Things I'm missing lately

I’ve been back in the United States for two weeks now, and am thrilled to be reunited with family and friends. I’m also settling in for my last quarter of over-priced undergraduate education, while getting excited (and terrified) for whatever post-graduation adventures come my way. I am also already having study abroad withdrawals.

While on a new-apartment-stocking grocery run, I was shocked to see the prices on olives and olive oil (Spain is the biggest producer of olives in the world, making for quality products at a steal of a price). I realized I’m going to miss being able to buy incredibly delicious and inexpensive olives. It’s a silly thing, really. It’s just food. And frankly, there are more foods I enjoy that I couldn’t come by in Spain (e.g. peanut butter, Mexican food), than there are Spanish foods I both miss (I’m fine without live scallops that squirm when you kill them with lemon juice, thank-you-very-much) and will be hard pressed to track down.

But this was one of a series of moments, a little flicker of recognition, which reminded me of the plethora of little things I will miss about Spain.

I will miss traipsing through cobblestone streets lined by jam-packed tapas bars and guitar strumming hippies, so narrow in spots that you have to press your body against the wall for the occasional passing mini bus.

I will miss skipping down the stairs of my apartment building every Wednesday to attend free salsa dance classes in the bar under my building. And though I cannot say I will miss the obnoxiously loud music and the partying students emanating from the street who would prevent me from falling asleep in a timely manner on the weekends, I will miss the liveliness of my student-infested neighborhood, with its extra-large free tapas and cheap, grimy, bare-bones-but-still-oddly-charming 70s era apartment buildings.

I will miss saying buenos días to the fruit stand lady with her big white van on the corner who would call me guapa (beautiful) and sell me (or just give me) a chirimoya or apple on my way to class.

Those are just the little things I miss when I encounter traffic-jammed L.A. freeways, U.S. zoning laws and impersonal grocery stores.

Then there are the moments where I would give anything to be back in Granada.

While hopping on a bus the other day in West L.A., I heard a couple speaking with each other in Spanish. I sat next to the young woman, who was seated across from the guy who appeared to be her boyfriend, and asked her, point blank, if she was Spanish. In Spanish. She was taken off guard, and I hurriedly explained that I had spent a year in Spain and had recognized her accent. It turned out that both were students in a short stint English language program in a city not far from mine. By the time I got off (a stop later than intended, thanks to my overly zealous enthusiasm), I had learned the girl’s name in order to look her up on Facebook and give her a list of things to do in the area (and, I hoped, to meet up at some point.

Two days later I hadn’t heard back from my bus acquaintance. I was salsa dancing with a group of university salseros by a statue of our campus mascot (where I ended up teaching the basic step to half of the students in attendance) when I heard my name being called.

“Lorena?”

Wait a minute. I hadn’t heard anyone call me by my Spanish name since leaving Spain.

I turned to discover the same couple I had met on the bus, beaming at me as if they had found an old friend. I greeted them the way the Spanish always do, with dos besos (a kiss on each cheek) and we made plans to get coffee the following week.  

It was my FAVORITE MOMENT SINCE COMING HOME.

Because more than anything, I miss the people who shaped my experience.

I miss my History of the Church in the Middle Ages professor, who graciously used valuable office hours when she could have been grading papers or working on her groundbreaking research to instead patiently listen and respond to my questions, and eventually take me under her wing as her academic and spiritual mentee and young friend.

I miss Carmen, the chatty hair stylist with a crazy head of curls and a nearly incomprehensible accent who always invited me to come in and share my latest adventures with her, while she cut my hair for free.

I miss the Spanish students in my international Bible study who learned to break the annoying Spanish habit of constant interruption and talking over the top of others to listen (most of the time) with patience to the British, French and German students in their midst, not to mention caring deeply for the lone American girl who took far too long to expound on her passionately-held opinions and found herself frustrated when she couldn’t say precisely what she meant.

