Because I'm proud of something.
I personally recruited two counselors for primary camp at Camp Kellogg this past week. One of them was a pretty experienced counselor, I just convinced him to sign up for yet another week of camp duty. The other had little to no experience with kids, and I persuaded him that he would love camp.
When I was asked what a first-time counselor should expect, I had to pause. "Well... you'll hate kids for a little while. When, not if, that happens, take a break and maybe a nap, and you'll recover. You'll get exhausted and hot, you'll feel like you're in WAY over your head... and you won't regret it." Then I said that my experiences as a counselor have been the most fulfilling times of my life. And it's true.
There's nothing like the feeling of having someone (or eight someones) be completely dependent on you to help you grow up, fast.
I remember seeing a clogged toilet one night, and thinking, "Man, someone should take care of that..." and realizing that, finally, that person was me.
Sure, camp is fun, camp is free food, and a way to work on your tan because you're outside all the time, but it's also a lot more than that. It's a chance to focus completely on putting a child's needs before your own and to get over yourself.
There's a lot more that could be said about camp, but then again, I would never be able to say all of it.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Random but sincere spew of thoughts...
First of all, I'm sorry that I haven't posted for a while (I think that is what one is supposed to say when one abandons one's blog for a fairly long period of time).
My mother's birthday was a couple of weeks ago, and when I wrote in the card I got for my mom at Serendipity in Bend, I realized something - I hope I'm like my mom when I grow up.
Specifically, I hope that one day I can live as gratefully as my mom does. I hope I write dozens of thank you notes like she does, I hope I call people and recognize what they did like she does, and I hope I learn to be as sincerely thankful for everything, like she is.
That said, I decided to thank just a few of the people, objects, events, and other things that I'm grateful for.
My mother's birthday was a couple of weeks ago, and when I wrote in the card I got for my mom at Serendipity in Bend, I realized something - I hope I'm like my mom when I grow up.
Specifically, I hope that one day I can live as gratefully as my mom does. I hope I write dozens of thank you notes like she does, I hope I call people and recognize what they did like she does, and I hope I learn to be as sincerely thankful for everything, like she is.
That said, I decided to thank just a few of the people, objects, events, and other things that I'm grateful for.
- Toms Shoes. I'm really, really glad that there are companies like this. They give away a pair of shoes for every pair they sell to children who desperately. Also, I love the shoes themselves - they're incredibly comfortable, and I wear them with everything. Literally.
- Saturday Night Live, especially when it puts Tina Fey and Justin Bieber together, like in this sketch, Teacher. It's life-changingly hilarious!
- Car mechanics, both professional and unofficial (this includes Les Schwab men). Whether it's noticing the air in your tires is low or replacing your cat converter, they're looking out for you and your car. And it's always, always nice to be looked out for.
- Annnnnd pretty much everything else in the world.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Backwards road trip narrative
It's not really a secret that I have an intense dislike for coffee that I am not familiar with, and for coffee that comes in cans. However, my distrust of gas station coffee far outweighs those concerns, which is why I'm drinking a Starbucks doubleshot.
I'm sitting in my mothers car (because my beloved 1995 Thunderbird is in the shop, again) in front of the Pilot gas station/Subway/convenience store in Chemult.
Ten minutes before this moment, I was inside the eerily modern (because it's in Chemult) building. I held my doubleshot and my brother's gas station coffee (he has no taste, we have discussed this). I wondered if that man with the 64 oz. soda is aware that he's drinking something the size of Dwight Howard's shoulder. AKA huge. I also wondered why the music playing was such a horribly awkward combination of country and pop. Most of all, I wondered why the tinny, sugary music coming from the claw machine in the corner, when combined with the countrypop, did not cause every patron in the building to run away screaming, clutching what little was left of their sanity. I told my brother I would wait in the car.
About half an hour before that, I was headed East on the road of life. It's most commonly referred to as the North Umpqua Highway- a long long straight straight uphill uphill road that leads from Highway 97 to Diamond Lake and Crater Lake. I call it the road of life because it reminds me of life itself - the end is always so far away, until it's upon you.
For the time period between ten minutes before that and about 23 hours before that, I was at Diamond Lake with my family. It's hard to describe how I feel about that place... how do you describe your childhood best friend's house? Your favorite pet growing up? Your first car? Your favorite sweater? Your grandparents? Something that contains some of your favorite memories, sights, smells, and feelings. Everything about it is familiar, even though it has changed over time. It's a piece of you.
Probably twenty minutes before that, I was driving West on the road of life. It's the perfect end to my favorite drive - right when you hit the top, if you peek over the trees, you can catch your first glimpse of the lake. It's like coming home, every time.
