Live from los EEUU

So I was nervous about returning to ND from Chile. As I discovered freshman year as I tried to digest my summer in Nicaragua as I adjusted to life in the veritable paradise of Notre Dame du Lac, it's quite a thing to try and reconcile the poverty and classicism and endless adventure and bus rides and lack of personal space and color and winding streets and endless rhythm and endless lines and endless rice and bread and potatoes; with a nation in which everything is clean to the point of surgical, regulated to the point of impersonal, where everyone wears brand-name clothes and says whatever they want to as loud as they want with the security they don't even realize they enjoy and complains about things that don't matter and waits only with the most visible of impatience and talks about convenience, convenience, everything is either convenient or inconvenient, where news is Britney Spears and politics is an inconsequential soap opera; this land of unnecessarily large cars and zealous, almost religious consumerism, bleach-white and beige, grocery stores that always carry exactly what you want and coupons and white twinkling perfectly-spaced Christmas lights.

But I was surprised to realize last weekend that the thing about the so-called "Notre Dame bubble" is that the "real life" from which it supposedly insulates us isn't the problems of the world but rather the sheer, petty ridiculosity of this nation and its quotation-marks culture. With the exception of a wonderful post-mass coffee date with Laura Zaps and Jackie yesterday morning, as well as a conversation in my dad's hospital room with his superintelligent, outspoken Israeli friend Ginya, I'm hard-pressed to find anyone here who really wants to hear about my semester, beyond the backpacking adventure parts. And I don't blame them, but the fact is I was only at ND for a weekend and the questions didn't stop coming about the culture there, the poverty, the social issues, the faith, my faith, my struggles. I've always been so humbled and inspired and impressed with how socially conscious my friends are, how unwilling they are to be content with what they have, embracing as a sort of mission the idea that those to whom much has been given, much will be expected. Whitney, Erin Ramsey, Jess, Laura B, Stew, Reidy, Keane, Booth, everyone wanted to know - and they cared. One of their own spending half a year immersed in the vibrant, turbulent, inspiring, heartbreaking world of Latin America was a matter of consequence to them - suddenly I was a resource and, more than that, one more person who cared about what they cared about, who studied what they studied, who was passionate as they were passionate. I can only thank God for the gift that is this university and for the incredible blessing that was my first weekend back in the States.

"We must be men with hope to bring." -Fr. Moreau. I missed out on The Semester of Basil Moreau, and I'm sure that if I'd been here, I'd have a lot more Moreau quotes stored up in the ol' arsenal, but this one came up in just about every homily I heard during Lent last year, and I love it for the simplicity in the mission it expresses. And I think Notre Dame is just that - hope to bring. Imperfect, self-important, idealistic, just like all of us who fill its halls and dorms, but full, full, bursting with hope.

Introducing...

The Weird, Hilarious or Generally Ridiculous Email from Abby OF THE WEEK!

In the spirit of Jessica's recently-posted ADORABLE email from her 12-year-old sister, I have decided to start a little something of my own along those lines using the barrage of send-this-to-11-people-and-your-crush-will-ask-you-out and OMG-fill-this-out-and-send-it-back-LOL!!!! emails I receive on a semi-daily basis from my own 12-year-old sister. But instead of adorable, they'll mostly be weird.

This week's best email was entitled "My 102 Goals in Life." Apparently it was an assignment for her GT (haha) class that she decided to forward along. And boy am I glad she did, because I never would have known that, in addition to the more normal goals (swim in at least three oceans, become a doctor, visit the Eiffel Tower, curing cancer, sailing through the Straight of Magellan... wait... what?), my little sister also dreams of...
-Working on a loom
-Discovering an alternative fuel
-Learning about the Ice Man AND Teddy Roosevelt
-Taking acrobat lessons
-Seeing the Titanic in person (like in the robot thing?)
-Exploring the Bamboo Forests of China
-Discovering an unknown cave!

