Morning Rounds and Evening Musings

I am done! And halfway through seminary! Looking at that last post, I feel like a whiny, spoiled little girl and I'm tempted to delete it. But I suppose this blog should display the real me, not just the sides of myself I feel ok about. To be honest, it probably wasn't the worst week of my life, but the mental tricks my brain played on me that week made me think it was. It's amazing what 13 hours a day in a cold, stark library does for one's psyche. Yuck. I have a new appreciation for Wes, who endures an incapacitating week like that once a month (and who is studying with Jesse at our dining room table for the 4th day in a row as I write this). I could never do it. Never, never.

The busyness of the last couple weeks have kept me from reflecting on Advent as much as I would have liked. Wes and I are still learning how to live in this whole church calendar business, and are excited and unsure about forming our own holiday traditions. This year brought more progress than last--we have a Christmas tree, an Advent calendar and have been reading Advent reflections (sporadically) and lighting our Advent candles each week.

I am reminded that our little traditions and my desire to do all the right things--attend lessons and carols, light the candle, etc.--are no substitute for the work of actually contemplating the coming of Christ. Ultimately, while my Christmas tree reminds me it's Christmastime, it doesn't point to Jesus. Of course, not much in this world does point to Jesus and that's really the point, isn't it? How am I supposed to celebrate the arrival of Christ whose incarnation made salvation possible and inaugurated the kingdom of God when the world is so &%@! up?! That is the question I've been asking myself this Advent. Not that I have an answer, other than to say that Advent is about just that--the waiting. We wait like an expectant mother anticipating her baby, wanting it right now and at the same time not wanting to interrupt her body's perfect timing. I am not good at waiting. But then again, I bet God's tired of waiting for us too:

"If it is true that God in Jesus Christ is waiting for our response to divine love, then we can discover a whole new perspective on how to wait in life. We can learn to be obedient people who do not always try to go back to the action but who recognize fulfillment of our deepest humanity in passion, in waiting. If we can do this, I am convinced that we will come in touch with the glory of God and our own new life." ~ Henri Nouwen, "The Spirituality of Waiting" (thanks Marcus!)

I am in the middle of quite possibly the most stressful week of my entire life. That might be a little melodramatic, but if it is, it really is only a slight exaggeration.

I have written 19 pages so far, and I have 23 to go. Plus a Hebrew exam, plus an all-day discernment meeting on Saturday. Blech. Working 10 hours at CARE, teaching two Sunday School classes, writing 40+pages, studying for an exam, doing vocational discernment and oh, yeah, remembering to eat, get dressed and maintain some personal hygiene is proving to be almost more than I can handle. I hope that it is only lack of sleep talking, and that tomorrow I will feel refreshed and rested and not sick and ready to pump out a Sunday School lesson and 10 or so pages. That would be awesome.

I have never asked for an extension before, and this may be a first. We'll see how I feel Thursday night. It's quite a humbling thing. And also, it makes me into a crazy woman who feels like anything unexpected could send me over the edge.

So what am I doing writing on my blog in the middle of this crazy week, you ask? Well, I am coming down with a cold, or am having a terrible allergy attack or both and cannot fall asleep because every time I get close, I start sneezing. Plus, the end of the day puts me in this weird place of being totally exhausted and completely buzzed and jittery at the same time. Not a good combo for sleep. It's like with little kids when they get to the point of being too tired, bedtime becomes not so easy.

Need sleep, send prayers! (that's better than need help, send money, right?)

Wes' Grandma Beverly died today. She went somewhat unexpectedly, but seemingly peacefully, for which we are thankful. Also, the last 6 months of her health issues and various health crises that each seemed to bring her to the brink of death have made me realize how much better it is to process death and say goodbyes while our loved ones are still living. I'm so thankful for the last two times we (and especially Wes) got to spend with Grandma Beverly; they were times of joy and laughter, and tears and sadness both. We will miss her.

Beverly's death today, on this first Sunday of Advent reminds me yet again that we perpetually sit in this season of expectation--this tension between the 'already' and the 'not yet.' This world is messy and broken. It's a world where old women have to struggle for each breath, where daughters say goodbye to their mothers, and where death seems permanent. And then there is a baby, an unassuming infant, whose birth shattered our world. What can the arrival of this Emmanual--God with us--mean for us on this day? As we wait for and remember Christ's birth, we also wait for him to come back again to make everything right. I'm so thankful for the breakthrough of our of Savior who's birth turned the world upside down and conquered death for us all. Advent reminds me that things are not as they will be and that God's work through Jesus isn't finished.

