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Gigi

  • A creative schemer, writer, blogger, designer, lover of good food, social networker, optimizer, thinker, tear-jerker, supporter, linguist, culturally passionate, story-teller, road-biker, thoughtful, sassy, sometimes-chef, leader, listener, talker, dreamer.

    "People need stories more than bread itself. They tell us how to live, and why."
    -Arabian Nights

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  • "Surely what a man does when he is taken off guard is the best evidence for what sort of man he is...if there are rats in the cellar you are most likely to see them if you go in very suddenly. But the suddenness does not create the rates: it only prevents them from hiding." -C.S. Lewis

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July 25, 2008

Community is Generosity

I've been reading Blue Like Jazz almost every morning. Sometimes a chapter. Sometimes two. Sometimes part of one.

Today's chapter was the one about community. About living with people. Being around people. About our lives not just being some sort of play about us and only us. About treating people like people.

It made me miss the community experiences I've had. I mean, the only time I actually lived alone was in Brooklyn, New York. And then it was only for six months or something. But there's also a difference between having a roommate and having a major community experience.

I've had the latter twice.

The first time, during college, was living with five other girls in a two bedroom dorm suite. I remember being recruited by the first two girls, who were already roommates, and I said I would do it on a condition: if we opened our doors wide.

If we already were squeezing six girls into that space, why not open it up to anyone who needed community or time away from a dorm room or a bad roommate? So we duct-taped our door so it wouldn't lock. We would take the duct-tape off the door last thing before bed and put it back on first thing in the morning. With six girls and six schedules and the fact that this was college, this usually meant that the room was "closed" for business between the hours of 3AM and 6AM.

In part, this whole experience turned out to be about the girls and the time we all spent together, in pairs or all together. It was about Tana, who was very organized and made a chart so that we would all clean the room. She had to, because we were bad at that. She also was almost engaged and uncomfortable with our general need in the suite to get naked in the bedrooms and hang out. So we would plan ways to be naked when she came in. Or partly naked, really. Once we were sitting on her bed in our underwear when she came in from talking to her now-husband on the phone. She stared a moment, dropped her jaw and then turned and walked calmly out of the room.

The other girl who lived in the bedroom with me was Teresa, who is almost married now. She was the one who sat on Tana's bed with me that time. She was generally comfortable with things. And I remember that year she went through a serious heartbreak from a careless boy. But I think community helps us heal. So we all knew she would be okay. Particularly when there were nakedness pranks being played on Tana or road trips taken to Canada with backseats full of international students who slept the whole way, while Teresa and I heard the popular songs of that day 48759 times.

On the other side of the suite there was Laura, who I wouldn't want to take in a fight. She's probably the strongest girl I've ever met and doesn't know her own strength--which is scarier when you are wrestling, which us girls also had a tendency to do.

And Jenna, who I predict will be the third to get married, who was a dancer and very sweet. She was the only one who lived up to Tana's standards of cleanliness that year. And most of the conversations that her and I had were moderately serious and about Jesus or how we should live.

The last of my roommates, and the one I was and am closest to, is Grace. She was the resident hippie and artist and that was the year she went with dreadlocks. Now she goes to interior design school and dates men who wear flannel or leather and builds bikes in her spare time. She was my co-leader for a small cell group composed of girls in one of the freshmen dorms. It was a hard year for us in that group in some ways. Our girls weren't big talkers and we wanted them to be. I still don't know how to solve that problem. I think you just love people whether they talk or not. Grace and I spent a lot of time planning our talks on her bed and talking about life and the hard questions that we had about it. My most vivid memory of Grace that year, though, was her mooning us through the window when we locked her out of the suite. She mooned us right as a cop drove by and we all thought she was going to be arrested, which was an anti-climactic thing to think, as she wasn't.

For a while we also had an unofficial roommate (or several really). People who needed to sleep on our couches for one reason or another. The most prominent and long-staying was Jasmine, who I think lost her apartment that year and just wanted to graduate. She lived on our couch for something like 6 months and after that gave each of us an ivy plant. I kind of wish I had that ivy plant still, to remind me of community and generosity and that year.

The second time I lived in community was very different. I was in Denver and living off and on on Holly's couch. The reason I would consider this a major community experience is because of all the other couchsurfers that made their way through while I was there. Her door was a rotating door, people always over, in and out. She hosted a french couple while I was there, and they made us dinner almost nightly. And I let go of personal space and lent all my energy to loving people. I guess it was the same frame of mind, which is why it feels similar to college to me.

