My First Christmas Tree

Why should it be traditional?

I spent all weekend putting my “Book Tree” up at the library. A lot of carting old encyclopedia sets up from the dungeon, stacking, re-stacking, and yet again repositioning to try to make them look like a short squaty red Christmas Tree.

Then I precariously balanced a star atop of it all.

It didn’t turn out exactly how I planned, but I’m pleased. Besides, what other job would I be allowed to cut paper snowflakes out to my heart content?

That's right people, a lot of sweat and (possibly tears) went into this, don't you dare destroy it.

I love my job :-)

In Defense of Happiness.

I'm a happy person.

It's a simple truth. I've never actually poled my circle of acquaintances and friends, but I'm confident that if I did, the majority of them would agree. Lydia is a happy person.

I used to be proud of this fact. Or at least I took it for granted. I knew there were not-happy people in the world, I knew depression is a serious problem for many. But I was secure in my identity as someone who didn't deal with that, and I have to admit there was a measure of "What is their problem?" in my attitude that I'm ashamed of now.
Time has gone by, I've grown up. And while I'm still a happy person, it's not the same simple truth. It's not simple at all. I've realized how much work I've had to slowly begin putting into my optimism. It's not as easy as it once was. But it's still worth it to me for a lot of different reasons.

I wish I had more even keeled emotions. I wish I could not take everything so much to heart. I wish I wasn't so determined to find the silver lining. Sometimes I wish I could be grumpy all day long. That I could actually go a couple of hours without laughing. That I wasn't wired to act happy when I'm really not. Because... it gets tiring, and it's hard.
Lately in my reading and observing I've noticed a surprising prejudiced against happy people that I took (probably too much) to heart. If you go by popular culture's definition, happy people are naive, annoying, get in the way and are just plain useless. If anything, they're cute, comic relief. A general misconception about happy people is that we have it easy, we have no worries, otherwise we'd wouldn't be happy. Believe me, that's not the case. Now I'm just fine with being thought cute, and I believe this world wouldn't suffer if comic relief was valued a tad more. But do people find my general optimism annoying and unrealistic?

I certainly hope not, but I honestly don't know.
I heard someone say once that we live in the age where we are drowning in information and starving for knowledge. Kids grow up so fast, they learn of the horrors of the world and lose their wide-eyed innocence and replace it with world-weariness much too soon. I'm not saying I can scientifically prove this but it seems to me the more horrors a person knows the less happy they're likely to be.
I'll freely admit I've led a sheltered life, that I'm blind to many things normal people deal with daily, but I'm twenty years old, I'm not a child anymore. I've known sadness. Some of the sadness was obvious, the death of a family member, a public humiliation. Some of it was deeply personal, life ruinous difficulties that I never talk about, and kept a secret. Secrets I'm planning on keeping it that secrets.
I can't speak for all optimists but I know for me happiness really is a choice. I get up in the morning. I look in the mirror before starting my day and I put a smile on. Because that's who I am, and always have been, if I feel like it that day or not. I choose to bury my sadness and not dwell on it. And mostly it works out okay. Optimists aren't happy because we don't have anything to be sad about. We're happy because that's how we deal with sadness. And when we do get upset, it's something serious, so pay attention.
We all have bad days, I am no exception. When things build to a head for me I'm suddenly reminded of all the things I've been being happy about, that I didn't want to be. The things I bury in order to present the smile everyone is accustom to. Things I don't want to be happy about, but do anyway for no better reason than the fact that I'm a happy person. I don't get depressed, I'm not allowed to.
But when I do...
Boy it's drastic.
Because it scares me to confront it all, because I'm not good at being depressed, I honestly can't handle it. I usually go on a cleaning spree (and I HATE cleaning) as an effort to distract myself. (In case you were wondering, my room is currently spotless.)
My point with sharing this is to start a defense for happy people against prejudiced. If you have a happy person in your life that you find a bit too happy, if you ever rolled your eyes and thought "Have they got a shock coming..." try and consider that maybe the shock has already come, there's a good chance they don't always feel as cheery as the smile on their face suggests.

So basically: Hug a happy person today. They need it just as much as anyone.

(I should point out that I have nothing agasinst pessimistic people, I just don't like when they hate on optimists)

9-10-11 12:13

Did I Mention I Write for a Magazine?