This post is more than a little overdue, but I suppose communicating our thankfulness is a practice that can and should be appropriate at other time besides those the holiday dictates. In thinking about all the things I have been thankful for throughout the past year--international travel, financial provision, family, school (most of the time) and a great husband--the thing I have felt most poignantly thankful for this fall has been a feeling of rootedness.

For the first time since graduation, I feel like this place could be home. We have made good friends, we know the city, we're delighted with our church, making professional and personal connections, and exploring the area. Last year I remember feeling frustrated at my difficulty in making friends, while this year has yielded great new friends in unexpected places.
One of the things I realized I missed the most were girlfriends. I have always had close girlfriends in every stage of life, many of whom I still consider my best friends who remain a part of my journey despite the distance. But sometimes a girl needs physical, tangible friends, too. Friday night drinks with Becca and Ingrid, coffee with Lauren, and a book club with several great women have reminded me how important those relationships are, and how much I have missed them in recent years.

So this Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for roots, however shallow.

I attended Diocesan Council, the annual business meeting of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta, yesterday and today. I was expecting to be bored out of my mind, evinced by the fact my purse contained a Newsweek, a book and my Hebrew flashcards, just in case. Much to my surprise, there was enough entertainment that my Newsweek remains unread.

It was exciting to sit in a room with over 600 priests and laypeople (and the Bishop, of course) from all over Atlanta and the region. There's something special that happens when every priest from the diocese comes together in one place to worship, pray and look ahead to our 101st Diocesan year. Judging by the news stories of past few months regarding the Episcopal Church, I expected uncomfortable debates about homosexuality to prevail. It shouldn't have surprised me that the media presented a rather skewed perspective about the work of the church. We actually have missions, ministries and business to attend to that has nothing do with with homosexuality. Of the five foci the Bishop outlined for the upcoming year ranging from fighting poverty to being on the forefront of environmental conservation, not one included anything about sex. Can you imagine?! In a church? It was refreshingly reassuring. We deliberated on everything from making buildings conducive to those people with disabilities, to environmental initiatives, to the budget. And, it was a great networking opportunity--I was offered 2 jobs!!

I almost left early Friday night and skipped out on the Friday night Eucharist. I'm glad I didn't. Despite my drowsiness, it was a powerful experience to sit in the Cathedral of St. Phillip (pictured above), whose interior rivals that of many of the Cathedrals I've seen in Europe, surrounded by so many people who came together with singular vocations and purpose. Bishops present and past attended, and we renewed our baptismal vows together--a pivotal statement following disagreements and varied opinions about almost every resolution that hit the floor this weekend. Diocesan Council provides a great lesson in peacemaking--we've all got to get along somehow. The fractures in our church the media portrays are, of course, not complete fairytales. I have been fearful of a split on the horizon, despite the Episcopal Church USA's decision to halt gay ordination in the U.S. in order to repair relations with the worldwide communion. Bishop Allen was an encouraging voice to that fear: "I have one message. I am here. We are here. And we are not going anywhere."

Diocesan Council came on the heels of All Saint's Day in the Church Calendar. This is the Sunday when we celebrate the communion of Saints--the greater church consisting of the living and the dead. It is these high holy days that make me love the Episcopal Church. I remember the first time I celebrated All Saints. It was a Wednesday night, a week before the anniversary of my Grandpa's death. There were about 12 of us gathered in the small chapel at my seminary. At the litany of the dead, we spoke aloud the names of all those we knew who had died in the past year. We brought them into worship with us, and acknowledged our continued connection with the dead--through the church instead of through their physical presence. In that moment, I felt the church to be about more than me and Jesus. It was about more than the differences that define denominations and even the bickering within denominations. Rather, we affirmed our belief in the great communion of people who read the same stories, said the same creed, preached the same gospel. A communion beyond all physical, temporal and spiritual boundaries that has given us the church we inhabit that we have today, for better or worse. It is that community with whom and through whom we see Jesus and without whom, we might not see him as we should.

