I Believe in Chacos

Yesterday, my Chacos came out. Here's to the next eight months.

The world just got so much brighter. So long coldest winter. Thanks for being good to me.

Chomping at the past

Today, I am wearing the most awesome shirt from my entire wardrobe. I use the word awesome very intentionally. There are shirts that I like better than this one in terms of fit, style, and comfort, but truly, no other shirt could exude awesomeness as this one does. 

Why? Well, because there are dinosaurs on it.

Yes, folks. It's covered in little doodles of dinosaurs, clouds, unidentified femur bones, and those little stars we draw without picking our pens up off of the paper. It's also yellow, which I like.

Sometimes I wear it just because of the reactions I get. People—friends and strangers—tend to appreciate a little bit of dinosaur in their day. One time, my coworker said, "I like your shirt." Then, she whipped back around from her computer and exclaimed, "There are dinosaurs on it! I love your shirt!" I was surprised to hear someone say that they liked it for any other reason beyond the dinosaurs. Really, what else is there to love about it? 

Sadly, it's been a while since the dinosaur shirt has seen the light outside of my closet.

Maybe it's just a girl thing, but for many of us, there are moments of life that we cannot stop associating with particular clothing. This can be a beautiful thing. For example, I love knowing that on an April day that felt like the first day of my life—in the sense that Bright Eyes sings about it—I was wearing my Irish ferry sweater, my Pocahontas shoes, and the only floral print shirt I own.

When I think about the dinosaur shirt, it's still connected to this one day when the world turned upside down on me and left me looking at my feet, when words I didn't really understand entered into my vocab, when every muscle in my body went stiff and refused to bend.

When I sit anxiously in class, I'm pretty sure the dinosaur doodles are feeling just as restless as I am. I feel as if every time I look down, one of them sounds the warning call of "Freeze!" And they would all stand still again, pretending to have gotten away with their changes.

This makes me love them and the shirt again. Besides, everything seems to be changing. I believe that God rewrites things for us. It is so necessary to seek constant revelation and to be acting on what He tells us to do now. For me, this includes God giving me new perspectives on and new feelings about what has already happened.

The days in my dinosaur shirt appear bright to me, like the yellow stars scribbled on my shirt. They mean new things: love, forgiveness, trust, faith, and a perfect brightness of hope.

And I'm pretty sure I caught Mr. T-Rex nibbling on a cloud while the triceratops and the stegosaurus played ring-around-the-rosy and all fell down.

Daylight lost

While changing times usually affects me a lot, this week it's only had one negative effect on me: I forget that it will be dark when I walk home. When I leave campus, there are these very steep stairs surrounded by dense bushes. I'm often certain that they will both be the end of me. Or at least, the stairs will be the end of my ankles, and that the bushes will be the beginning of a delicious meal for whatever monster is going to pop out of them and eat me.

One of those may be more logical than the other. Maybe.

I tried to be more positive than normal when I walked down them last night, feeling in the darkness for the edge of each stair, being brave enough to not cling to the rail next to the bushes, and not thinking about anything that might be in the bushes.

Its helps to remember that with each toe, God knows exactly where I'm at. He knows when I step down in the darkness.

Down. Level. Down again. Level. Home. 

Arrival

Picture this for a moment: You’re walking down a city sidewalk in October. Traffic is busy, but at the crosswalk approaches a girl. She gets there, and the approaching cars suddenly all come to a stand still to let her pass. Now tell me: what did she look like? Short black skirt, tightly fitted. Ruffled silk blouse, cream-colored, low-cut. Tan-leather purse. Red high heels. Long blond hair in large curls that blow back slightly as she walks. Nice high cheek bones. Just enough make-up. Tall and skinny, but not too skinny. In short—traffic-stopping looks.

This is not what I look like, but this is what happened a few weeks ago: I only got four hours of sleep. I didn’t have enough time to wash my hair that morning, so I put it in a bun, which then fell out in stages, none of which could be considered to be a “messy bun.” I last plucked my eyebrows a week before, but I figured it was okay since I was going to wear my glasses anyways. No make-up either, and there are still red spots under my nose from my month-long spree of nose blowing. My jeans were one size too large. My sweater fit like it was made for a man, and I paid four dollars for it at the thrift store. No "shabby chic" here. Just shabby.

But traffic stopped when I stepped out. Two men waited at either ends of the crosswalk, hanging back by the sidewalk, hoping for a break in the cars. I knew I needed to get home and take a nap, so I stepped out to the edge of the bicycle lane and looked at the driver coming towards me, who stopped.

This seems to be one of those moments girls dream about, but we tend to dream about it in weird terms: terms of sexuality, material wealth, and unattainable dress sizes. I had none of those things going for me. Simply stepping to the threshold and asserting my presence worked. The two men who had gingerly waited for the cars to pass hurried past me, seemingly grateful for my having stopped the cars, but I really didn’t do anything. I only put my foot down and moved confidently.

I have never felt quite as inferior as I did while trying to cross a street in Oxford once. I was a twenty-year old traveler trying not to be a tourist. Normally, I did a very good job of that until I got trapped in a crowd of real-life tourists—guidebooks, cameras, and all. The walking signal turned green, but the stagnant crowd around continued conversing loudly.

Behind me, a woman began to yell. Her thin arms brought her hands around her mouth as she leaned back and called out mockingly, “The Green Man says go!” Annoyed and self-assured, she returned back to her table outside of the café there, laughing with her friends about the herd of cattle polluting their college town.

That moment still bothers me, mostly because I hate how I let it bother me then.

I once had the privilege of observing the local university theatre ballet during their class.

The instructor of the course was graceful and aged, a woman who obviously loves dance deeply even when it has passed beyond the abilities of her body.

“Arrive in your space,” she said with each exercise.

The company was about to put on Cinderella a few weeks later. Even though I have only a small amount of experience with ballet, it was clear to me—and the others observing with me—which ballerina was Cinderella. It was clear when this dancer arrived in her space.

God puts us in beautiful places: a busy classroom of attentive children, our own messy kitchen table, the worn-out and torn-up couch of a beloved friend. These are spaces in which to arrive. We can follow our feet faithfully, dig in with our toes, land squarely, and be who we are: graceful, strong, beautiful, and capable.

The inferiority we might feel in spaces can come from many things, but these are all conquerable things. We are more than we think we are. We are closer to heaven than we think we are.