I didn't even know she knew the words "alternative fuel." Or "loom." I didn't even know I knew the word "loom." And now I'm going to be the slacker of the family because all I ever did was major in theology and poli sci and here's Abby over here, the Doctor-Weaver-Acrobat-Tom Sawyer-Engineer-Hairy Guy From The Titanic Movie-Resident Ice Man Authority.

Comfort food: now available in Espangles

My chilean dad: "Arjoo going ouch tonite?"
Me: "No, esta noche no, tengo dos presentaciones y una prueba el martes. Y ademas de eso, mi coro tiene un concierto esta noche en Notre Dame y me pone un poco homesick."
My chilean dad: "Ah, bueno. Come have some cake and leche chocolate."

Peter

I returned home from a whirlwind (haha I said 'whirlwind') long weekend in Buenos Ay-res (highlights: evening tango show in the basement of an old cafe, staying with a group of hilarious and adorable Sisters of San Jose in their tercer-piso convent in the center of the city and waking up every morning to the sounds of children at recess in the grade school below us, buying my first ever pair of really fabulous shoes [saying 'really fabulous shoes' reminds me of Pirtle], singing 'Don't Cry for Me, Argentina' for like four days straight, steak, red wine, medialunas and coffee every morning, astoundingly attractive young gentlemen, etc etc. details to come. no seriously)... to find an unread email from Steve in the ol' inbox. Somehow, even from 8,000 miles away, I managed to hear from about 60 different people how incredible this past Sunday's liturgy was. And Steve sent out one of those thank you for your beautiful ministry here's a touching story emails that always make me cry.

So I did. Of course.

I love this semester for what an incredible struggle it's been. I often find myself frustrated here at what a poor 'light' I'm being. Cultural adjustments and language limitations have so often rendered me impatient where I would have once been calm, frustrated where I'd have once been laughing, short and sarcastic where I'd one have been warm, timid and shy where I'd once have been outgoing. Especially throughout the first half of the semester, I so often felt this subtle, bitter taste of hypocrisy in my mouth when I'd go on endlessly about the glories and wonders of my Vision summer to the other people in the ND group here and then turn around and succumb to frustration or impatience or sarcasm about something probably very minor. And whenever that happens, I think about how I miss my friends and my Folk Choir and my faith community and the cereal section in SDH and self-imposed all-nighters and late-night conversations in Starbucks and nerdy jokes about liturgical music and the loft and the ceiling of CoMo 329. Long, peaceful, wonderful conversations with Fr. Kollman whenever I start thinking too hard about my future and freak out. The grotto after dark. Complaining about the weather. Sneaking coffee into the library. The windy Sunday morning walk from South to the Basilica. The Badin stairwell. O'Shag. Leaves. I get jealous that I never got the Vision group honeymoon, that I never got to walk into DeBart on the first day of classes and see it all in a new light. I get jealous that I'll have been in choir for almost two years before being in a group picture and singing in a Concert for the Missions. I get jealous when I get emails for campus lectures and events and concerts that I've been waiting to happen for like two years now.

And then I roll my eyes at myself, because if I'm only capable of being the best version of myself when I'm surrounded by the veritable paradise of Notre Dame, well, maybe I'm not the person I thought I was, or at the very least not trying hard enough to be the person I know I can be. It's easy to be kind when everyone is kind to you. It's easy to pray, to contemplate, to discern, when you're surrounded by so many people setting such a beautiful example. And it's easy... no, it's not, faith is never easy... but easier, I guess, to walk the path, you know, when you're walking it with everyone you love. And none of us knows where we're going, really, no one sees the road ahead, but I guess the difference is the faith in the unknowing. And how much more beautiful it is to know you don't know and have faith and have it in community than to not know and not know and not know.

