you are welcome to stay, link, comment, or go, as you will. This is not meant as a discouragement at all–just a lot of pennies in the coffee can, and they were getting so noisy that I couldn’t think through anything else to write.
The blog is dead; long live the blog.
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I feel like a frangmented hard drive
I have to partition my own mind so absolutely. I spend most of my day with the vast majority of my focus on my children’s needs. I have the conversationis with them that they need to have, and help them complete the actions that they need to complete. Given that they never really ‘de-activate,’ it’s all very time consuming. For all it’s breadth. though, it is extremely shalllow. This can be hard for me when I have some tenacious ‘deep thoughts’ that won’t just stay in their partition, and wait their turn. In some respect, you can’t constrain true creativity, but man it’d be nice if I could. Ideas and thoughts that beg to be written out occur to me all day. I have to keep them on the back burner, and all to often I forget them. Somtimes, I play them over and over in my head, adding a sentence each time, and end up memorizing them like I would a quotation or a speech. By the time I get to write them, they feel so distant that for all that I have the words, I’ve lost the train of thought that the words were meant to preserve.
I got myself a voice recorder, so that even when I can’t be at a keyboard or have a pencil in my hand, I can see things through, but I tend to really dislike the sound my voice recorded, and so I’ve held off on that score. Maybe I should add cell phone audioblog entries. I could just call myself and talk it out. For all that I find that disturbing on a level or two, it could be kinda cool.
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Tiger ate my iBook…
So, yesterday Andrei was showing me all the nifty new features on Tiger (Mac OSX.4), and I was loving it. My sweet little early iBook 700GHz G3 is just about at the bottom of what it’s acceptable to install this beast on, but it was acceptable. So, today while we were all playing at the library (see here & here) my iBook gave it everything it had. Clearly, though, the beast was still hungry.
You ever say or write something, and then end up regretting it later as accidentally having challenged fate? I once said that I’d never had to spend the night in the hospital. Less than a day later, I was on my back for the first of a three-night stay. Unreal. Well, I did it again. Someone posted a pic of their iBook unable to boot (cute little folder icon in the middle of the screen with a question mark on it), and I responded saying that for all the trouble my iBook has given me, it’d never been
Andrei’s promised to firewire it to his very burly G5 (want!), backup all my files, and fix it–apparently even if it means not sleeping tonight. They’ve found what seems to be a really great option for housing, and so some of the pressure’s off on the househunt. (read: I’m hoping the pressure’s off on the househunt and he can fix my computer before they head back to LA…eep!)
Ack! I just want all our various random technical difficulties solved! iBook is down. Hub fried. Rob tried using the modem itself to split the signal between the wireless and the PC (one on ethernet, one on USB), and um, it was BAD, seriously confused the poor little box. Now, even with just one device plugged in it really doesn’t like to have to, y’know, go and get an IP address. So, I want the iBook up. I want a new hub. I might even need to get Verizon to send us a new modem. All that hardware stuff doesn’t even touch on the RSS nonsense on here. (What do you mean 404???!!! The file is RIGHT THERE!!!! I can see it! I can read it!! Aaaargh!) Ok, ok, < / rant >