Like any family, there are not just heroes and brave patriarchs. The church has their fair share, to be sure, but we also had crusaders and racists. Still, the saints are our companions and teachers. They stand with us in the same way I felt Grandpa with us that All Saints night last year, a vital part not just of our church's past, but of its present.

Diocesan Council had a similar effect for me. Surrounded by these wise men and women, committed to the church's gospel mission and furthering God's kingdom, I said "Thanks be to God" in unison with those 600 others in a new way. And I was thankful--thankful for newfound love of liturgy, unity and a church family.

Money has been on the brain lately. This is the time in the semester when financial aid money runs thin, and Wes and I have discussions about our financial situation every other day or so. This is also the time in the semester where we start to eat at home before we go out for dinner with friends, where we split an appetizer instead of two entrees, and when the new pair of jeans I was eying online become January's dream, after next semester's check comes in and we feel secure again.

When I'm rational and able to think intellectually about money, I find myself convinced that this time of life is formative, good and spiritually enlightening. I fight to get to a place where I can embrace life below the poverty line, and the sacrifices and commitment it takes to 'make it' on so little. I remind myself when I'm tempted to bemoan our financial shortcomings that a) we made our own decisions. It was our choice to go to school at the same time and to take out the least amount of loans possible and b) we're much better off than most of the world living below the poverty line because we have a system of family and friends whose support, both monetary and otherwise, will get us through these slim years. We are very wealthy.

November and December are also good months because they force me to remember the commitments Wes and I made about the way we want to live our lives. Living simply, giving generously and rejecting the culture's nagging voice that tells us more is better are lifelong goals--forced poverty right now makes them a reality, but what happens when, several years down the road after the loans are paid off, we get a paycheck that provides a surplus? The reality of our chosen professions (ok, Wes' profession. Who am I kidding?) is that we will soon be making more money than 95% of the world's population. That's both comforting as we sit 2 years into medical school and seminary with more debt than the money I've earned over my entire life combined, and scary as I realize how challenging it will be to live like we do now when our situation will permit much more indulgence. It's one thing to live simply when you have no other options; it's quite another beast when you're making more money than any family of 10 needs to get by for a year. I'm convinced it will take the support of a similarly committed group of friends to hold us to that one, and a firm commitment to using the portion of our income we need to meet basic needs, and letting the rest go.

After all, we're all taught that money can't buy happiness, right? But, from the looks of the households all across America, no one really believes that. I don't know if I believe that. I often find myself thinking, "you know, if we just had 5,000 more dollars a year, this cloud of anxiety would be gone, and I would be much happier." But I know were that 5,000 to be dropped in our lap, I would crave just that one other little thing. The myth of a person's wealth being found in a bigger salary or in having more stuff is so seductive. The message is everywhere, saturating our TVs, computers and cities. It creeps into my brain trying to make me believe that I would be better looking, have more friends, and be an all around happier human being if I would just buy those designer jeans.

I'm reading a book right now called Deep Economy, by Bill McKibben. He is an environmentalist and economist who argues in this, his latest book, that economic growth at its current pace is not only environmentally unsustainable, but it doesn't make us happier. A homeless person on the streets of Calcutta is rated the least happy in all the world. But once he moves to a shack in the slums, his happiness doubles. Forbes magazine's richest Americans have happiness scores identical with those of the Pennsylvania Amish, and only slightly above those of the Masai tribesman. That person living in the slums of Calcutta is about as satisfied with his life as the average college student. The point is that money only makes us happy to a point. Once basic needs are met, money's ability to bring happiness goes down exponentially.

This should be enough evidence for me to squelch the irrational desire for more, more, more that creeps into my head every so often. I wish it were enough. But that's just more proof that I need to be intentional about who I surround myself with--people who don't make me feel inferior because of my stained, used, $50 couch and whose activities revolve around good times with good people, not good times playing with nice stuff. Luckily, I'm married to one such person who is not nearly as easily seduced by money's false promises.

Wealth is isolating. With it we can buy enough stuff that we're no longer dependent on anyone else. But that too is a lie. Right now, as I'm staring at rent payments, bills, Christmas presents that need buying and grocery shopping in light of a dwindling bank account, I'm calling Wealth on its bluff. Whenever I hear its lies in the future I will say to my soul, Soul, you have an ample wealth of friends, love and happiness in Christ who gives you all good things.