I need to be trying harder. To stop and consider that coming down from the mountain of this summer and the past two years implies that the view from the base isn't going to be what it was at the summit, but that doesn't change the mission, and actually, that's sort of the point of it all. That's the reason you climbed all the way up there to begin with. But I realized today that I also need to stop getting frustrated at myself for being homesick sometimes. I struggle with being comfortable. I've been immensely blessed these past four years to encounter and be welcomed into communities of urban poverty, rural poverty, of North, Central, and South American poverty, of spiritual poverty and social unrest, of human rights violations and sweeping disregard for the dignity of human life, of faith and despair and simplicity and ordinary people doing incredible things to change the world around them. And who am I to be comfortable after all of that. I'll never forget standing in the middle of my bedroom for the first time after coming home from Mexico, just standing there, looking around and feeling lost, and lying down on my bed and missing the earthy discomfort of the scratchy burlap cot I'd been sleeping on in a room with a dozen other people and spiders the size of my hand. Because blessed are the poor, and blessed are the simple, in ways I couldn't have begun to understand until I finally accepted the invitation to an encounter with poverty and simplicity themselves.

And I don't want to be comfortable. Not completely. But that's what home is. And who am I, really, who am I, to look Christ in his so many earthly eyes and say a polite 'no, thank you' to the abundant, undeserved, luxurious comfort that comes with knowing, even in the middle of God Knows Where This Week, South America, that there's somewhere in the world in which I am unconditionally loved. Of course it's easier to be our best when we're surrounded by who we love and what we know. That's what home is. That's the point of home. And that's why we miss it. It's not a cop-out. It's Christ as much as the poor are Christ. And that's what we mean when we pray that our homes and our families and our communities of faith might become on earth reflections of God's love. Unconditional love. Heaven on earth.

Charity begins at home. And I think that even charity comes back home too.

I miss you all. A lot.

En serio, po?

Mushroom omelet? So good!

I realize that in the past few weeks, I've found myself in downtown Santiago being accidentally tear gassed in a protest, on a floating island in Lake Titicaca, and at the top of Machu Picchu, and haven't taken the time to write about any of that, but man, that mushroom omelet. So good. It had to be recorded.

Carmen Sandiego was not this cheesy

The bus is taking us to Peru tomorrow,
Peru tomorrow,
Peru tomorrow,
Actually we're going to Bolivia first but that doesn't rhyme tomorrow,
And we're gonna stay for 10 days.

We're going to Peru, ru, ru
How about you, you, you?
You can come too, too, too,
We're going to Peru, ru, ru!

Eye of the beholder

It's a strange source of comfort in my life that even at my sleepiest, ugliest, city-life-sure-has-taken-its-toll-iest, just-ate-a-family-lunch- of-potato-soup-with-a-side-of-mashed-potatoes-iest, there are still creepy old men who sit down next to me on the bus and tell me I have the cara de un ángel and ask me why I've never been in un concurso de belleza.

Also, I am currently embracing my heritage this afternoon by studying for my upcoming theology test and writing a poorly-researched Chilean politics paper (as well as a poorly-thought-out blog entry) in a local Starbucks. There are these two American girls at the corner table talking in obscenely loud English about last night's alcohol-induced exploits. Instead of allowing them to make me embarrassed about being from the United States (which will probably happen in at least a half-dozen other ways before the day ends anyway), I'm instead looking up from my books once every ten minutes or so to shoot them a subtle, mildly-appalled glance and looking around at my fellow Chileans with an "am I right?" look on my face, and they nod in concealed-laugh agreement, and I smile a little bit, because until I open my mouth, which I haven't, or until they look over at the English I'm currently typing in, I'm as good as latina. And if all it takes to qualify as Chilean is humiliation at the behavior of dizty American exchange students, then I mind's well apply for a change of citizenship. Or dual, at least. Maybe it was the potato-on-potato lunch.

My blog has freckles now. The old one suddenly seemed a little surgical.

Escándalo

You know that famous photograph of Marilyn Monroe from "The Seven Year Itch"? She accidentally steps onto a subway vent just as the train passes underground, and her white crepe dress goes soaring. She giggles, probably, gasps, bends to cover just enough of what needs covering, and then stands there for entirely too long.

In a nation that raises its collective eyebrows at women in shorts, on whose every lamppost and public bulletin board hang public service posters that read "MACHISMO MATA," on a crowded street during rush hour, I committed the number one error of city skirt-wearing.

