Day 18: I Looked at Other People's Wedding Photos, Then at the Sky, and Felt Genuinely Happy

Subchallenge: I Blogged About My Personal Life

This post is a difficult one, and one I don't want to write, but I knew starting out that this reflection would be one of the most important ones for me. I wrote in my first post about the expectations and pressures that I felt accompanied a thirtieth birthday. I considered the milestones that a self-respecting 30 year old woman would have reached. Many of those expectations have never troubled me: as a vegetarian, I'm exempt from knowing how to perfectly roast a chicken, and I'm content not to have to worry about a mortgage or the finance costs that would accompany my first million dollars. But it is not easy to shake off the expectation that I should be married. 

When I first moved to That City North of Here to start grad school, I noticed other women riding the train with their gloves off and their left hands holding the poles, rings prominently displayed. It was the most visual example I'd seen of the status conferred by a relationship: here was the sparkling proof that someone found this woman so fabulous and worthy that he'd invested thousands of dollars in a slim band and small stone; though he might not be on the train now he existed and there was the proof. Then, that spring, I joined Facebook and became aware of a whole new kind of visual proof of someone's worth:

Or even worse:

and I wrestled with the need to prove to other women on the train or to long-lost classmates that I was worth as much as they were. In fact, I asked myself if I wanted to be in a relationship just to be able to prove my worth. 

Of course, some of the pressure I felt was external - the need to meet others' expectations of what a balanced, successful, mature, and polished young woman should be - but a lot of the pressure I felt came from my own expectations of adulthood. Although I worried that other people would think I was inferior without the right ring or relationship status, I didn't necessarily think I was inferior for not having them. Instead, I wanted to be in a relationship in order to share what I experienced intimately with another person, whether those were major milestones or passing moments, whether they were joyful or painful, intense or ordinary. 

In the years that followed my life has been very rich. When I think about the time that's passed since I first cried over this in That City North of Here, I almost cry again - but out of thankfulness. I have survived not one but four hurricanes, gotten two pet hermit crabs, eaten plates of boiled shrimp on the deck of a boat in a wide-open bayou; caught strands of beads under the branches of live oaks; driven twice across the country, once as winter clouds settled over the hills of northern Alabama and snow drifted over the mountains of Tennessee; biked around Central Park and snorkeled in Iceland; eaten spicy Vietnamese sandwiches, po'boys, and Danish smørrebrød; planted two gardens, and held my  best friend's newborn daughter. I am so lucky and so alive. I have shared some of these experiences with a boyfriend, and others I've experienced on my own. But as I look back I see that I have experienced each one fully. Each one, along with the more ordinary ones not listed here, has made me the person I am now, turning 30, more self-assured, more fully myself, and yet still eager for new experiences.

Day 18, however, put me to the test. I had spent the previous day on the verge of tears after meeting with my ex-boyfriend. (Yes, Mom, I do hear your voice saying, "I don't know what all this "hanging out" with someone you broke up with is about.") After a couple of confusing conversations, we agreed, with finality, that while we missed each other we weren't right for each other, and that was that. I mourned the loss of his company, the lost chance, and the lost sense of security that came from believing we'd be together. While I knew that this was the right decision, I didn't want to let go. I also knew that by letting go I was accepting the risk that I might not find those experiences of intimacy and partnership again.

On Thursday morning I woke up and checked Facebook, always a risk. The night before, in a moment of tear-stained bitterness, I had considered deleting my account and never having to see anyone's engagement announcements or baby pictures again. I'm glad I decided not to. The top story in my news feed that morning was a college friend posting the full portfolio of her professional wedding pictures. I made myself look at them: she posed on a stone staircase with her train sweeping behind her, and smiled through her tears when she saw the groom waiting at the altar. The whole wedding party grinned and laughed on the roof of the building, with the skyline of their city behind them. And as I looked at her smile and her sparkling eyes, I felt happy, and I felt my heart open a little, and I knew that my happiness, within my sorrow, could be genuine.