Well, it's an e-zine, and it's called Femnista, it's amazing, and the new issue just came out this weekend!! You can find the link to read or download it here: http://www.charitysplace.com My column is on page 16, but I encourage you to read all the other lovely articles covering Austen, Dickens, Bronte and To Kill a Mocking Bird.
Enjoy!

Who Am I?

I’m a Christian.

Did you know that? It’s a serious question, did you know? Not the “Oh her? Yeah, she goes to church regularly.” or “She doesn’t swear or drink or sleep around so she’s probably religous.”

I’m talking about being a person that people call a Christian without being told to, not just where I do go on Sunday mornings or what I don’t do during the week.

Did you know that the term “Christian” was coined by so called “Heathens”? To classify people who believed in Jesus Christ. And back in the day when the word was invented, being called one wasn’t exactly a safe occupation, and yes, it very possibly meant death.

Now it’s... “I’m better than you.”

And honestly, sometimes that makes me cry.

When I say that I’m a Christian, is that what you think I mean? And more importantly, is this idea supported by my actions?

I have, in my younger years given my life to God. I know that sounds like a religious statement. Hearing it often evokes mental pictures of Mother Theresa or one of those crazy curbside yelling fanatics who screams scripture all day long at passing cars. I hope when I said it I meant that I realized that my ideas for my life are useless, shallow and worthless, and I saw that God’s plan for me was better, the best, cause he’s the best, and I wanted to be like him, like Christ. In essence, a Christian.

My realization was a very long time ago. I’ve spent over a decade comfortable in the knowledge that God loved me and I was going to heaven. But, have I been a Christian? No, not always, and mostly... not at all. Whether or not a person grows up in a envorment where church is present most understand somewhat the concept of Jesus. Jesus was that guy on the cross. He feed the poor, he talked to people, all people. And he talked about love a lot.

Love.

Gracious goodness, what a word. Poets have only been striving for thousands of years to figure that one out. It’s beyond complicated. The Christian community claim to love their fellow Christians, yet they are all too eager to call attention to their faults. That they don’t have enough love. I find myself privately thinking like that more often than I care to admit “Those Christians think this about me, they think they’re so much better... “ They... they.. THEY!

But what about me? In my “Christian-ness” am I loving people? And I’m not just restricting this to my fellow believers, approving of their Christian-ness and loving them, it’s easy enough to put on one’s “Church-face” at church and in my public life as the good girl who does (and doesn’t do) the right (or wrong) things.

But you know what? I’ve lived with my “Church Face” long enough to know that the man I claim to serve would hate it. Really really hate it, like spew thee out of my mouth type of hate. Because no matter how holy looking my church face is, it doesn’t love my fellow men like Jesus did. Jesus didn’t judge people, and he commanded us not to, to look at our own selves first, and the one who has no sin to cast the first stone. When I head to church on Sunday mornings and see a drunk stumbling down the street, as I subconsciously straighten my appropriate church clothing and walk past I judge that person if I mean to or not. If I was a true follower of Christ I would love that person. I would hug my fellow human being and, yes, it would dirty my stuck-up church clothes. And I wouldn’t notice. I would give of my money and my time to make sure this person, knows that someone cares. And I wouldn’t give it a second thought. And I wouldn’t do it to look good or because somebody might be watching.

But I don’t.

I don’t give myself to these wonderful human beings that God made and God loves. Not in the way I’m suppose to.

Now I’m about to say something you’ve heard before. Several thousands times. I know I’ve heard it enough times to desensitize myself myself from the magnitude of it. And I’ve heard it from the lips of enough people who said it for the wrong reason. Their church face plastered so obviously on that it makes me want to avoid it all together. But all that doesn’t make it any less true. So please, bare with me.

Jesus died on the cross for us.

So many times it’s me, not us. People say it with an air of importance as if since you acknowledge that it makes them better. So called “Christians” treat it like it’s a high quality insurance company “I have State Farm. I’m in good hands. You’re not in good hands. Poor you.”

What about the fact that Jesus dies for EVERYBODY? And that he did it because he loves them? And what about the fact that he commanded us to do the same? To love people who don’t deserve it and give our lives for them.

I’m very good at talking about the concept of love. I can wax on and on about it without moving an inch out of my comfort zone to actually do some really loving, the kind that’s hard to do.