And for the record, it's not sexy in real life.


Maybe if it had been a white crepe haltar dress and not a green Target skirt with pockets.

Real, though far off

I had the casa to myself this morning. My mama and papa had long since left for work, and my four brothers and sisters all had class. So I casually toasted some bread and heated some water for tea, paced sleepily around the small kitchen, checked the refrigerator door in hopes of finding anything other than whole milk and then remembered that the milk here doesn't go in the frigde, delighted in my three different and equally delicious marmalade options, hummed a tune. Then I stopped humming, for fear of waking someone up or messing up someone's train of thought. And then I remembered that I was the only one home. So I started humming again. And then I did something I haven't done in a really long time.

I starting singing.

Really loud.

And I kept singing, surprised at the sound of my own voice, at the melody cutting through the morning silence, at the English weaving around my morning te ceylan and pan and marmalada. Surprised I remembered how. I sang whatever I thought of as I thought of it, jumping from song to song, soprano to alto, gospel to basilica to Santiago kitchen.

Music is inescapable here. You can't even get on a city bus without a guitarist or djembe-clad hip-hop duo or Peruvian flautist hopping on after you to play for riders' pocket change. And I adore the seemingly endless soundtrack that my life here seems to enjoy. It makes it easy when I pretend I'm in a movie scene. But I miss singing along. The last time I heard myself sing, I was finishing four weeks of Vision, four weeks of endless song, and my screechy, failing voice was nonetheless filled with joy. For the past five weeks, I've been content in this lingering, inevitable homesickness for all the million sources of music in my life. But I guess I never realized how much I missed it all until this morning. My life was music. My life is music. And not in the "Baseball is life: the rest is just details" t-shirt way. My life flowed on in endless song. And for the past five weeks, the song's been in the morning, breakfast-preparing humming, or as I quietly sing "Arise, My Love" to the beat of my steps as I walk home every night, or when mass parts are the repeat kind, or when my little brother Cristobal brings home a kids song to memorize for English class. But it's not enough. I miss it. I miss singing. Loud. Unreserved. Praying twice. I miss it.

There are no grand revelations to be had here. I just miss singing. That's all.

Sugar and salt and everything Chilean

Of all the exotic new Chilean customs with which I have become enamored (and a couple other ones I'm not super crazy about), my favorite by far is the apparent Chilean espousal of the idea of meals in bed. As if a sliced hot dog/corn/tomato omelet and rice, or perhaps a heaping mound of noodles and chicken and cream (not sauce... cream. I am going to have a heart attack tomorrow at 5:46:07 EST), or a giant bowl of beans in orange stuff, or toasted allullah and manjar, or any of my other favorite things that my Chilean mama cooks up on a given noche, weren't good enough before... they're like four times better when I get to eat them warm under my many blankets, on a tray with a frilly doily, a big glass of fruit juice, and probably some more rice (just in case).

Other reasons that Chilean cuisine is going to end me include:

-1.5 spoons instant coffee + 1 spoon sugar + 3/4 cup boiling water + 1/4 cup chocolate milk = the best part of waking up.
-Chilean affinity for excessive amounts of sugar and salt. On everything. No seriously. All things.
-Tres leches ice cream.
-¡Empanadas everywhere!
-Avocados. So many avocados. No wonder Chileans are happy people.
-Manjar. Known in Meh-hee-co as "dulce de leche." Known in los Estados Unidos as sweetened condensed milk put in the microwave and then added superfluously to every breakfast food, dessert, ice cream flavor, bread product, fruit... spoonful...
-Allullah/ham/cheese/butter sandwiches.
-Potatoes.
-Hot dogs with guacamole.
-Fascinating milk that does not need to be refrigerated.
-Rice.
-Chileans eat more mayonnaise per capita than people of any other nation in the world. The average Chilean consumes more than 1 kg of mayonnaise per year. I believe it's 1 kg = 270 lbs.

This list is by no means complete. Check back for updates throughout the semester as I experience more and more of the wonder that is Chilean cooking.