But the challenge wasn't over. As I got ready to leave for work, I noticed that the stems of milkweed seed pods I'd gotten the week before: 

had broken open, and the seeds and tufts were floating across my living room: 

I immediately thought about my ex-boyfriend and wanted to tell him about the amazing example of the natural world making itself known right before me, and then remembered that I couldn't. I felt frustrated and adrift: what was the point of seeing something if I couldn't tell someone about it? What was the point of laughing or smiling if I laughed or smiled alone? What good was learning something new or hearing an amazing song if I didn't have a partner* to tell how it moved me? 

*Please, for the sake of this post, try not to remember that "partner" has become such a dorky, cheesy word, and try to see it in its best, fullest light.

I left the apartment and waited for my bus, looking up at the sky and across the street to the church. The sky was bright blue, not too deep, and a flock of pigeons burst from an apartment building and scattered above the church's peaked roof. My breath caught in my throat at the beauty of the sky and the birds, and at the pain of having no one to see them with. My eyes were downcast with bitterness, but then I felt God's presence, quietly and shyly, and I knew I hadn't seen them alone.

I've noticed that the standard breakup response from well-wishers is, "Don't worry - everything will be all right because you'll find someone who's (more) right for you." While I appreciate the kindness and optimism at the root of that response, here's the deal: I might not find that someone. And that's not pessimistic. This is the most optimistic, faithful, and true response: No matter what, everything will be okay. My worth isn't proven by the way I hold my hand on the subway or by what's posted on my Facebook page. My experiences have intrinsic worth that is not lessened by the fact that I've experienced many of them on my own.

There is deep joy in sharing our experiences with one another and in living in solidarity. I am so grateful for that blessing, any way it has come. But every experience, even those of loneliness, solitude, and quiet, has blessed me. Each experience has the potential to refine me into the person God calls me to be, to make me more fully alive and more fully myself. And for that I am giving thanks.

Day 17: Challenge Met!

One joke challenge that I set for myself was to not, at any time during the month of October, consume an entire package of candy corn in one sitting (or one day). Candy corn are my special birthday treat, which in my mind are made available in stores not to celebrate Hallowe'en or the fall harvest but to celebrate me. (I suppose if I were Queen Victoria that would be a more realistic expectation.) Therefore, my mouth is to candy corn what a vacuum hose is to dust particles. But here it is! The morning sunlight shining on a few remaining kernels, the living photographic proof that I did not eat the whole bag.

Day 13: I Discovered a Day-Trip Hike in New York

I've been longing to do this since I came to New York! Before I moved here, I lived in a rural area that abounded in natural beauty, and as I drove to and fro, I caught glimpses of scenery through my windshield — of shrimp boats resting in glassy bayous, their nets catching the falling sunlight, or of goldenrod and saw palmettos crowding around pools and arching underneath cypress trees. Despite the beauty of the scenery, however, I felt disconnected from nature because it was difficult to find places where I could hike, swim, or explore on my own. When I moved to New York, I was excited at the possibility of taking the commuter rail to various trailheads and parks outside the city. 

There was a rumor about that a couple of friends would be interested in doing just that on Saturday. As the day approached, I began to feel a familiar sense of anxiety that no plans had been made. Would the rumor remain a rumor? Would we hold off on making the plans until after we had already slept in on Saturday morning, thus rendering our trip an impossibility? As I finished my work on Thursday, I made a mental note to address this lapse AS SOON AS I returned home. Then I remembered my epiphany from Day 5: "My compulsion to be busy adds tension to my life and my relationships," and I decided to take that prescribed chill pill, and trust that the trip would happen.

As it happened, the trip didn't quite happen. A couple of friends decided that the hike would make it difficult for them to get to a family party later in the evening, and my best friend and I, worn out by the karaoke marathon of the previous night, had decided to leave the planning for the morning. When we woke up on Saturday, she was worried about her work schedule and needed to check her email and make plans for the coming week. I sat down to research commuter rail day trips, discovered how long the trips would be, and calculated how much time we would need to pack lunches, get dressed, and copy down directions and maps. We were a bit of a cyclone of anxiety and nail-biting. 

Finally, as if an angel had trumpeted the idea into my ear directly from heaven, I remembered a park in the Bronx, an easy subway ride away, that was bigger and more wild than Central Park, which I had not yet explored. Suddenly buoyed by this discovery, we finished our breakfast and chores; we picked out scarves and sweaters with relish; filled up our travel mugs and set off for Bronx.