Between that time and an hour and forty minutes before that time, I was enjoying the beginning and middle part of said favorite drive. I love the southbound stretch between the Baker Road exit and the High Desert Museum, and I love the view of the mountains from LaPine, and I love the wooden huge bear and logger in Crescent.
Right before that began, I filled up my travel mug with coffee.
But now, right now, my brother is coming out of the Pilot Station, and I get to finish the last leg of my trip home.
I'm sitting in my mothers car (because my beloved 1995 Thunderbird is in the shop, again) in front of the Pilot gas station/Subway/convenience store in Chemult.
Ten minutes before this moment, I was inside the eerily modern (because it's in Chemult) building. I held my doubleshot and my brother's gas station coffee (he has no taste, we have discussed this). I wondered if that man with the 64 oz. soda is aware that he's drinking something the size of Dwight Howard's shoulder. AKA huge. I also wondered why the music playing was such a horribly awkward combination of country and pop. Most of all, I wondered why the tinny, sugary music coming from the claw machine in the corner, when combined with the countrypop, did not cause every patron in the building to run away screaming, clutching what little was left of their sanity. I told my brother I would wait in the car.
About half an hour before that, I was headed East on the road of life. It's most commonly referred to as the North Umpqua Highway- a long long straight straight uphill uphill road that leads from Highway 97 to Diamond Lake and Crater Lake. I call it the road of life because it reminds me of life itself - the end is always so far away, until it's upon you.
For the time period between ten minutes before that and about 23 hours before that, I was at Diamond Lake with my family. It's hard to describe how I feel about that place... how do you describe your childhood best friend's house? Your favorite pet growing up? Your first car? Your favorite sweater? Your grandparents? Something that contains some of your favorite memories, sights, smells, and feelings. Everything about it is familiar, even though it has changed over time. It's a piece of you.
Probably twenty minutes before that, I was driving West on the road of life. It's the perfect end to my favorite drive - right when you hit the top, if you peek over the trees, you can catch your first glimpse of the lake. It's like coming home, every time.
Between that time and an hour and forty minutes before that time, I was enjoying the beginning and middle part of said favorite drive. I love the southbound stretch between the Baker Road exit and the High Desert Museum, and I love the view of the mountains from LaPine, and I love the wooden huge bear and logger in Crescent.
Right before that began, I filled up my travel mug with coffee.
But now, right now, my brother is coming out of the Pilot Station, and I get to finish the last leg of my trip home.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
How the hardware department changed my life
It hit me, while standing with my father in the hardware department of Fred Meyers at approximately 9:46 AM on this crisp, bright Thursday morning - "I've heard this song before."
The previously mentioned song, though it is more of a ballad, is played on the store speakers, and it echoes off of the linoleum floor, which is almost entirely absent of the presence of feet (because who goes to the hardware department of Fred Meyer at this time of day?).
I have heard this ballad performed, live, by the artist who wrote it, twice.
And I have heard the story of the painful experience about which the song was written, and the emotional toll that the writing of the song took, and the peace that was brought about by the writing being completed and shared.
Now that writing, that story, that song, is being played in the hardware department of Fred Meyers at 9:46 AM on a Thursday.
The speakers of a chain grocery store are in control of someone's life experience.
Because of those speakers, every single shopper in Fred Meyer got to hear about the experience, and it's likely that no one else knew the story of the artist or of the song.
This terrified me, absolutely shook me to my core.
And here is why: everyone was free to develop their own interpretation of the song. They could mangle the words, twist them, scalp them and burn them alive, and the artist would never know. Those words could be abused or misconstrued, they could be taken out of context or laughed at. They could even be ignored.
However, this begs the question: "If it's not your song, why are you so worried about it?"
The truth is that it IS my song.
Not in the literal sense - I don't write songs, and I certainly don't sing. But if a story like the one told in the song can be written, recorded, and played on speakers at 9:46 AM in the hardware department of Fred Meyers, what does that mean for what I write? What about what YOU write, what you paint, what you do? Every concern I had about the public's interpretation of the song being played over the store speakers could be projected onto what I do.
That's what is so freeing and so scary about writing, and then sharing what you write - you have to accept the fact that people will develop their own interpretation of what you say.
When a freight train of thought like the one described above screams through your mind, all you want is cup of coffee #3. As your father selects his solid brass latch and you proceed to head to the checkout, you pass by the books and are suddenly seized by the idea that writing cheesy and sensationalistic novels about vampires would be so much easier than writing about your own life and thoughts. When you pass through the automatic doors, you question the act of using words at all - maybe you should take up interpretive dancing. Then no one could use your words against you.
When I have brief but chilling bouts with doubt about my decision to share what I write, I am reminded of something God said to me a few years ago.
He didn't write it in the clouds, he didn't use FedEx to send me a scroll, I didn't even have a prophetic dream. It was just a statement that I found tattooed on my soul one day. "Jazmin, you are a writer. Writers write."