Like the mints

Best decision of the day:
Peppermint hot chocolate

Second best decision of the day:
Skiing in the Andes

Lord, which way?

"I am with you."


I used to think that free will meant that God gave us the power to make the Right Decision. When presented with two options, one was always The Right One and the other The Wrong One. God left it up to us to discern between the two and choose for ourselves.

My every experience, my every memory, the ones I hold dearest most of all, and truly the very story of my life should have shown me long ago that this simply isn't true. If I'd have looked hard enough, it would have been obvious.

If at every crossroads, one choice is always Right and the other Wrong, then it isn't really free will at all, is it, but rather a trick. We have a choice but no real options and, in our human blindness, are doomed to fail.

The difference between The Right Thing and The Wrong Thing is only half the story. Maybe a little less than half. God gives us a will that is free to choose not only Right from Wrong - which at once compresses life into the table of contents of the Catechism yet elevates it beyond anything humanity is capable of living - but A from B. "Lord, which way?" I had to hear the story a dozen times in two different contexts to finally listen to the reply. "I AM WITH YOU," sayeth the Lord. Choose a way, sayeth the Lord. And make it right. And trust. And live.

Weekend Snapshots

Even if we are occupied with important things and even if we attain honor or fall into misfortune, still let us remember how good it once was here, when we were all together, united by a good and a kind feeling which made us, for a while, perhaps better than we are.
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rainy Saturday morning. One of those perfect ones. Not the kind in February when it's too cold to be alive so you crawl back under your covers and pray that time stops until the sun comes back out. The June kind, when you wake up and the only thing on your agenda is brunch with 35 of your closest friends. And then, why not?, you all decide to caravan up to the Michigan dunes. You pile into cars and spend the next hour singing "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" at the top of your lungs, and everybody knows it and you all do the voices and the pauses and the background music. And an hour later it's all blankets and stolen dining hall fruit and frisbees, a painfully, beautifully freezing Lake Michigan, a race to the top, jumping and rolling all the way down, spelling out "ND" and "Vision" in the sand [naturally].

And then the sun comes out.

Burgers, shakes, a showtunes and falling asleep ride home. The most incredible be-still-and-know-that-I-am-God St. Mary's Lake sunset of all time. "Airplane" and a dozen-point-five friends on couple mattresses, sprawled out, spooning, laughing, falling asleep. Perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Knowing there will always be someone to sit with at brunch, which means you never have to bring a book or pick up a pape on the way. And there's grapefruit every day in the summer. Laundry [makes me feel like I deserve to wear clothes]. Cantor arms and the Gloria and the return of the ridiculous flower dress, the redpinkyelloworangegreen one with pleats and pockets, the one that makes my family pretend not to know me when I wear it. A perfect homily. Milkshakes at midnight and one too many people in the car, the walk back and the Grotto at night, five of us praying all in a row, side by side, a little walk-back-from-D6 heaven on earth. One of those best ever late night conversations about relationships, everybody on the floor in a circle and it's got to be 1 in the morning by now. There isn't a single place I go all day in which someone isn't humming "How Can I Keep from Singing?" Not a single place. Not a one can keep from singing.

And the completely undeserved and wonderfully surprise gift of a pad of new music staff paper from Jessica.

2:30 a.m. The full moon sits directly over the Dome - we pause a second to take a picture [Matt Cashore couldn't have taken a finer one]. We line the edge of the dock, hand in hand, our glasses and room keys and superfluous layers of clothing abandoned on the sand behind us. One... two... three... JUMP!

Summer Folk Choir practice. I don't think I've ever had to try to not burst out laughing for more consecutive minutes than I did tonight. [75 minutes, to be exact.] Followed by packing up the cars for tomorrow's camping trip extravaganza, followed by Operation: TunnelVision '07. Visiting Dillon, Sorin, and the Knights of Columbus building. Under the cover of darkness.

From underground.