What a beautiful, delightful, peaceful hike we had! We discovered rose-red mitten leaves fallen on the trail; paused to look at a pond through the trees; saw the sunlight cascade over a bank of smart weed, and posed for a bajillion pictures in our stylish autumn scarves. We walked clear across the park and came out dangerously close to the neighborhood where I'd had the hurling coaching course the week before, so I lured my friend to the Irish grocery store where we stocked up on sweets, crisps, and fresh-baked bread. 

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:

I had been really looking forward to this hike, so I struggled not to feel anxious about its happening. It would have been easy to let that anxiety cascade into grumpiness and resentment (which, I won't lie, I've done before). And in a lot of ways, this required being considerate. Several of my friends needed to take the time to be with their families instead of going on the hike. And since my friend was feeling worried about getting organized for her upcoming work week, I wanted to find a way to have an adventure that help her to feel refreshed and ready for the week, not a lengthy trip that would take away from her ability to do that. It's not so much that I went outside my comfort zone, but that I had to go outside my own desires and plans in order to invite and honor others. 

WHAT I LEARNED:

Sometimes you've got to plan ahead. My sort-of anxiety about making plans has been a major theme for me this year, and caused conflict in my relationship. I've noticed that I tend to get nervous when the weekend approaches and I haven't done sufficient research on all of the possibilities. I suppose I also consider my expensive New York rent to include a premium for the opportunities that living in New York allows. I'm not just paying for a place to lay my head and nearly-unlimited hot water, but also for access to museums, parks, Malaysian restaurants, and drum circles in Union Square. I feel a compulsion to get my money's worth by going for walks, trying out new food trucks, and generally staying busy.

Last week I learned that I need to relax and need to enjoy down time. I decided that I could put that lesson into action by not hurrying into plans for the hike. However, I learned this weekend that, sometimes, things don't get done if no one plans ahead. I enjoy adventure; I enjoy researching possibilities, figuring out the best route, and exploring every option. Planning ahead can be a gift; it can be the impetus that gets the group of friends together and lays the foundation for a good time. But a good time starts with an invitation, and the best invitation is one of joy, not one of anxiety. I need to acknowledge my gift for making plans and use it in a way that serves my relationships instead of taking away from them.

Day 12: We Rocked the Socks off a Karaoke Box

We had to danceoke to "Gangnam Style" because we can't sing in Korean.

This has been one of the highlights of my ongoing birthday celebrations: a few of my friends and I reserved a spot at a karaoke bar, a Korean style noraebang with private suites. We settled into the couches, flipped open the binders, lined up our favorite songs, and got to singing. It was like singing in the shower, or while vacuuming (one of my favorite pastimes), only with a disco ball and microphones. And if you took a shower or vacuumed for three hours.  My friends were very enthusiastic and brought such good cheer and true joy to our experience together.  

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:

Did I mention this was the most amazing thing ever? Yeah, I was in my element.

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY: 

When I posted photos from this extravaganza on Facebook, I started to caption them "private karaoke booth," and then deleted the "private." It just sounded too pretentious. I've never been comfortable with ostentation or special treatment - and fortunately, that's not too often a concern for me! But having a private karaoke suite for myself and my friends made me feel like royalty, or at least aristocracy. 

When my friends agreed to come along to the karaoke bar to celebrate my birthday with me, and when they unabashedly and happily joined in the singing, I felt honored, happy, and humbled. I realize now that this is what made me truly privileged: the company of good friends who truly wanted me to enjoy this birthday celebration. 

A few times in the past year I've felt so humbled by the blessings in my life, so undeserving of the graces that are given to me. I learned at this karaoke party that I want to give the people in my life the same chance to feel special, honored, and lifted up; to give them true and sincere friendship; to bring them joy.

Day 11: I Walked Across the George Washington Bridge

 Oh, it dawned a beautiful morning. I woke up to the delightful surprise that my building's super had chosen this day to turn the heat on, and the sun was shining clear beams along our street. The cozy, peaceful feeling stayed with me as I bundled into a thermal shirt and chunky sweater for this morning's challenge: a bright and early walk across the George Washington Bridge.