Generous with space and time and love. That's big community. Someday maybe I'll live like that again.

July 24, 2008

Love, Hate & Poisonwood

I wrote a blog entry once about the things we take with us, but really it was about definition. About how the things we choose to take with us define something about us. There was a story about something similar--I read it during college--but I didn't like it. It's called The Things They Carried and I remember thinking it was vulgar. But the premise is true. What you carry defines you.

I was thinking about this again tonight because I was reading. And when I finished the book my thoughts turned to all the books I had read in the past year or so. And how those  books, the ones I remember and the ones I love, define me. Particularly the ones that I now own.

The book I just finished was Le Petit Prince, but in English. It made me pensive. Before that was When You Are Engulfed in Flames, which is named for a headline found on a Japanese fire document in a hotel. His books make me want to write. And there's Blue Like Jazz, which I am reading for the second time and is about Jesus and people and penguin sex and carrots. And I essentially love the trueness of it.

Earlier this year there was On Beauty, by Zadie Smith, which makes you feel a lot of things and makes me think of Heinrich who gave it to me and European trains, which is mostly where I read it. The book struck me as being about humility and sin, though I think other people would feel differently.

I also read Leon Uris' Exodus while I was in Europe. I cried a lot on those train rides. Because I've always loved Jewish people and the book was real. And my heart broke a little. But I associate broken-heartedness with Europe anyway, because I knew I was leaving the man I loved at the time. I cried on planes sometimes too.

The only book I actually purchased in Europe was The Blind Assassin, which is Margaret Atwood. She also wrote The Handmaiden's Tale, which I read first and left in a hostel along the way I think. But the Blind Assassin, there's something to be said for that one. I don't even remember my surroundings: I was certainly engrossed in its three or four stories. And horrified by them, all of them, really. And, while this one is harder to pin down, I think it was about secrets. And hiding in the closet from God. Or maybe it wasn't about that: I just liked the line.

Earlier in my journey of book definition there was To Kill a Mockingbird, which is my favorite classic. And P.S. I Love You, which makes me happy more than sad and, I think, makes people believe a little more in true love when they read it. If they don't come into it with too much scorn, that is. I'm sad that they made it into a movie, which I assume is perfectly unlike the book.

Another unforgettable love affair was with Barbara Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible. I could smell Africa when I read it. Feel Africa. And I am in awe of the author's ability to be inside so many heads. So many first person narratives with different personalities to keep track of. It felt something like sheer genius to turn those pages.

Of course there was drivel along the way, as well--most of the "classics" I could actually do without, excepting Jane Austin, of course. And more fantastic books that I can't remember or don't feel like listing. But mostly I feel that my experiences define my feeling about these books and these books, in turn, define my feeling about my experiences.

And shape me. Like the things I carry.

July 22, 2008

Burning Rubber

Driving home in the ever-inexplicable Denver traffic that always somehow seems to be worse around easy curves or dips in the road (because that obviously merits slowing to 25 on the highway...ooo, a dip in the road), I saw a guy driving a nice little convertible--the kind with a fold-up soft top. This guy was weaving in and out of traffic and I only saw him for a moment, but I did notice when he lifted his hand casually out the window and tossed a half-smoked cigarette into the cleanness that is Denver.

I've never felt truly angry about littering, environmental things, etc. I mean, I recycle when I can and I don't litter and I try to live with some semblance of cleanness, but I never felt a personal anger or responsibility for anyone else's bad environmental decisions.

But at that moment, road rage that was already simmering under the surface due to the general idiocy of Denver drivers, kicked in.

First I imagined the cigarette, as it bounced off the soft hood of his fancy car, catching the roof on fire and him not noticing until the damage was major. I'm pretty sure that paying for a new roof on your expensive toy would make you think twice about tossing that cigarette out the window again.

Then I thought about speeding up and spitting my half-chewed gum onto his window. Like an extreme and moderately twisted version of that commercial where the guy makes a tree out of his neighbor's littered garbage and then puts it on his car with a note.

But that would probably become road rage war. Unless I was discreet, which isn't one of my more well-toned qualities.

So I let the little man drive away, a new cigarette likely in his hand. Maybe next time his roof will burn off. And some other indignant maybe-environmentalist will sit smugly in their car and watch.

It would be better that way, because if it really happened I would be required to feel bad for my mean thoughts.