Afterwards, we collapse on the South Quad grass, drenched in sweat and covered in dirt, all of us in our black and with our flashlights and headlamps and individual descriptions of just how boiling hot it was down there, laughing at the pictures on Jennie's camera and pinpointing the location of the pipes we signed. We pass around the map; along the righthand side, all in a row, it's one dozen signature, comma, secret agent name.

If life were any better, I wouldn't even think it was real.


Eric Buell can make the grossest noise in the world.

Believe

St. Anthony, 1247:

Everyone longs to give themselves completely to someone, to have a deep soul relationship with another, to be loved thoroughly and exclusively. But God, to a Christian, says:

No, not until you are satisfied with living loved by Me alone and have an intensely personal, unique relationship with Me alone. I love you my child, and until you discover that only in Me is your satisfaction, you will not be capable of the perfect human relationship that I planned for you. I want you to stop planning, stop wanting, and allow me to give you the most thrilling plan existing, one that you cannot imagine. I want you to have the best.

Please allow me to bring it to you, just keep watching Me, expecting the greatest things, keep experiencing that satisfaction knowing I am, keep learning and listening to the things I tell you. You must wait. Don't be anxious.

Don't worry. Don't look around at the things you want, just keep looking to Me or you will miss what I want to show you. And then, when you are ready, I will surprise you with a love far more wonderful than any you would ever dream of.

You see, until you are ready, and even to this very moment, to have both of you ready at the same time, until you are both satisfied with Me and the life I prepared for you, you wont be able to experience that love that exemplifies your relationship with me and is thus perfect love. And dear one, I want you to have this most wonderful love, I want you to see in the flesh a picture of your relationship with Me and to enjoy the everlasting union of beauty and love.

I am God.

Believe and be satisfied.

Monday, Monday (da daaa, da daa daa)

For no good reason, I tried on my senior prom dress earlier tonight. It's long and this pale silver-blue, almost white, by far the most beautiful thing I've ever owned - one of those dresses that doesn't look like a prom dress - and, if I may be so bold, the closest I've ever come to beautiful in anything I've ever worn (which is saying a lot, given that I spend most dances counting down the minutes till I can change into something along the lines of my favorite green ND gym shorts). Add "missing Badin's Christmas Dome Dance" to the short list of going-abroad-in-the-fall "cons."

Vision is in a day and a half! Tea is good. I sneezed 11 times in a row today. Marcus and I had lunch and he stopped mid-sentence to exclaim how weird it is that we were sitting at a little table outside eating lunch on a Monday afternoon and talking about life and love and going abroad like we're some kind of adults. I know exactly what you mean! I love when that happens, when you both know exactly what each other means.

I spent an hour and a half wandering around the bookstore holding one of two competing brands of Chile guidebook in each hand, trying to decide which of the worthy applicants to hire as my personal assistant for the upcoming semester. The Rough Guide to Chile is published by Penguin Books. That was an easy decision.

Little-ton

I had a dentist appointment yesterday, which was a delight because my dentist and I are tight. I used to date her nephew and, consequently, spent a good part of my senior year of high school watching movies in her basement and Rocky Mountain sunsets from her back porch. She had two appointments cancel at the same time yesterday, so she did all the stuff that the hygenist usually does and it ended up being about 30% tooth cleaning and 70% talking and laughing and catching up. Later I stopped by the grocery store I used to work at to take advantage of a sweet cherry sale and was shocked when one of my old managers not only remembered me but also pretty much everything about my life, including stuff I don't even ever remember having mentioned. This morning, my sister Abby and I packed up a lunch of yogurt and cherries and set off on foot for Barnes and Noble a few miles across town. On the way back, we stopped at church to kick it for a while with my high school youth ministers. Halfway home, we found a baseball lying abandoned in the grass, one of those perfectly worn, dusty baseballs, and we tossed it back and forth the rest of the way. We spent the rest of the day writing letters and reading books. (And also making fun of pictures in her middle school yearbook).