I have been looking forward to walking across the bridge, but I knew it would be a different experience from walking across the Golden Gate Bridge or the Brooklyn Bridge. There's no manicured garden at the lead up; no wooden promenade crowded with pedestrians. No crowds are waiting to rent bicycles; no one is fingering a ring in his pocket or getting down on one knee in the center.  This is a business bridge. 

Unfortunately, sometimes that's the business of dying. I have a friend who has always hated this bridge; a teacher at her high school in Brooklyn jumped from the bridge while she was a student. It wasn't until she found a job in Northern Manhattan that the bridge was a landmark in every day life, no longer looming as a reminder of death. I remembered her teacher this morning, as well as Tyler Clementi, who committed suicide the same fall that I moved to New York. So while I set off on my challenge this morning, I wasn't just thinking of my own journey between New York and New Jersey but of the others who have been drawn to the bridge for far more difficult journeys.

The sun was bright as I stepped onto the walkway, burning golden outlines around passersby and pilings. It speckled the apartment buildings below me and sprayed across the tops of trees. To the north, the Palisades faded into the water. Headlights twinkled from the Henry Hudson Parkway through a break in the trees. To the south, trucks passed by, carrying milk, produce, or machinery into Manhattan. The smog from their tails floated around us, making my head hurt, and clinging to the skyline.

Just before the first tower, I stopped and looked at the rocks below. I held my camera and took some shots of the logs lying against the rocks and a little island that stood in the breakers. I stepped out from behind a pole and back onto the walkway and saw a security guard walking towards me, ashen and with purpose. Then he looked relieved and said, "I didn't see the camera in your hand. When you stopped there I was scared. We have a lot of suicides here. I was scared."

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:
This challenge felt like a physical feat. It was cold and windy, and the smog from the passing traffic almost made me turn around.

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:
The line that separates us life from death and us from one another is thin. When the security guard told me he was scared for my safety, the thought crossed my mind - but, surely he doesn't think I look like I would kill myself. Of course, I realized, anyone could look like that.

Anyone could be, at any moment, the person in danger or in need. And that person could easily be me. I know I have struggled and suffered, been burdened with sadness. My life, for all its tremendous blessings, has had low moments and dark nights. But I'm still here, still living. What makes me different from those who couldn't go on? Am I braver, or stronger, or smarter, or wiser? I don't think that I am. I feel the grip of providence and grace. And I want that grace for the others, too.

When I started this project, I considered asking my readers to contribute to a relavant cause or charity each day, and then I decided I didn't want to do even that. I wanted to let the blog be just for your enjoyment, no strings attached. (I hope it's that!) But today I decided to make an exception. If you'd like, find out how you can help to prevent suicide.

Day 9: My challenge was rained out.

I could have done today's challenge in the rain and the wind, but it really will be so much nicer in pleasant weather, which we're due for on Thursday.

Day 8: I Ate Fish Balls in Flushing Chinatown

On Monday I headed to Flushing's Chinatown in search of exotic delights for my tummy. I've heard that the best, most authentic food, no matter what it is, is in Queens. If you want it, it's on the 7-train from Times Square to Flushing. Street food from Ecuador's coast? Head to Jackson Heights. Transylvanian pastries dusted with cocoa? Get off at Long Island City. Thai curries washed down with a pint of Guinness? Woodside's your best bet. And Flushing's Chinatown is legendary. 

My plan was to wander into restaurants, point to a picture of an unknown dish, and be served some sort of new discovery. Though I'm mostly vegetarian, I allow myself an exception known as my Cultural Experience Card; I will eat meat if it's part of a unique cross-cultural or global or heritage experience.  (I also have a Hospitality and Solidarity Card that I use when I'm a guest and don't want to refuse or impose on my hosts.) So I was all set to test my nerve and eat whatever dish or meat I encountered, trusting fate and my stomach.

Unfortunately, I failed. The first restaurant I came to had been reviewed favorably for its red peppercorn dumplings, but when they arrived, they were red pepper flake dumplings, an exact pork-filled replica of the mock pork dumplings at my favorite vegetarian dim sum place in Manhattan. From there on, every menu I encountered was in English. If I ordered the intestines simmered in mustard sauce intentionally, I wouldn't be trusting fate.