I think that everyone has something in their life like this, something that both terrifies them and helps them overcome their terror. Something they didn't ask for and can't escape. Something they can't live without. Something that is simultaneously one of your greatest blessings and your greatest curse.
And I'd bet that the artist who wrote the song that I heard at 9:46 this morning while standing in the hardware department of Fred Meyer would feel the same way about her songs that I do about my words.
I don't know if you have found that thing yet. If you haven't, don't give up on it. If you have, run with it. Find what it is you love to do, and do it.
(I'm sorry if this blog is harder to follow than others - I suggest reading it again, slowly.)
The previously mentioned song, though it is more of a ballad, is played on the store speakers, and it echoes off of the linoleum floor, which is almost entirely absent of the presence of feet (because who goes to the hardware department of Fred Meyer at this time of day?).
I have heard this ballad performed, live, by the artist who wrote it, twice.
And I have heard the story of the painful experience about which the song was written, and the emotional toll that the writing of the song took, and the peace that was brought about by the writing being completed and shared.
Now that writing, that story, that song, is being played in the hardware department of Fred Meyers at 9:46 AM on a Thursday.
The speakers of a chain grocery store are in control of someone's life experience.
Because of those speakers, every single shopper in Fred Meyer got to hear about the experience, and it's likely that no one else knew the story of the artist or of the song.
This terrified me, absolutely shook me to my core.
And here is why: everyone was free to develop their own interpretation of the song. They could mangle the words, twist them, scalp them and burn them alive, and the artist would never know. Those words could be abused or misconstrued, they could be taken out of context or laughed at. They could even be ignored.
However, this begs the question: "If it's not your song, why are you so worried about it?"
The truth is that it IS my song.
Not in the literal sense - I don't write songs, and I certainly don't sing. But if a story like the one told in the song can be written, recorded, and played on speakers at 9:46 AM in the hardware department of Fred Meyers, what does that mean for what I write? What about what YOU write, what you paint, what you do? Every concern I had about the public's interpretation of the song being played over the store speakers could be projected onto what I do.
That's what is so freeing and so scary about writing, and then sharing what you write - you have to accept the fact that people will develop their own interpretation of what you say.
When a freight train of thought like the one described above screams through your mind, all you want is cup of coffee #3. As your father selects his solid brass latch and you proceed to head to the checkout, you pass by the books and are suddenly seized by the idea that writing cheesy and sensationalistic novels about vampires would be so much easier than writing about your own life and thoughts. When you pass through the automatic doors, you question the act of using words at all - maybe you should take up interpretive dancing. Then no one could use your words against you.
When I have brief but chilling bouts with doubt about my decision to share what I write, I am reminded of something God said to me a few years ago.
He didn't write it in the clouds, he didn't use FedEx to send me a scroll, I didn't even have a prophetic dream. It was just a statement that I found tattooed on my soul one day. "Jazmin, you are a writer. Writers write."
I think that everyone has something in their life like this, something that both terrifies them and helps them overcome their terror. Something they didn't ask for and can't escape. Something they can't live without. Something that is simultaneously one of your greatest blessings and your greatest curse.
And I'd bet that the artist who wrote the song that I heard at 9:46 this morning while standing in the hardware department of Fred Meyer would feel the same way about her songs that I do about my words.
I don't know if you have found that thing yet. If you haven't, don't give up on it. If you have, run with it. Find what it is you love to do, and do it.
(I'm sorry if this blog is harder to follow than others - I suggest reading it again, slowly.)
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
From where I sit, life is a parade.
There were two boys who walked by, in jeans that were unnecessarily baggy, huge sunglasses, and baseball caps. Everything was hunky dory until they started talking - "Aiiiiighhht dawg, whurd chu geht dem shews? Whurd chu get dem? Aiiiiigghhh, ah se ya laahterrr!!"
I barely resisted the urge to ask if their mama ever told them they were white, or that they live in Bend, where nobody, absolutely NOBODY, is a legit gangsta, boi.
I spend enough time at Bellatazza that I have started to make friends with the other regulars. Chuck, a distinguished older gentleman who always has a golden retriever with him, is also rooting for the Celtics. However, we agree that the Lakers will win game six tonight in LA, which will make my wish for a game seven come true.
Teenage girls walk by in chattering, arm waving, giggling, texting waves. I'm struck by the fact that after a while - they all look the same. It's not that everybody is wearing identical cardigans or the same shade of gray, or that or even that the entire population's jeans have the same wash. You see, there is such a wide variety of fashions being worn right now that nobody looks unique. Looking "different" has become the trend, and so everyone looks the same because everyone different. There is nothing that isn't being done by someone else. Out is in, in is in, everything is in. Literally, everything. The athletic look, the indie look, the hipster look, the "I don't give a ****" look.... everything is everywhere, and it's all started to get so mashed together that the only way to stick out is to run around naked.
