here i am.

I am distracted easily and often. I am prone to stop talking mid-sentence because something else has caught my eye. When telling a joke or a story, it takes everything in me to focus on finishing what I’ve started.

This is an awful quality. And, believe it or not, it probably annoys me more than the people to whom I am talking.

However, because of this terrible terrible characteristic, I have become an excellent escape artist. I have mastered the art of being fully present, and fully absent simultaneously. (Not in some weird, New-Age spiritual sense– that would probably take a lot more time and focus.)

You see, my tendency to be easily distracted can go both ways. It can sneak up on me when I least expect it, and least desire it. Or I can invite it, welcome it with open arms, and allow it to be my escape. The latter has started to happen a lot more frequently in the past ten months.

I can escape to anywhere I’d like. I can escape to a different time, a different place, a different feeling.

Here, today, right now, May 28th, 2010, I can escape to any time I’d like. I can be there for quite a while too, until reality snatches me from Nostalgiatopia.

When I am at home, I can escape to anywhere I’d like. I can take my pick from any of the places I’ve been throughout the span of my lifetime. Sometimes it’s back to Memphis, sometimes to South Carolina. Once I went to Canada; they have a nice butterfly conservatory there.

When I am sad, I can escape to happiness, or boredom, even anger—there is a vast array of emotions to choose from.

I have survived the past several months by escaping. Every time I am somewhere I do not want to be, I “go away.”

I read a book about a girl who needed to go from this valley she lived in up to the Mountains. She was given, as her guides, Sorrow and Suffering. And she had to hold their hands. And they take her to all these awful places– the Desert, and Shore of Loneliness, the Valley of Loss, etc. And she lets go sometimes. And she grabs onto other people, like Bitterness, or Resentment, or Pride because they seem more appealing.

And I’m not so different from her. Because in the midst of my companions, Sorrow and Suffering, I escape to a place where I can be with whatever seems more appealing at the moment. Because Sorrow and Suffering pull me to these places that seem like a contradiction to the Mountains I’ve been promised so many times.

Being intentionally present throughout every moment of life isn’t easy. Especially when you’re great at escaping. Grief is the last thing I want to be present for. Sorrow is the last thing I want to be present for. Suffering is the last thing I would think to cling to.

Anne Lamott wrote in her book Traveling Mercies that you have to expose yourself to grief in order to heal from it. That we must become enveloped in it before we can experience peace.

“…The bad news is that whatever you use to keep that pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that feeling grief will give you. A fixation can keep you nicely defined and give you the illusion that your life as not fallen apart. But since your life may indeed have fallen apart, the illusion won’t hold up forever, and if you are lucky and brave you will be willing to bear disillusion. You begin to cry and writhe and yell and then to keep on crying; and then, finally, grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination.”

At the end of the book with the girl who is going to the Mountains, her Companions are transformed into Joy and Peace. That always seemed a little hokey to me; almost too beautiful to be true. Maybe it’s because right now I’m still trying to get the heck away from Sorrow and Suffering (I never asked for them, after all), because what I really asked for from the start was Joy and Peace. The thought of being present in my grief makes me sick to my stomach. The thought of intentionally living my life and facing the things that I want so badly to escape from scares me to death.

But I will be present. I will be intentional. I will refrain from escaping. I will practice acceptance. I will grieve, I will hurt, I will wait for healing, and I will look for the tiny flecks of gold exactly where I am.

dance hungry, dance full.

It was about 5 am. i had climbed into my welcoming bed about 3 hours prior. I had to be up and gone in 3 hours. I fought against the awful repetitive sound of a car alarm and tried to go back to sleep. Someone’s car alarm always goes off when there’s a thunder storm. I buried my head under my pillows and tried to sleep for another five minutes. There was yelling outside. Beale Street Music Festival. Everyone in Memphis is wasted the first weekend of May. I wrapped a blanket around my head (turban-style) and tried once again to sleep.

5:15 am. Nothing was quiet. None of my makeshift sound blockades were working. I looked out the window and tried to bring my eyes to focus. It wasn’t one car alarm, it was about 5. It wasn’t drunk people. It was people from the dorms.

It was pouring. The entire back alley and parking lot was flooded. Several cars were in water up to the windshields. I ran outside to see my Baby. He looked so helpless. Half under the flood waters, looking so scared and lonely. I knew he couldn’t handle it. He’s old, and already has so many problems.

2 hours later, the water was going down. Some friends had moved my Baby to higher ground, but he was leaking oil all over the place. Poor little guy.

I am officially done with all my classes. The weight can be lifted off of my shoulders any day now. I still have several projects to do. Not to mention a World Music concert. The rehearsals are taking over my life.

It was 3pm. My New Testament summaries were due in 2 hours. I sat and read, and furiously scribbled notes, all the while cursing my tendency to procrastinate. I had rehearsal at 7pm. I had yet to shower.

5pm. Finished my summaries just in time. Bummed a ride home from a friend (my Baby still has not recovered). Showered. Dressed. Bummed a ride back to the school for rehearsal.

The auditorium’s air conditioner is broken. It’s 90 degrees outside. Miserable inside. I could not function. I could not breath. My shower was a waste of time. Sweat was dripping off of me. Hand drums seem ten times louder when you have a headache. Being at a mandatory 7pm rehearsal is frustrating as hell when you have finals to finish. We were supposed to be done in an hour. Finished at 8:45.

Friday is my night to go dancing.

A zillion thoughts ran through my head. Do I even want to go dancing anymore? It’s hot. I am a sweaty mess. My shoes are too big for me. Everyone else has already been there for two hours. Only the creepy men ask me to dance. I don’t even know how to dance.

Fine. I’ll go.

The bouncer is maybe the hugest man I have ever seen in my life.

No sir, I am not 21 yet.

Yes sir, you can put embarrassingly huge black X’s on my hands.

Cover charge tonight? Sure.

TEN DOLLARS?! Yeah, okay. Fine.

All my friends are dancing. It’s still swing music. Salsa is coming. I better hurry and dance swing before we get to salsa. I’m awful at salsa. My shoes are too big. They fell off about 3 times while I was dancing.

Salsa time. Hate it.

No sir, I will not dance with you. I just saw you practically humping the last woman you danced with out on the dance floor.

A friend asks me. I’m no good. He knows this. He’s patient. He teaches me. He only laughs at me a little. My face is beat red. I never learned how to move my hips growing up. Salsa is sexy. My version of salsa is awkward and repulsive.

The night goes on. Sometimes alcohol makes people dance fearlessly. There are huge X’s on my hand. No fearless dancing for me, I guess.

But sometimes it hits you. Sometimes you get sick of everything. Sometimes even the fear of being awkward and repulsive cannot stop the irresistible urge to dance your heart out.

I am awful. Rhythmically-challenged, if you will.

Sometimes your car floods. Sometimes you have an overwhelming amount of final projects due. Sometimes your shoes are too big. Sometimes it seems like everyone knows the moves except you. Sometimes your faith wears thin. Sometimes everything you depend on falls apart. Sometimes you can’t remember how to breathe. Sometimes your vision blurs and your heart won’t stop hurting. Sometimes you have nothing else to do, but dance your head off.

And for four and a half minutes you escape into a world of thumping latino beats and swirling hip movements. And you forget. You forget that you don’t know all the moves. You forget that your shoes are too big. You forget that everyone everywhere automatically puts X’s on your hands. You forget that your world is falling apart. And you dance. And dance. And dance.

“And she is going to dance; dance hungry, dance full, dance each cold astonishing moment– now when she is young, and again when she is old.”