I miss my inspiringly hospitable Romanian friend who hosted me in her home for a week, my Spanish flatmates who taught me to make Spanish tortilla and migas, my dear English salsa buddy Mary who is now teaching in Peru… I could go on and on.

Spain taught me to be intentional and relational. Intentional because I only had a year, and I had to choose wisely where I would invest my time. I like to think that between school, traveling, dancing, hikes and innumerable coffee dates with friends, I didn’t waste much of it. Relational because people always come first in Spain – before work, before school, before to-do lists are all nicely checked off. The Spanish make people a priority. And I miss them.

Una despedida (a goodbye)

I wrote these few short lines, which comprise part of an ever so slightly longer poem, during my last weeks in Granada, as a goodbye to that city and the dear people whom I met there. The original verses are in Spanish and I have translated them below (although the rhyme unfortunately doesn't carry over).

Llevaré Granada en mi alma,
Llevaré España en mi ser,
Llevaré tus besos en mi boca,
Por si acaso no puedo volver.

I will carry Granada in my soul,
I will carry Spain in my being,
I will carry your kisses on my mouth,
In case I am not able to return.

Now back in the States, I find myself immensely grateful for the year I spent in Spain, and deeply saddened that the end of my time there had to mean leaving behind so many precious friends. I carry them all with me in my heart. Thank you all for teaching me so much about Spain, about God, about life. I am grateful.

(Ahora vuelta a los Estados Unidos, me encuentro muy agradecida por el año que pasaba en España, y profundamente triste que el fin de mi tiempo allí significó la despedida de tantos preciosos amigos. Llevo a todos conmigo en mi corazón. No os olvidaré. Gracias a todos por enseñarme tanto sobre España, sobre Dios, sobre la vida. Estoy agradecida.

"Skimming:" a poem

I want to live every day with

My fingers skimming the surface,

The cool tickle shooting through my body,

Through my arms, to my torso, down my legs,

And to my feet, electrifying them.

I dance.

I have this feeling

I’ve been numb all this time,

Until the defibrillator

Shocked me

Out of my sleep.

The cruelty of this world

Can only be ignored for so long.

It presses in from all

Sides and if you let it,

It will leave you dead inside.

I choose to live upon the surface,

Where the boats float on the sea

Enjoying the sunshine,

But ever ready:

For the storms will come.

Life is not so bright and hopeful

As I thought it would be.

Only Christ brings me

To Himself and says:

“You are mine – that’s all you need.”

I sail free.

Quirks, questions and qualms... How the crap do I read this thing?

I've been wrestling a lot lately with how to read the Bible.

Just a things I'm processing/asking God about lately...

• I'm irritated that translators took the liberty to change female names to male ones. If they did that, what else did they do? How much of the message has been lost to biased translation?

• Paul was a misogynist. Feels really good to get that one off my chest. And I'm nursing a grudge toward Martin Luther, founder of sola scriptura -- the idea that only the Bible ought to be used as an authoritative source -- because of the views he had toward women. Luther, a celibate monk before he stirred up a little change in Christendom called the Reformation, wrote that if a woman wasn't pleasing her husband in bed, he could go next door. In order to, you know... umm... borrow something...
  

• I don't understand how back in the middle ages we certain books of the Bible were deemed canonical (Christianese for "that's chill with us to put in our book"), others were tossed aside and today people refute my questions with the one-size-fits-all one liner that the Bible was put together by God, and obviously, he knew what he was doing. No, it was written by people, people! And during the middle ages in the first ecumenical councils, people decided what was in and what was out. So who's to say we haven't included things that shouldn't have been (even Martin Luther and John Calvin were reluctant to include Revelation with the canon) or failed to include things we ought to have?