After my dumpling disappointment, the hardest part of the challenge was resisting the urge to get back on the train to Sunnyside for a pint and some Irish groceries. Instead, I walked up and down Flushing's Main Street. I stopped for spicy fish balls on a stick and a tiny, walnut-filled moon cake (both new dishes after all). The clouds were beginning to gather and the wind turned as I wandered, letting me know that autumn was here to stay.

Day 7: I Checked Out a Banned Book

At the beginning of the week, my friend posted a link to the American Library Association's Banned Books Week, which took place the first week of October, and supports the freedom to express and encounter "unpopular and unorthodox ideas."  I decided to undertake my most rebellious* challenge yet and read a banned or challenged book.

Yesterday afternoon was grey but bright, and the sunlight still came through the tall windows of the third-floor reading room as I perused the stacks. As soon as I looked at the ALA's list of banned classics, I realized how many had been on our reading lists at school: I'd already read To Kill a Mockingbird, 1984, Brave New World, Animal Farm, The Call of the Wild (!?) and The Catcher in the Rye, as well as parts of Catch-22 and Beloved. My trip down the stacks was, however, the first time I'd picked up a book specifically because it had been challenged.

I spent several uncomfortable minutes in the stacks. Although I wanted to choose a book that would broaden my perspective, I couldn't, for example, bring myself to pick up Lolita. It may be a "profound meditation on the meaning of love," as its jacket attests, but I just - see, I'm uncomfortable even writing about it. As I read the jacket, I found myself thinking, "Maybe this is obscene. Maybe some books should be banned." 

I struggled with Huckleberry Finn as well. This is the book that immediately comes to mind when I think of a banned classic, but I'm not sure what exactly about the book's portrayal of race relations makes it controversial. Was it too anti-slavery for its time? Or is it too insensitive and brash for our time? Or is it controversial in that in mentions race at all? I held the modern version in one hand and a reprint of the original in the other. If I read a sanitized version, what was the point, but on the other hand, if I selected the original version specifically because it hadn't been scrubbed of racial slurs, wasn't I being a bit sensationalist? So I put both versions back. 

I eventually left with two books I hadn't read before but interested me: Lord of the Flies and The Grapes of Wrath. 

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:

I was taken back to the debates we'd had in my introductory philosophy course about censorship, free speech, and obscenity when I considered Lolita. There might be a redeeming message in what, from my perspective, is a story about sexual abuse. Is portraying a sexual abuser as a protagonist obscene? I don't know. Should Lolita be banned or censored? No, I don't believe so. Should it be promoted? Maybe not - but if it's not, and no one reads it, does that amount to censorship? Hmm. So, uncomfortable.

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:

The freedom to read is a right. It is threatened by both censorship and illiteracy. I don't think it's a terribly novel idea that people who can't read don't have any power. Both censorship and illiteracy keep people from encountering ideas that could free them.

*I actually think I'm fairly rebellious, but I prefer my rebellion to come in more subtle ways.

Day 6: I Became the World's Most Unlikely Hurling Coach

Wow, today was quite a day. I'm the good kind of tired and my head is still spinning. On the spur of the moment, I attended a training course for coaches of hurling and camogie,* national sports of Ireland.  I have now completed my foundational level of certification for official Gaelic Athletic Association coaches. Believe me, I'm laughing good-naturedly at this. Attending this course was definitely a stretch (to say the least!) as I'm not particularly athletic and have only been playing camogie for a few months. But it gave me the chance to examine my relationship to organized sports and my place in the Irish diaspora.

The day began with registration at an Irish bar outside the city - at 9:30 AM. As I rode out of my neighborhood, with its fruit stalls, bachata music, and Dominican hair salons opening up for early morning clients, I felt a sense of flux. My feet were in two worlds, between my neighborhood's Irish past and Latino present; my family's Celtic heritage and the Latino community I've worked hard to learn about and serve through my career. My feelings of displacement continued when I arrived at the bar: I was the only woman there and the only American (besides some American born sons of Irish coaches). As I waited for the course to begin, I felt the unsettling feeling of not getting the jokes, or getting them a beat too late. I felt ridiculous, out of place, like an impostor.