So basically, I’ve been lying to you.

I’m sorry.

I say I’m a Christian but... I’m not. I don’t follow Christ. I follow me. I follow my comfort zone and what makes me happy. I don’t love my fellow man like I should. I don’t give of myself enough to the people I approve of, much less the ones who it would be a little harder to love, I judge them. I look down on them. You would not believe the thoughts I’ve had about people that God loves enough to die for them. I lie. I cheat. I think myself better, smarter, prettier. I elevate myself to a special position just because I... grew up in Sunday School?

That’s wrong... so so wrong. It’s sin. It’s worse than drinking or swearing or anything else. I have misused the name of my Lord by saying I represent him when I have such hate in my heart.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

I’m sorry for putting my puny problems above the poverty and pain of humanity. I’m sorry for not being Jesus to you.

I’m a Christian.

And the real question is: Do I know that? Do I try to actually be like Christ to everyone I meet? I think maybe I should have anew dream of “When I grow up I want to be..” and I want to be a Christian. The real deal. The way it used to be. I want people who don’t believe in God to see my (probably disastrous, but hopefully sincere) attempts to follow him and think “That girl right there is someone who loves without judgement, without holding back, without pretense or a Church face. Kinda like a man once known as Jesus Christ.”

I know I’m not perfect like him and that I can’t be. And this is my confession. That I’m not. I’m not Christ. But I want to be, with everything in me, I want to be a Christian.

Did you know that?

Frigidarium: A True Story (Of Sorts)

I was trying to compose in my head

A poem, on my way to the shed

(Or garage, but that's hard to rhythm)

And I was taking my precious time

Being optimistic poetic me,

Not knowing what was going to shortly be.

The male members of our home

Wanted cake, frozen and under a dome

Of the ice cream variety

So I'd gone with female piety

To fetch it from the freezer

(I've been told I'm a people pleaser)

My mother told me to surely go

Making sure not to stub a toe

Through the back door since it wasn't locked

As the normal way between the cars was blocked.

My new poem was meant to rhapsodize

On how the magnolia petals lie.

How they crunch beneath my feet

As I walk on their soft, unblemished sheet.

I wanted to rhyme how the night air

And the cricket's beat transports me somewhere.

While my mind was on that

I pulled the door close so it didn't bat

And bang in the wind annoyingly

And bother my mother worry-ingly

I picked my way over garage-y stuff

Which I can tell you, is tough

When one is in pitch darkness

With only a small light in the mess.

I opened the freezer to discover

There wasn't light there neither!

I exclaimed my displeasure

And then felt around for good measure.

But it was a bigger than normal ice box

And I felt out smarted by the fox

Of my own absentmindedness

It was silly of me, I must confess

Not to remember a flashlight

Yet on went I with all my might

And stuck in both my arms

Never thinking of the harms

But I lost my footing

Horizontally positioning was my ending

And then my wandering hands

Came up empty... oh my Lands!

I was stuck in the cooler

Could I be more of a fooler?

Stuck like Pooh, half in half out.

I was most definitely a lout

And believe me, it hurt

As cold began seeping through my night shirt.

I struggled for a moment

And only manged to get more bent

I stopped and started considering

If nosily yelling and bellowing

Was in any way dignified.

If I told myself it was, I would have lied.

In this moment of self reflection

To my amazement and fun

Found the cake that I'd been sent for

Only to end up stuck in the freezer door.

I pulled at it much too promptly

Considering my task fait accompli

Then the lid came off, and with it the cake

How much more of a mess could I make?

I somehow caught them both right side up

But felt most unhappy and cutup.

I was stuck, in the dark

Balancing ice cream cake, what a lark!

Then, Oh rapturous joy unbound!

The wondrous mother of mine had found

Her daughter gone quite long

And worried something might be wrong.

She called from the entry way

To hurry and not delay!

I begged her to turn on the light

And to aid me in my desperate plight.

But alas, my muffled voice

Did not transport, she had no choice

But misunderstand me

And although I could finally see

For, the light she switched on

But to my aid, came none.

I urged myself out with relief

Happy to get past it with my teeth

Deciding not to go the way I came

In truth, I felt rather lame.

I snaked my way between the cars,

Almost like prison bars.

It was not nice going, I admit.