• It bothers me when people (and in saying this I indict myself), "proof text," choosing certain verses or passages to prove a point. Sometimes I get really angry about this, especially when people justify their judgmental behavior toward fill-in-any-person/group-different-from-them with a single verse, while ignoring all context. I am tempted to respond in kind when faced with opinions that really get under my skin. Coming from the perspective that a narrative of love ought to serve as the lens with which one reads scripture doesn't exactly serve me well when I want to retort back at someone who has rattled off a series of numbers -- Matthew 15:12! Malachi 1:5! Take this! And that!
  

There you have it. Some of the things on my mind lately.

I want you to know that in spite of this, I haven't given up on the Bible (although to be sure, I've given up certain ways of seeing it that are not life-giving). To the contrary, I feel as though the process I am in right now is helping me to see the Bible in a more textured, profound way. I've also been deeply shaped by the biblical narrative, and I hope my faith will grow by wrestling with the text.

For my friends who are asking questions too, I want you to know you're not alone.

I resonate with Dietrich Bonhoeffer, when he wrote to a friend, “You would be surprised, and perhaps even worried, by my theological thoughts and the conclusions that they lead to; and this is where I miss you most of all, because I don’t know anyone else with whom I could so well discuss them to have my thinking clarified. What is bothering me incessantly is the question what Christianity really is, or indeed who Christ really is , for us today.”

I'm grateful for the folks who've listened to my ramblings, asked really good questions and helped me to process.

What keeps surprising me is the way God keeps showing up in unexpected ways. God in human skin, the word made incarnate, as it were. Jesus keeps me asking these questions. He's the one who keeps drawing me back again and again and again. And what I love about the Bible, in the midst of all my questions and qualms -- or perhaps because of them -- is that it brings me back to him.

I'm so grateful that this journey is taken one day at a time. It is to be savored, and to be lived with patience and perseverance. Each conversation over a cup of Spanish coffee. Each whisper of gratitude when I look up at the gorgeous Sierra Nevadas. Each moment of grief and frustration and loneliness. Each whirling, joyful night of salsa in the bar below my apartment. I'm stumbling, dancing my way with Jesus. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've greatly appreciated Rachel Held Evans' series on "Loving the Bible for what it is, not what I want it to be." She engages several fascinating books, including N.T. Wright's Scripture and the Authority of God: How to Read the Bible Today, which I'm looking forward to reading when I'm stateside.

Spring has sprung, so has sexist stupidity

It's spring in southern Spain, and that means people are coming out of hibernation, enjoying the lovely weather.

There's a refrain that gets said around this time. "Cuando viene la primavera, la sangre se altera." That is, when spring comes, the blood gets altered.

This is a euphemistic way of saying that when the change in weather hits, men of all ages become emboldened in their lewd, nasty behavior toward women.

I have been the recipient of more obnoxious comments in the last week than in the totality of my half year living here. The female friends who I have talked with in the last couple of days have had similar experiences.

It doesn't help matters that I'm tall and light-haired -- an obvious foreigner. I seem to draw piropos (pick-up lines and sexually overtoned comments made on the street) like a pile of crap draws flies. Or something like that.

And it is making me so indignant I might end up punching the next idiot who makes the mistake of saying something sophomoric.

I asked a friend yesterday, "how do you say sexist in Spanish?" and she replied, "machista." Now, sexista would be the literal translation. But machismo, (derived from the root word macho, which means male), is taken to mean a male-dominated culture that subjugates women, and is a much more accurate word to use than sexism.

Latin cultures get deemed machista all the time. In Spain, sexism is synonymous with and epitomized by machismo. The currents of machismo have pervaded this culture profoundly. It's evident in the male-pronoun-dominated language, in the way women's bodies are used to sell everything, and not least of all in the piropos launched at women as they walk down the street.

Trust me, you never hear a woman walk past a group of guys smacking her lips and calling them machines in bed. The opposite does with disturbing regularity. So much so that it's considered perfectly normal.

It's different in the United States, of course. In America, we're equal, men and women.

Women aren't used to sell cars, or beer, or sex-enhancing drugs. Women are treated with respect. Women have a voice in government, in the workplace, and it goes without saying that women are ennobled and their rightful human dignity recognized within the church.