Vocational discernment has been a constant struggle for me in my short-lived life. I resigned myself to a communication major for the first two years of school, feeling frustratingly dispassionate. I was an aimless until I found theology. I love theology; I love school. Seminary was the logical next step, right? If I keep studying what I love to study, eventually it will lead me to job I love. This has always been my mantra. But it is backfiring. I am realizing that I cannot be a passive onlooker in this whole quest for discernment. I actually have to make strategic decisions; I need to choose from many interests and possibilities, a job that will be fulfilling and meaningful.

Those Bible folks had it so easy. Moses gets God in a burning bush, Isaiah gets a seraph searing his mouth to enable prophecy, Ezekiel gets a crazy vision of God sitting above the dome calling him to go pronounce destruction, Jeremiah gets a word from the Lord, audible and clear, Paul gets knocked of his horse, the disciples get miracles of fish...the stories go on and on.

The astounding thing is, all these prophets had something to say about their call from God. Moses doesn't speak well, Jeremiah is too young, Paul was an enemy of God, Amos was a herdsmen and a dresser of sycamore trees--hardly a prophet's resume. Despite their objections, the call was loud and clear and God was never one to let them off the hook.

The past week has brought on something of a vocational crisis. Here are the things brewing on my horizon and in my tiny mind:

* Non-profit. This has always been something I could see myself getting into. But after applying to about a gizillion non-profit jobs upon returning from Russia and getting rejected from all of them, I feel demoralized about my prospects. This week, however, an opportunity to intern for CARE International was unexpectedly dropped in my lap. This could mean an even crazier year with more work than I can handle, but it could also mean a really great opportunity to break into a field that is hard to crack.

* Education. I love to teach. I especially like to teach theology. This year, I will get to try my luck at Christian Education at St. Luke's, where I am interning. My supervisory priest is an incredible teacher herself, so this is a fantastic opportunity. Of course, the question becomes 'in what capacity?' Christian Ed in a church? In a private school? On a purely volunteer basis in my spare time while I get paid to do something else?

* Old Testament Scholar. Even acknowledging this as a possibility cracks me up. I LOVE the Old Testament. I love school, and I like college kids more than the younger varieties. But, PhD programs are practically impossible to get into. Once I'm in, teaching jobs are hard to come by. I would probably end up teaching in some school in Iowa or Kansas or something when all I really want to do is teach at SPU. Alas! Plus, any Bs in any of my O.T. classes throughout seminary mean that I can basically kiss this dream goodbye--seriously! To add to the confusion, I got the highest grade in the class on my last Hebrew exam, but I am almost surely to get a B on a very demanding midterm in Exile and Restoration--taught by one of the world's leading O.T. scholars whose recommendation I would surely need for PhD applications, but am unlikely to get without a stellar performance in her class.

* Ordination. Save the most confusing for last! I do not want to be a parish priest. But, in talking with my site supervisors at St. Luke's recently, I have been reexamining the reasons for my aversion. Mostly, they involve fear--the same kind of fear experienced by Jeremiah (I'm too young!) Moses (I'm unskilled!) and the disciples (I'm not sure want this lifestyle...). I'm not sure I'm comfortable shutting this door out of fear. So, the first step toward figuring this out in the Episcopal Church is a process called...drum roll...discernment. I have been toying with the idea of entering discernment as a way to explore these issues further with a board of priests and lay people who are all excited to help me figure out these questions. While I thought I might possibly enter discernment next fall, I was invited today to enter into this year's cycle, which starts Saturday!!

You might get the picture that I am highly confused and you would be right about that. There are so many open doors right now and there is no clear word from God. Where is my burning bush? I could use a lightening bolt, a vision, a voice from heaven, whatever. I'm not picky, really. Just something besides the same objections, doubts and options circling round and round in my head. I am not good at this. I want so desperately to do God's will to be right where God wants me that I find myself nowhere. At some point, a leap of faith will be required, I have no doubt, I'm just having this sense that this leap might be coming sooner than I was expecting.

I may not have burning bushes, but I do believe that God still speaks. And the primary way God has spoken to me in the past has been through the people around me. So people, speak up!

The chapel at the University of Central America in El Salvador looks like any other Latin American worship space...at first. We visited the university because it is the home of the Oscar Romero museum and the site where 9 Jesuit priests were assassinated by the government in 1989 for their outspoken resistance to the Salvadoran military in its human rights abuses during the civil war. The picture to the left is of Wes standing in front of the monument dedicated to the remembrance of the Jesuit martyrs.