As the course began, though, I felt my anxieties melt away, and I became caught up in the sessions. Our tutor, who had flown in from Galway especially for our course, emphasized the Gaelic Athletic Association's philosophy of keeping players involved, focusing on fun, and tailoring training to the players' motor, intellectual, and social development. I found that my background in training volunteers had natural parallels to coaching. And when I mock-coached a module on jab lifts, the much more experienced hurlers in the group listened patiently, encouragingly, and sincerely. 

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:

I felt like an outsider and an impostor, neither sufficiently Irish nor sufficiently athletic to be a camogie coach. I hope that my participation today will allow me to help my club to recruit more women for our camogie team; while I learned a lot, I still have a lot to learn and a lot of improving to do.

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:

To get and keep people involved, make things fun and engaging. Gaelic games (Gaelic football, hurling, camogie, and handball) are heritage sports in Ireland that are up against competition from glamorous soccer and rugby; in America, they compete with those sports as well as football, basketball, lacrosse, and others. Promoting Gaelic games means fostering an environment in which everyone who wants to play has a chance to participate and contribute, and all enjoy their time on the pitch. And that foundation is necessary in order to build higher levels of play and exciting All-Ireland Finals that the whole country (and diaspora) want to watch. This has obvious parallels for my work recruiting, training, and supporting volunteers.

*(If you've not seen hurling or camogie played before, now's your chance! )

Day 5: I Did Nothing, and I Liked It.

Today I woke up feeling like I needed to use my self-care exception, surprisingly. I had the day off so I ran a few errands, talked to my mom, and took a three hour nap. When I woke up I was feeling fresh and ready to go to the gym (success!) and do some cleaning. Throughout the rest of my day, I had to resist the ideas that kept popping into my head: Maybe I'll see if my roommates want to go the bar! Maybe I'll go shopping for a new pair of yoga pants! Instead, I'm going to enjoy doing NOTHING.

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:
I thought today would be a day off from the Exercises, but I'm realizing that doing nothing is truly hard for me. I struggle to believe that a day off is not wasted if I've spent it in my apartment or in my neighborhood. I struggle to believe that a nap isn't wasted sunshine. And it took real effort to resist the urge to fill up my evening with plans and excursions.

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:
I need to take a chill pill. I've liked to be active and to explore since I was a kid, and I'm proud of the adventurous, curious heart that I've cultivated. I moved to New York because of this spirit; now that I'm here I treat my weekends as never-to-be repeated opportunities for discovery.  But my compulsion to be busy adds tension to my life and to my relationships.

Day 4: I Rode My Bicycle and I Did Not Die

I begin an attempt to carry my bike down the stairs.

Longtime readers of my photography blog will know that I am abjectly terrified of my bicycle, or rather, of riding it. I grew up in nice little suburb that undertook a massive bicycle lane improvement project when I was in high school. So, by the time I was ready to graduate from riding my bike in endless loops around my subdivision to riding it to a summer job, I could travel the entire journey in a wide, well-marked bike lane. 

Now that I live in New York, though, I never, ever ride my bike in traffic. This is a totally inhospitable environment! I'd be crazy to want to wrangle my bike through these streets. Basically, its existence consists of having its tired pumped up, being escorted down several blocks of sidewalk and over a footbridge to a dedicated bicycle path, going for a twenty minute ride when it finally feels the wind through its spokes and on the little waving fronds of rubber that have still not worn off the tires, and returning to the hallway of my apartment, where its tires promptly deflate and it lies dormant for another four to six months.

A car drives over the ostensible bike lane. This is what I'm talking about.

This began to strike me as ridiculous. It's not like me to be dissuaded by fear; I think the proper amount of caution allows me to be safely adventurous. My inability to climb up a sheer face of ice was not really a damper on my everyday life but I decided to traverse a glacier in Iceland anyway; my refusal to ride my bike is, in fact, inhibiting me. It's silly to let this fear go on any longer. 

I'm going to get on it! I'm going to ride it! 

So I chose this morning for my ride, knowing that the time of day would provide the right number of challenges on my block. The produce truck would be unloading at the 24-hour mini mart downstairs, and a few taxi drivers would be waiting at the stand, but the traffic wouldn't yet be bad. I plotted my route so that I'd have only right turns and I'd avoid the steep inclines closer to the river. I pumped up both tires, grabbed my helmet, and wrestled my bike down the staircase. At the bottom I noticed my yoga pants were smeared with bicycle grease and a thick layer of dust.