I was near on at the end of my wit

When on the hitching post

My Pj's caught, (this is not a boast!)

I tugged them free at last

And made my way fast

To the door to get inside

And I do not think I cried.

But then, of course, it was locked,

And I sighed and (loudly) knocked.

Only to have it opened to hear

After everything "The cake is not needed, my dear.”

…

So instead I ate Greek yogurt

(Healthier by far) but I still wanted to blurt

Out my woes to you, my friends

To the trivial my life does tend.

Yet it has it's almost charming in the end,

A funny story, is how I defend.

Such horrid rhythms and no meter

I apologies most humbly dear reader.

At the last you must know

The moral to this unnecessary show

Is that poetry is dangerous

And always cause a ruckus.

Ignore poetic magnolias soft and sweet

If you want to keep your feet!

(*Disclaimer* I have never professed to be anything close to a poet. Mostly I just like thought in short verse and capitalizing words in the middle of sentences ;-P)

*Much thanks to Merrill for her awesome-ness!

Fools In Love (Or: A Post In Which Lydia Gives Her Opinion On A Subject She Knows Absolutely Nothing About: Love)

People, in general, are idiots.

My mother, if she read that last sentence, would undoubtedly give me one of her well weathered “looks”. It's well weathered because I have a tendency to blurt out unfinished thoughts bluntly and without sufficient logic to back them up, and most of the time, I deserve the looks, and am smart to heed it by shutting my big mouth, but this time it's different, this time I've thought long and hard about it, asked opinions of several different people and spent an entire life time researching it.

I, as most of you know, am an incurable romantic. I believe there is a perfect someone out there for everyone, that true love exists, and yes, that 'happily ever after' is achievable. From this description it would be safe to assume that, paired with my occupation, as a librarian, and my love of enjoying stories I would be a devoted fan of literature and the silver screen's greatest love stories and couples,

Nope.

Can't stand them.

(I should note here that I complied this list from a sampling of several different opinions on the internet, and I don't hate all the stories on the lists. Jane Austen does, and always will have a special place in my heart, but stories like hers, although on the list, are a definite minority.)

Basically because the characters in theses stories (or at least the main guy and girl) are ridiculously idiotic. Why? Because, this being a love story, they're in love, and if stories are to be believed (they say life imitated art after all) love is neigh on insanity.

"When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal and exhausting condition until death do them part." ~George Bernard Shaw

I rarely agree with George Bernard Shaw (after all, Pygmalion, which was on some of the lists, has a rather unsatisfactory ending, although I love Freddie, I can't help but get the feeling that Eliza doesn't really love him) but here he seems to capture my thought exactly.

Now before all the other incurable romantics have me drawn and quartered let me provide evidence for my case:

Romeo and Juliet:

The mention of this Shakespearean masterpiece always seems to entice sighs from the present female company, I have no idea why. Sure, it's Shakespeare. Sure, the title characters are a cute couple, they love through family disapproval, they remain true and dedicated to each other, they are poetically, fully and deeply in love. Despite the fact that they're closer to FOURTEEN then twenty, it's adorable... that is until they both go and die because they think the other is dead. I understand that when in love at 14 one is never thinking straight but isn't it slightly ridiculous that it never crossed either of their minds to verify the information or even check for a pulse! Never mind that if the other one truly loved them that they would want them to stay alive! Some might find the “I can't live without you” sentiment to be true, but I find it a trifle uncaring, and selfish. I know I don't know what it's like to lose someone you love more than life itself, but from my own point of view if I died tomorrow the very last thing I would want my love ones to do would be to follow me. I love them, and I want them to live.

Various Couples of the Arthurian Legend:

Arthur and Guinevere and Lancelot. Ugh. I hate love triangles. The story of Camelot is one of the oldest we have, proof that the “love means I can take leave of my senses and do stupid things” excuse is nothing new. Guinevere has an affair with her husband's best friend which results in the down fall of Camelot. And her reason? Her husband was too perfect. Seriously Lady? You're excuse for bringing about the destruction of the greatest kingdom of all Myth and Lore is the annoying perfection of your royal husband, who, by the way, forgave you for ruining his life and kingdom before going of to die in the war YOU started. Oh I can totally see where you're coming from there. And Tristan and Isolde? She's married, to the man who raised him. And he dies. I really don't see how that's romantic.