The effects of the civil war on the Salvadoran psyche cannot be underestimated. 75,000 people were killed by death squads or assassinations for their resistance to the right-wing (US funded) oppressive government policies. Everyone in San Martin-- the housing project that hosts Santisima Trinidad (the parish where I worked) in the outskirts of San Salvador--was displaced by the war and had lost family members and friends. The husband of our host mother, Irma, was killed by a stray bullet only a few blocks from their house during one of the final conflicts between the FLMN and government military. The stories go on and on.

One cannot help but wonder what how a recent history of tremendous violence has influenced the liturgical life of the church. It was in the little chapel of the UCA where we found our answer. There we found a memorial to the priests assassinated in the parish they served, and a disturbing picture depicting Oscar Romero and the other outspoken bishops of the Catholic Church in heaven as the military leaders and soldiers are essentially burning in hell. But the most striking, disturbing, amazing and thought provoking evidence of the pervasive effects of such violence were the stations of the cross hanging on the back wall of the chapel.

The stations of the cross are designed to facilitate a pilgrimage of sorts for Roman Catholics (and now Anglicans, Lutherans and others) during Lent. Typically, stations of the cross consist of 14 images or sculptures from the final hours of Christ's life. The depictions help the believer to focus their prayers and to experience in a deeper way, the sufferings of Christ. Usually, the stations begin with Jesus' condemnation by Pontius Pilate, the receiving of the cross, his first fall and on up to Jesus being stripped, nailed to the cross, dying and finally, being laid in the tomb. Obviously, it's a solemn Good Friday (as opposed to Easter Sunday) kind of discipline that's been around for centuries.

But, in this particular chapel that has seen so much violence, all the stations of the cross are a depiction of Christ crucified. And they are not idealized, pastel, clean, or pretty pictures either. Instead, they are drawings of real people--kidnapped, tortured, murdered and left in a killing field outside of San Salvador. The charcoal drawings were done by a friend of the chapel during the civil war. He would travel to the known killing fields every day, looking for his sister who had gone missing several months before. He didn't find her, but in order to deal with the trauma of witnessing such violence on a day to day basis, he started drawing the victims there.
It is these horrific drawings that now hang in the chapel of all places--not an art gallery or a museum, but a house of worship. We heard that there were many requests for the pictures to be taken down, especially for events like weddings and other happy occasions. After all, who wants to remember the realities of living under an oppressive, killing regime when they're at church?! Isn't church the place we preach a different gospel, one that declares Christ victor, where death has no sting and where the kingdom of peace and reconciliation is coming soon? Of course. But in El Salvador, none of those truths allow us to escape this world and cease to embrace our responsibilities to be Jesus in this world and take part in ushering in the Kingdom of God. Oscar Romero, El Salvador's contemporary martyr whose marks are everywhere clearly understood that.

These drawings bring new meaning to religious art, iconography and the liturgical function of art in church. I remember Wes telling me about a church he visited in South Africa where Desmond Tutu served as a priest during apartheid. The church harbored apartheid protesters and stood up against the police regularly. Inside, however, hung several banners left over from the English colonizers--a mark of their not-so-honorable past. Every tradition can no doubt boast merits and embarrassments alike, but more often than not we like to play up the good stuff and forget the bad. Crusades...shhh. Civil Rights....woohoo, Church! But for St. George's it is not alright to forget the past and the events that, for better or worse, have shaped them.

The same is true, I think, for the UCA's chapel. Jesus' life, death and resurrection take on a different meaning in a society struggling to recover from indiscriminate violence and corruption. Jesus' death is not simply a theological doctrine, but a point of contact between the death they have seen from all sides since 1979. What does it mean to turn the mangled bodies from a killing field from meaningless slaughter to opportunities for religious and devotional contemplation? What does it mean for someone who saw their brother or husband murdered before their eyes to look upon the bloody bodies of similar victims and see Jesus there? What does it mean to be reminded of the atrocities of the past as you return to your pew after receiving communion and upon walking out the door into the world that continues to breed corruption and violence on every corner? It is these questions that have rattled around in my mind since that Saturday. I cannot imagine a church in the States being willing to display such violence on its walls. Then again, we've never lived in a place where such scenes occupied a space in everyone's mind.