And then I was off! Things were terribly awkward and wobbly for the first stretch, but I got into my groove a few pedals in. Although my plan was to go only once around the block, I went twice! And I liked it!

The fearless adventurer returns home.

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:

Um, I risked my life. 

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:

I am invincible!

I realised that I can't wait around until conditions are perfectly right before undertaking a project, task, or challenge.  They never will be. The road will never be completely free of cars, garbage trucks, and potholes, but I don't have to wait until then to ride my bike.

Day 3: I (Gasp!) Promoted My Project

Today's challenge should have been easy, and really, it's not very exciting. I decided that I would promote my project by tweeting to (hopefully) a larger audience. I chose a magazine, literary magazine, and Ignatian spirituality organization that I feel are connected to the goals of my project, and sent short tweets inviting them to follow the adventure.

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:
Sure, it's all fun and games when your best friend, roommates, and parents are reading about the project. But exposing my vulnerable and perhaps ridiculous quest to complete strangers is upping the ante. I am still questioning whether self-promotion of this sort is narcissistic or simply a welcome invitation to others who might enjoy the blog.

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:
If a blog that showcases puddles in the shape of animals can get a book deal (okay, that hasn't quite happened, but it's really only a matter of time), then anything can. But tweeting about my project drove home the truth that my project's worth doesn't depend on how many readers or followers I have.

Day 2: I Started the Actual Spiritual Exercises

Guess what! After I hatched the plan for my Birthday Exercises, I found out I'd have the opportunity to undertake the actual Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola! The annotation my cohort is using was designed by St. Ignatius for busy ordinary working folk who weren't able to go on retreat for 30 straight days. Instead, the reflections are interspersed through everyday life over a 30 week period. 

Today was the day I had planned for my first moment. I was looking forward to a quiet evening in the apartment and actually spent a few minutes fantasizing about which pair of fuzzy slippers I could wear for the event. When I got home, however, I found that the apartment was much more abuzz than I had expected. There were roommate-lease-renewal discussions to be had; my tortellini took much longer to cook than I had the patience for; my neighbor's frenetic progressive jazz band had chosen this night for rehearsal, and I discovered many wrinkled blouses in need of ironing in my drawer. 

As I folded up my ironing board, I listened to my roommate's animated voices as they each finished phone calls in the hall or kitchen. This definitely wasn't the cool-cotton, soft-pajamas evening I had planned. And then my roommate cried into her phone, "Yay! Come over!" and explained that our concert pianist friend and neighbor was going to come over and practice on our piano. "If that's all right," she added, and we agreed. 

What I ended up with tonight was a chance to try out the idea that peace doesn't come from fuzzy slippers, or from pants without a tight waistband, or from the complete absence of honking or bachata or jazz music bleeding through windows and walls. I grabbed my pillow, my journal, and my guide to the Exercises, and I sat next to my roommate on the couch. I chuckled at the introduction that instructed me to "select an environment that will provide you some quiet and privacy," and dove in, while the joyful sounds of Débussy and Chopin fell around us.

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:

"Our longings and desires, though often expressed in very ordinary ways, are signals to us for our deep desire for God." I'd heard a few times, from Ignatian spirituality, that our desires give us clues about our vocation or the ways we can best use our gifts. But reading this statement reoriented that attitude. Our desires aren't just clues to our happiness, which God surely wants for us; but rather our desires indicate the paths that will bring us to know God more deeply - and through knowing God more deeply, know joy deeply, too.

"Seek the Lord while he may be found." Of all the quotations and passages for reflections in this week's reading, I kept coming back to this one. It made me remember yesterday's experience of finding God in the Torah and the moments of joy that, with luck and grace, await.

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:

 I carried my journal and a prayer book into a room that was currently occupied by two other people. 

I was actually scared to commit myself to 20 minutes of prayer, without using a to-do list or a noisy environment as an excuse to skip it for the night. And I'm a bit intimidated by the commitment to do this over the next 32 weeks! 