Wurthuring Heights:

Both Catherine and Heathcliff marry other people who neither of them love as revenge on each other, and the then they die and become ghosts.

Gone With The Wind:

The film has rather gorgeous costumes... other than that... ugh.

Anna Karenina:

She commits suicide by throwing herself in front of a train. Pleasant.

Casablanca:

Two years later... “Oh look we've all managed to meet up in a charmingly named town and spend the rest of the movie giving each other meaningful looks and not talking about anything important.”

*close up of Ingrid Bergman crying cause she can't decide which man she loves more*

Which man will she end up with?

Her husband, or Humphrey Bogart?

And most importantly: Why Do I even care?

Believe me... I could go on and on and on about how stupid these people act in the name of love, and I just don't understand it, I guess because I'm a romantic, but a practical one. And while I understand that happily ever after isn't very practical I still don't understand why it has to go the complete other direction into death and tragedy , and why the tragic love stories are the one's society remembers and upholds as “true love”.

. How do we even know if their love was going to last longer than a week? Also, when they die, there's no point in their senseless death. Yes, their families reconcile when they die but I have a feeling eloping and bringing home an adorable grandchild a year later might have done the same. Grandparents tend to melt into piles of butter around cute babies. If they'd actually thoughts things through, it could have worked out better. Instead they make a bunch of stupid decisions, is stupidity romantic?In the heat of conversation a couple of weeks ago I declared to a friend that when one half or both halves of a couple dies I did not considered their story to be romantic anymore. At his obvious confusion at my words I've now taken time to rethink what I meant by them. You see, if a person dies to save another, it's the greatest sacrifice they can give, and that's very admirable. But I think death, as well as life, should have some type of meaning. I don't consider the death Romeo and Juliet to be romantic, somewhat because there was no life before the death, they'd known each other all of

So why is love acceptable excuse for being an idiot? Just cause one's senses are dulled with raging emotions it doesn’t mean taking leave of common sense should be considered the norm. Love is one of the reasons that make life worth living and a precious gift from God, it should be cherished -not misused.

Once, a young mother I know told me that when she and her now husband were engaged they'd stay up into the wee hours of the morning talking on the phone every night, and because of her job at that point in time she'd only get four or so hours of sleep a night before having to be up in the later wee hours of the morning, and she survived on that for a while with no bad effects. When asked for an explanation of this phenomenon she laughed and said with an eye roll “I was young and in love!” Now I'm know she didn't mean that she and her husband are no longer in love, but that it's different now, she's a mother of several young children I'm sure she covets every hour of sleep she can muster. Now that, I consider to be romantic. Yeah it was completely goofy of them to deprive themselves of sleep, their fiancee would still be there at a decent hour. Personally, I love my sleep, we're best buds, and I can not imagine giving it up willing like that, no matter how handsome and witty he is, so, for me that would be a simple, yet adorable form of crazy in love.

One of my dearest married friends reiterated the other day how uncomplicated she and her husband's per-marital relationship was compared to most people, and pointed out that nobody remembers the sweet simple couples, just the messy complicated and often horrible relationships. That lead me to ask:

Why?

Why do we as a society revel in the swirling dating lives, marriages (plural) and messy divorcees of celebrities? Is it so we learn not to repeat their mistakes, or because we find it, of all things, entertainment? This is these people's heartbreak, why should we revel in it? Why should we find Scarlett O'Hara's stealing of her sister's fiancee for his money to be “epic”? Why is Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart's kiss in Casablanca considered to be the most romantic ever when Ingrid Bergman's character is married to another man? Why isn't Albert and Victoria's loving happy fairy tale marriage as famous as Charles and Diana's dramatically tragic one? People tease me for being a romantic, but I don't really see what there is to tease about. As defined by our culture romance is... sad. Is it good that we uphold this sadness as the greatest we can have in life?

I'm still a proud romantic, and I do love a good sappy boy-meets-girl. The ones I tear up over, they aren't perfect, people make mistakes, people die, life happens. That's what I expect someday when I fall in love. I'll make mistakes, yeah, I'll say things I don't mean, and completely mess up. But if it's God's will and I'm going to do my best to steer clear from being a complete idiot. I think my guy and I, we'll be good, and it'll be my kind of romantic, basically: the non-needlessly tragic kind.