Bull shit.

We need to stop kidding ourselves.

Of course machismo exists in America. But we disguise it in the form of sexism.

Sexism is a nice politically correct word. It makes it seem as though the discrimination of people based on gender runs both ways. And in the U.S., we love to be politically correct.

But let's be real, shall we?

Machismo is alive and real in the U.S., and it has a frightening pervasiveness, thanks to having a foothold in the nation that is the world's biggest exporter of entertainment.

I'm from the school of thought that the words we use really do matter. Words can shock life back into us. They can also numb us. Sometimes, we have to reclaim words, fighting for the intended meaning to be the one that profoundly resonates today the way it did for the people who first used it to spin stories, write poems, inspire communities. There are also moments when we have to put to death words that have become clichéd and trite, losing their power to express the important ideas they are meant to communicate.

A few of the words I believe worth fighting for are words like:

Hope.

Grace.

Love.

Sexism is not one of those words.

I propose we kill the word sexism and replace it with the word machismo. That would be a much more accurate and telling word for what is actually going on. And what is going on is this:

The systematic oppression of women.

It's time to stop telling ourselves that we have this problem sorted and to start acting in the context of our own society to free women and girls from the slavery of machismo.

Oppression of women is not somewhere "out there." No, oppression of women is in our cities. It grins chauvinistically from highway billboards. It bares its nasty teeth in the language we use to to talk about things we don't like (i.e., "that test was a bitch"). And it rears its head in churches, the very place where women ought to be celebrated, their value upheld as intrinsic and indispensable to the building of the kingdom of God, where all people are equal.

OK, rant over (for the moment).

For more on this topic, I recommend checking out:

• Gayle Tzemach Lemmon on thinking of women beyond "micro-loans", as well as all the other terrific talks focusing on women for TED.

• Rachel Held Evans' blogs on the issue of women in the church, particularly this post where she asked male readers to blog their thoughts in response to John Piper's comment that Christianity has a "masculine feel."
  

• The poem "I'll Never Return" by Meena Keshwar Kamal inspired me this week. Kamal fought for the rights of women in her native Afganistan. She was assassinated in 1987, most likely by secret police. I participated in a dramatic interpretation of this poem, wearing a burka as my friend read the majority of it, and letting the garment fall to the ground at the poem's climax. I was shocked by the heaviness I felt when I first donned the burka. I have been impacted deeply by this courageous, strong woman.

I'll leave you with the full text of the poem:

I’m the woman who has awoken
I’ve arisen and become a tempest through the ashes of my burnt children
I’ve arisen from the rivulets of my brother’s blood
My nation’s wrath has empowered me
My ruined and burnt villages fill me with hatred against the enemy,
I’m the woman who has awoken,
I’ve found my path and will never return.
I’ve opened closed doors of ignorance
I’ve said farewell to all golden bracelets
Oh compatriot, I’m not what I was
I’m the woman who has awoken
I’ve found my path and will never return.
I’ve seen barefoot, wandering and homeless children
I’ve seen henna-handed brides with mourning clothes
I’ve seen giant walls of the prisons swallow freedom in their ravenous stomach
I’ve been reborn amidst epics of resistance and courage
I’ve learned the song of freedom in the last breaths, in the waves of blood and in victory
Oh compatriot, Oh brother, no longer regard me as weak and incapable
With all my strength I’m with you on the path of my land’s liberation.
My voice has mingled with thousands of arisen women
My fists are clenched with the fists of thousands compatriots
Along with you I’ve stepped up to the path of my nation,
To break all these sufferings all these fetters of slavery,
Oh compatriot, Oh brother, I’m not what I was
I’m the woman who has awoken
I’ve found my path and will never return.