Quotations from Carol Ann Smith, SHCJ and Eugene F. Mertz, SJ, Moment by Moment: A Retreat in Everyday Life, Notre Dame, IN: Ave Maria Press, 2000.

Day 1: I Celebrated Sukkot!

I was terribly excited when I found out that the first day of the Birthday Exercises corresponded with the first day of Sukkot! As a religious studies major, I read about this festival in my Hebrew Scriptures class, and when I lived in Boston, many of the families in my neighborhood set up sukkot (booths or tents decorated with branches) in their yards, and ate or visited in them throughout the festival. The lovely booths always impressed me as I past them on my autumn walks. Despite my religious studies major, however, I never experienced Sukkot first hand - and I'm embarrassed to say I've never been to services at a synagogue at all.

When I set off this morning, I was quite nervous. My best friend reassured me that the synagogue had surely seen visitors before and that I shouldn't worry - but then she added that none of its visitors had come as part of their extravagant "Birthday Exercises!" 

My nerves were assuaged when I arrived. (Forgive me, gentle readers for whom going to a synagogue is not a new experience, for the following rather detailed account.) Entering the synagogue felt like being in church: there was a comforting, welcoming, and reverent atmosphere that made me feel at home. Someone handed me a prayer book, and the rabbi announced the page numbers as we went, so I was able to follow along with the service. Our prayer books had Hebrew on the right-hand page and English on the other, which reminded me of the Latin-English Missal my mother used as a child. I wanted to let the prayers wash over me and get lost in their sound, but I also wanted to take in the meaning of the words. The words were heavy and heartfelt; I wanted to feel them on my tongue. 

After the preliminary prayers, the rabbi spoke about the meaning of Sukkot. I felt a bit guilty, because she began by congratulating the congregation on making it through the fast of Yom Kippur - but the rest of her words I could take to heart! She told us that the booths that families construct, and eat or sleep in during the festival, remind us of our vulnerability and challenge us to accept it - but that we are able to admit vulnerability when we know we are supported, both by God and by our community. And as a harvest festival, Sukkot emphasizes hospitality; the rabbi encouraged us to reflect on the ways we can invite others into our lives and our hearts. 

Then the lulav (a bundle of palm, willow, and myrtle branches) and etrog (or citron, a thick-skinned, fragrant citrus fruit) made their appearance. As the congregation continued to pray the psalms, we shook our lulavim and etrogim in six directions. The members of the congregation passed the lulavim and etrogim to those who didn't have them so that all had a chance to shake them. The young man standing behind me passed his to me, and I was amazed by the fragrance of the etrog. All around me, the branches rattled in a chorus, adding to our prayers.

When it was time for readings from the Torah, many people went onto the stage; throughout the reading of the Torah, many members of the congregation were invited to participate. Although I didn't always understand the structure of the service or each of its elements, it was easy to see the central place the Torah takes. [THEOLOGY NERD ALERT:] I felt awe for the scrolls themselves and the word of God that they contain which stayed with me through the day, and I was amazed by the way the reading of the Torah paralleled the Eucharist in so many ways, reminding me that we "do not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord." 

I absolutely loved this experience, but as I left the synagogue and made my way back to work, I felt uncomfortable with the idea that I might be exploiting someone else's authentic religious experience for the sake of an "adventure," and worried that my account would come off as flippant. But I know that this is more than an adventure; these exercises stem from a sincere desire to learn, be humbled, and be awed. 

WHAT I LEARNED TODAY:
Reverence and exuberance can coexist. I was excited to celebrate Sukkot, something that truly was a novelty to me, but that didn't take away from my understanding and appreciation of the sacredness of the experience. Respectful doesn't have to mean serious.
Admitting our vulnerabilities makes us open to greater gifts. It's humbling to admit we can't do it on our own, but the gifts and grace that God wants to give us are even better than what we could imagine.

HOW I LEFT MY COMFORT ZONE:
I went to completely unfamiliar religious services. As a self-avowed theology nerd, I spend a lot of time in Mass. It's as familiar as making French toast or mending a button. But today I was nervous when I walked into the sanctuary and got lost in my prayer book. It made me think of my peers who have spent a long time away from church or just don't come very often. How can I help them feel reverence and welcome, as I felt today?