There are also dozens of little kids accompanied with their parents. I love seeing them the most, because their smiles are genuine. They're not concerned about mortgage payments or final grades, they couldn't care less about what he said to her last night.
Even the bird that keeps fluttering around by my table has joined the parade of life that walks by me - he makes everybody smile.
You can learn a lot about people from watching them watch other people.
For example, I just saw a guy and girl cross the street. When a car waved them across, he put his hand on the small of her back, as if to make sure she wouldn't stumble. He was looking out for her.
Other groups of people are constantly looking around for someone they know, someone to say hello to. A walk down the street is a social occurrence in their life, and they're ready to make the most of it.
Even as I write this, there is a couple sitting at the counter behind me, and I'm sure they're wondering what I've been writing.
That's one of the things I love about life - someone is watching you watch someone else who is watching that other guy. I love it because it means that in some small way, we're all the same.
I barely resisted the urge to ask if their mama ever told them they were white, or that they live in Bend, where nobody, absolutely NOBODY, is a legit gangsta, boi.
I spend enough time at Bellatazza that I have started to make friends with the other regulars. Chuck, a distinguished older gentleman who always has a golden retriever with him, is also rooting for the Celtics. However, we agree that the Lakers will win game six tonight in LA, which will make my wish for a game seven come true.
Teenage girls walk by in chattering, arm waving, giggling, texting waves. I'm struck by the fact that after a while - they all look the same. It's not that everybody is wearing identical cardigans or the same shade of gray, or that or even that the entire population's jeans have the same wash. You see, there is such a wide variety of fashions being worn right now that nobody looks unique. Looking "different" has become the trend, and so everyone looks the same because everyone different. There is nothing that isn't being done by someone else. Out is in, in is in, everything is in. Literally, everything. The athletic look, the indie look, the hipster look, the "I don't give a ****" look.... everything is everywhere, and it's all started to get so mashed together that the only way to stick out is to run around naked.
There are also dozens of little kids accompanied with their parents. I love seeing them the most, because their smiles are genuine. They're not concerned about mortgage payments or final grades, they couldn't care less about what he said to her last night.
Even the bird that keeps fluttering around by my table has joined the parade of life that walks by me - he makes everybody smile.
You can learn a lot about people from watching them watch other people.
For example, I just saw a guy and girl cross the street. When a car waved them across, he put his hand on the small of her back, as if to make sure she wouldn't stumble. He was looking out for her.
Other groups of people are constantly looking around for someone they know, someone to say hello to. A walk down the street is a social occurrence in their life, and they're ready to make the most of it.
Even as I write this, there is a couple sitting at the counter behind me, and I'm sure they're wondering what I've been writing.
That's one of the things I love about life - someone is watching you watch someone else who is watching that other guy. I love it because it means that in some small way, we're all the same.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Milestones.
Marriage. Graduating. Babies. Moving out. Moving in. Leaving. Coming home. Taking a step. Sitting down. Careers beginning. Careers ending. Success. Failure. Success disguised as failure. Failure disguised as success. Falling in love. Discovering love wasn’t what you thought it was. Buying new shoes. Deciding not to wear shoes. Lemonade stands. Death.I do not want to get to the end of my life and find that I just lived the length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well. -Diane Ackerman
Milestone. A word easily tossed into a speech or hastily scribbled in a card. A milestone can take many forms and wear many faces - they can be kept secret, or publicized on the radio. You have them, I have them, our parents have them, probably even our dogs have them, whatever a milestone for a dog may be. They are proof that you have made some sort of movement, that you have stirred from your ordinary life at some point to try doing something different. Often a milestone is planned, and is accompanied by printed paper announcements, ceremonies, and posed photos. Milestones can also be unexpected, brought about by surprise promotions or pink slips, results from a test, or a sudden change in a relationship.
The past few months have brought with them many milestones for the people in my life. A dear friend and a cousin became wives, others became mothers, fathers, and fiancés. Others have graduated from kindergarten, high school, and college. “Love” has been declared, “love” has ended, friendships and people have changed.
And I have watched it all happen with an eyebrow raised and a question in my mind: “When did we get here?”
A friend told me yesterday that I can be “so logical and slightly pessimistic sometimes.” I won’t deny it. I also have a bad habit of answering my own questions. The combination of those two things gives me the short answer to the queries above: I don’t know, and those questions don’t matter, because there’s nothing I can do about it.
The longer answer comes from my sentimental, optimistic side: The “when” isn’t the most important thing - it’s that it happened. All we can do is decide what milestones we want to have in our lives, and to seek them out. Run after what you want in life, and allow your dreams to change, because they will.
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