Let your voice inspire love, never fear

From minor discomforts with language to being ripped off at my first apartment, I’m finding that life as an ex-pat in Spain isn’t all flamenco and tapas. As a result, I’m gaining some serious respect for people who pick up and move to a new country out of necessity.

That might be a significant mental leap to make. Let me ’splain. No, let me sum up:

Serious planning went into my coming to Spain, and I also feel as though I’ve been gradually guided here for years now. I took Spanish all through high school. I’m majoring in the language in college. Not to mention my language acquisition got a jumpstart when my mom enrolled me in a Spanish class in fourth grade, consequently helping me wrap my brain around a foreign tongue before the all important era of puberty, also known as “the beginning of the end” when it comes to seriously retaining anything at all.

Sure, I had some reservations, but mostly I was freaking excited to come to Spain. Being able to study here is truly the realization of a dream.

I went through a honeymoon stage with this country the first couple months I was here. Everything was new and fantastic and beautiful.

And then reality set in.

Life in a foreign country has ended up being harder than I thought it would be.

I’ve missed my family. Not everyone has been as nice as I had hoped. You can’t find a street taco or a single flipping jalapeño anywhere. I was so prideful about my language ability, and it has turned out much more difficult to effectively communicate than I had expected.

Don’t get me wrong.

I feel as though I am exactly where I am supposed to be right now. I’m learning so much. I’m making friends with incredible people from around the world.

And I’m grateful. If it was easy to be here, I don’t think the experience would be as valuable, or – if I may deviate from my pragmatic side for a moment – as enjoyable.

Nor would this story have resonated with me as much as it did.

I’m a big fan of the radio show This American Life on National Public Radio, and I’ve been keeping up by means of the podcast while abroad (Ira Glass, if you read this, I promise I’ll contribute to your marvelous creative effort when I’m no longer a broke college kid).

The first act from this week’s show is about recently the enacted so called “self-deportation” legislation in Alabama. The law is creating quite a stir in that state and is getting plenty of press time thanks to the likes of a presidential hopeful who will remain unnamed, but happens to be a past candidate and a Mormon. Yeah, I’ll leave that all vague and ambiguous. Sorry for that.

I’m trying really hard to keep my sarcasm checked here… But I get antsy just thinking about this issue. And honestly, it’s a touchy subject and I’m bound to offend someone. So here goes nothing.

Here’s what’s up: in hopes of freeing up jobs for American citizens, legislators have passed HB-56. The law makes it a criminal offense to be an undocumented immigrant, consequently allowing ordinary police officers to check citizen papers and make an arrest when, say, making a common traffic stop.

What’s more, ordinary citizens have gotten in on the action, making suspected illegal aliens feel unwelcome and unwanted. The goal is to get them to pick up and go home on their own.

Incidents have occurred like employers refusing to pay workers for already completed work, Wal-Mart employees failing to complete money orders for customers (which don’t require any proof of citizenship) and high school students yelling “Mexicans move to the back!” at a pep rally are just a handful of examples of the fallout from this bill. One woman talked about members in her church refusing to “pass the peace” to her. The folks having these experiences are Latino.

Terrific. We’re resorting to racial profiling yet again, because we have seen that when it comes to solving big problems, terrorism, for instance, racial profiling is, like, flawless.

The most poignant story for me was that of a little girl who had to say goodbye to her best friend, whose family moved to Mexico. The friend reported that Mexico is more fun – she can go out to play, or go to the mall. Kids of parents who aren’t documented in the U.S. aren’t going anywhere these days. They’re stuck at home, some not even going to school, because their parents fear being deported while away from their offspring. If that happened, the kids would end up in foster care.

I’m going to boldly venture that there is something far more sinister about what is going on here than another attempt to help solve unemployment or deal with illegal immigration.

The current situation in Alabama is exemplary of what happens when people in power use fear to manipulate the powerless.

Let’s be clear – this is not the government acting unilaterally. This law sweeps ordinary folks like you and me into the action and gives them the power to determine who goes, who ends up out of work, who gets sent scurrying home to hide.