The UCA stands, for me, as a stark reminder of the church's mission in a world that is so resistant to the gospel and despite our hopes, will never participate in bringing about the kingdom of heaven. Those drawings are disturbing and horrific. And so sometimes, is this life. And yet, there is Jesus; our savior who was crucified, died and raised again to new life.

I saw Jesus at church Sunday. He always shows up in the most unlikely places. On Sunday, Jesus was two old women, one black, one white. They sat next to each other two pews in front of me. I watched people scurry to the altar for communion, and I watched as Jesus slowly stood. Ever so slowly, leaning on each other for support, they hobbled up the stairs to the altar.

Together.

Jesus was the white woman, holding the hand of someone her upbringing and culture forbid her to know. Jesus was the black woman, holding out a supportive hand to an image of her oppression. Jesus was there, his body the food for the white and black woman alike. His blood the cup of salvation for two weary souls. His sacrifice, the possibility for reconciliation, unity and life.

On Sunday, heaven happened at St. Luke's. Heaven looked like two old women, determined to meet Jesus at the altar rail. They fed on him even as their bodies withered away. Heaven--the place where there truly is no Jew or Gentile, no black or white and where wrinkled, dysfunctional bodies become new--that place took form at the altar rail as two old women lowered themselves to their knees and stretched out their tired hands.

Together.

I saw heaven there. Just a glimpse. Jesus sat at the table, welcoming us all to join in the great feast.

Wes was asked to speak at Scott's memorial service today. Here's what he had to say:

I first got to know Scott through health problems: my dad, his regular racquetball partner, had hurt his ankle, and I took his place. Scott was a better player than I was, and was typically able to beat me. He has better control of the ball, and could serve much better than I could. But, I had a trick up my sleeve as well. He had a pacemaker, and as long as we both kept running on the court, he would eventually have to slow down to keep his heart rate in check. Those key moments of incapacitation were where I scored most of my points.

My wife, Lauren, told me last week that she doesn't think that she would have fallen in love with me if it weren't for Scott, and I think that she is right. Scott was one of my best friends, and I enjoyed our times together getting breakfast at the Blue Star Cafe, playing racquetball, and talking after church more than almost any other time during the week. He was one of the first people who knew that I was interested in dating, and then marrying, Lauren, and the person who "got" more of my Simpsons' quotes than anyone else. He got me interested in reading John Howard Yoder, and in watching Quentin Tarentino movies.

But, Scott was also the closest person who I have ever had to a mentor, and has shaped me in more profound ways than I will ever fully realize. And I think that that is what Lauren was referring to last week. We would talk over bowls of oatmeal with raisins about church history, about theology, about why being a Christian means that I can't ever be completely comfortable with myself living as a priviliged American. He introduced me to the concept of Christian Social Ethics, helping me to see that living as a follower of Jesus means working constantly and tirelessly for social justice, means more and requires more than living with personal piety. He helped me to understand that loving other people means that I should care that they don't have money for food or for medicine, and that I and other Christians should oppose systems that keep them from getting it. He is in many ways the reason that I am in medical school right now, and the reason why I want to be a doctor who serves and advocates for the poor.

So, thank you Scott for being my friend, and asking me questions that I will continue to wrestle with for the rest of my life. Thank you for helping to make me into the person I am today, and for showing me who my neighbor really is.

Check out this site that my friend at seminary, Karl Kroger just told me about. Apparently, you can be involved in micro-lending by donating money to an individual who will use it for a small business venture or to buy a cow, goat, etc. that will yield some profit for them. The best part is, you get your money back as the individual's project brings money in. You can help people collectively or as an individual. What a great idea!

This blog has been a long time in coming. The catalyst that finally got me going was my feeling that I had not put in the work of adequately reflecting on my time in El Salvador and Nicaragua this summer. Journaling and talking to people are some of the only ways I can do that successfully, and I felt I didn't get enough of either. Besides, journaling with pen and paper just takes so long!

I hope this will be a place where the thoughts in my head can mull about in the real world, where otherwise fleeting ideas become somewhat more crystalized, and that in so doing, I come to know myself more fully. In seminary (or in life!) there are so many threads left hanging, so many new ideas thrown at me that I want to reflect on but can't find the space to do so honestly and intentionally. Welcome to my new space!