Do you know what it is called when fear is used to manipulate someone into doing what you want him or her to do?

It’s called slavery.

There are people living in slavery in the United States of America. Millions of people are enslaved by fear because of what could happen to them.

Fear of being shunned by society.

Fear of being found out.

Fear of being forced to leave the country that has become one’s home.

Fear of being consequently separated from one’s children, and the terror that they would then end up in foster care.

Can you see why this tactic for dealing with people is inhumane?

It positively brings out the worst in people. For fear of “the other,” fear tactics are used to manipulate until a sense of safety is achieved.

I’m reminded of the horror of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, where the weakest ones are stepped on and smashed in a juvenile battle for power and security.

Fear of each other is never the way to create good.

Supporters claim that since the passage of the bill, unemployment has dropped. They credit the law with making this a reality.

Here’s the catch: the industries where unemployment has decreased are not in areas where Latinos work. But Latinos are the people who are being discriminated against.

I could go on at length regarding the issues with racial profiling. I could talk about how this is reminiscent of the Jim Crow laws of the pre-civil rights era.

But suffice it to say: this is insanity.

The most vulnerable people are those who need to be looked out for, not marginalized. The use of fear to give security to the powerful is to trample underfoot those who are powerless.

This is not my idea, nor is it a new one.

In the Hebrew scriptures, God continually reminds his people to look out for people who are vulnerable. Orphans and widows, the poor, and yes, foreigners. Again and again, the Israelites are corrected when they fail to care for the people who most need it.

A couple of examples:

From Deutoronomy:

“So cut away the thick calluses from your heart and stop being so willfully hardheaded. God, your God, is the God of all gods, he's the Master of all masters, a God immense and powerful and awesome. He doesn't play favorites, takes no bribes, makes sure orphans and widows are treated fairly, takes loving care of foreigners by seeing that they get food and clothing.

You must treat foreigners with the same loving care—
remember, you were once foreigners in Egypt.”

From Leviticus:

"When a foreigner lives with you in your land, don't take advantage of him. Treat the foreigner the same as a native. Love him like one of your own. Remember that you were once foreigners in Egypt. I am God, your God.”

This is a topic I get fired up about. Even more so, interestingly, now that I’m not in the U.S.

I’ve had some scary moments since touching down in Madrid five months ago. I’ve been both scammed and robbed, both of which were very unpleasant experiences, I assure you.

But those experiences are small shadows that have nearly disappeared, awash in the sunlight of all the goodness I’ve experienced. I’m so grateful for all the people who have opened their hearts, shared a meal, given sound advice, invited me to share in family celebrations, danced with me, cried with me, shared a cup of tea and generally let me know that they’re glad I exist. When I am completely honest, I admit that I have had moments where I have wanted to curl up in my bed and cower in fear. Thank God that he has not left me there, but has brought people alongside me who have listened and helped me and strengthened my courage.

I ask you, why would it ever be OK to try to make someone cower in fear?

I’m so convinced that it is of paramount importance that people know that they matter to others, and, I believe, to God. When fear speaks instead of love, we have some serious recalibrating to do. We have the problem. It’s us.

So here are some of the questions I aim to ask myself: In what ways do I use my voice to shame, to manipulate or to otherwise cause people to fear? Is my voice condemning or encouraging? Am I a voice of fear or love?

Whew. As ridiculously long and convoluted as it was, I'm glad I got that off my chest. Comment away!

Lessons learned in 2011: Activate your potential

Over the next few days, I'll be sharing lessons I learned during 2011. I've compiled together ramblings from the year's journal entries, unfinished blogs that I swore I would eventually post and a smattering of thoughts off the top of my head.

I hope you will be inspired, as I have been, to step into 2012 with courage.

***

Dare to hone your talents into strengths that inspire others

I went to Barcelona, Spain a couple of months ago. There I was inspired by architect Antoni Gaudi. He was the creative genius behind Barcelona’s stunningly beautiful, mind-boggling church, La Sagrada Familia. (Check out a snazzy 3D video of what it is supposed to look like upon completion here.

The façade of Sagrada Familia is comprised of a cornucopia of towers, each with a unique shape, swirling toward heaven. The interior is a wonderland of spiral staircases, giant cogs whirling together to form a whimsical ceiling, and stained glass windows that cast a marvelous array of colors throughout the temple.

La Sagrada Familia caught me off guard. Caught short mid-sentence, I gazed upward, mouth agape, craning my neck to see the top of the towers.

It seems as though Gaudi wanted visitors to look up, to experience the kind of wonder that makes you forget the need to breathe, to take the time to pause and take everything in.

Here’s the kicker – over 130 years after the beginning of the project and nearly 100 years after Gaudi’s death, construction continues on La Sagrada Familia. The tallest tower hasn’t even been built yet.

Current builders are still following Gaudi’s plans. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that he’s dead?

What absolutely blows my mind is the amount of creativity inside of Gaudi that he put into action. He certainly didn’t allow his creative potential to lie dormant. Sagrada Familia was his masterpiece, but Gaudi was a prolific artist, carrying to completion hundreds of other incredible pieces. Consequently, the architect has been immortalized through his art. His creations inspire wonder and creativity in others today.

I’d like to know: what does it take to be a Gaudi?

One doesn’t have to be a stunning visual artist.

To put it concisely, I’m convinced that every person is entrusted with unique gifts and talents to be used in the service of humanity.

And I tell people as much. (If you know me, you’ve probably heard me say something along these lines, although I was probably completely discombobulated because I’m a verbal processor and I ramble a lot to try to figure out what I mean while I'm saying it).

Because I really do believe it to be true.

(For the record, so do these folks.)

However, I’m not very consistent when it comes to putting in practice what I believe.

I’m finding that I often let my feelings of inadequacy and fear get in the way of honing my talents.

I tell myself that my poetry is amateur, my public speaking is over-dramatic, and if I’m ever going to work with people, my listening skills need some serious work.

I shy away from criticism, I dislike confrontation, I fear animosity.

I tell myself that I’ll develop my talents when I have time; say, when I graduate from college.

I toss around ideas, often get started on them, but lack the focus to practice, to be disciplined, to persevere.

I’ve beginning to realize that life is far too short for such fears to keep me from pursuing everything that I was created to be.

I want to be a person who inspires. I hope to live a good story. I dream of leaving a legacy for generations to come.

Ponder this: What if you and I began to hone the strengths that lie within us that are currently lying dormant? How would we be changed? How would the people around us be changed?

I'd like to know. So 2012 is the year of the Great Experiment.

I choose this year to lean into the talents I have, to explore the potential that has been placed within me, and use those gifts for the good of others.

Here's an example of what that looks like in a practical sense: I've dreamed about performing spoken word poetry for a long time. Words spoken by others have inspired me and moved me to create art myself. I carry a notebook pretty much wherever I go, and I've begun to jot down lines of poetry whenever they come to me. I don't feel very confident at the moment, but I hope that with practice will come competence (or at least some visible improvement). I'm committed to be more intentional when it comes to writing, and I hope to also muster up the courage to share more of my writing with others.

So there you have one of my goals for 2012. What talents do you want to lean into this year?

***

For more musings on this topic, check out:

• Spoken word poet Sarah Kay with two fantastic poems on living life to the fullest. (The woman is only 22 and she is a stunning example of someone who has taken the gifts entrusted to her and exercised them for the good of others).
• Don't know your talents? I have found Gallup's Strength's Finder assessment to be an engaging and helpful tool for identifying talents and leveraging them in a positive direction.
• One of my favorite books from the last couple of years was Erwin McManus' Wide Awake. McManus talks about how to live with passion, intentionality and dreams in the here and now. An inspiring and though-provoking read.