We were walking today, and honestly, Littleton isn't really that little. They only named it that because Mediumton sounded like something in a Ray Bradbury book about the bleak and beige-colored future. I like it when I can string together enough moments I can arrive at by walking or biking and where everyone knows my name (and they're always glad I came) to pretend that I really do live in a small town, though. So we were walking, and I was carrying one of those big purses that's almost too big to still qualify as a purse, and I was wearing sunglasses and capris and making Abby walk on the inside of the sidewalk and instinctively grabbing her hand and giving cars an I-don't-trust-you look every time we crossed a street, and I finally realized, halfway to Barnes and Noble, that I felt like a mom. Not her mom, necessarily... those days ended when she finally got tall enough for her teachers and her classmates' soccer moms to stop giving me disapproving looks every time I came to pick her up from school.

"Oh, so you're Abby's...?" they'd trail off.
"Sister," I'd say with a laugh that I'd always make sound even more fake than it actually was. Which was a lot. Because man oh man, they were annoying. Just once, I wanted to reply with a "DON'T JUDGE ME!" or better yet, a "You don' knOOOOOW me! Only Jesus know me!"
"Oh of course!" they'd flightily reply. "Of course, I just... well, you never do know these days!"
Nope, nope you certainly don't.

Aaanyrate, I didn't feel like her mom, just a mom. With my big mom purse containing my Seven Storey Mountain and her brand new li-berry book and my cell phone and her Sunny Delight, and my mom sunglasses, and this strage, new sensation of protectiveness (which I hear is also a mom thing... not really a my mom thing... but then again, while most of the other moms were teaching their young daughters how to braid their hair and use their Easy Bake Ovens, mine was pointing out drug references in popular music), and with the taking a walk on a sunny day with a hyperactive little girl skipping a few steps ahead or a few steps behind me, I felt very... well... motherly. And I liked it.

I've been blessed with a few good friends who, though the world rolls its collective eyes at such an old-fashioned and simple-minded notion for good young educated modern men and women, still consider it their primary vocation to be a parent. The first time I heard one of them talk about it, I couldn't stop smiling at the sincerity in their voice. What a beautiful and humble act of courage it is, witnessing a 20-something-year-old undergraduate at one of the most prestigious universities in the country respond, "You know honestly, above all else, I want to be a parent. I want to raise a family," when someone asks, as someone always does, what it is they plan to do with their life. Maybe they follow it up with some career goals or a hazy picture of where they see themself in 10 or 20 years, but it's always "a mom" or "a dad" that they mention first. It makes me proud to have such friends, and it gives me courage to respond similarly. I used to exempt motherhood from the "what are you going to do with your life" question because it seemed like a given. Marraige? Children? Of course. Lately, though, something has catapaulted the idea of being a wife and mother out of the "background info" category for me, I think because I've come to understand it as the vocation it is. I went almost 20 years without comprehending what we mean when we pray that our earthly families are reflections of God's perfect love. To think of it that way, though, that although we are to be instruments of God's love in our every thought and word and act, it is only within our families that this divine love is most perfectly embodied... to aspire to live out the vocation of wifehood and motherhood is to aspire to help create heaven on earth. I can't think of anything more incredible.

Anyway it was a long walk to Barnes and Noble. Lot to think about. Especially when you're carrying a mom purse.

The best thing I've ever done

At the present moment I'm sprawled out on our family room carpet, my laptop groaning under the weight of Casa Bigelow* dial-up and my lungs aching after seizing a couple hours of no-one-else-home to catch up on some Vision musical practice, forgetting about how little oxygen the air actually contains at a mile above sea level. And here I thought I was immune to the altitute. And I dare call myself a native Coloradoan. So disgraced right now. Dis. Grace.

*Oh that means Bigelow House. DARN IT no rrrrr's to roll in that one, I HATE when that happens. WHEW, good thing I was here to translate. I figured I'd start warming up now if I'm going to make it big as next year's Rachel Jurkowskanandez [pronounced "yurrrrrr-KOW-ska-NAN-dez-puerrrrrto-RRRRRICOOOO"].

Tour ended yesterday and I got home this morning after a glorious 4 a.m. wake up call and ride to Chicago with Josh and Clarissa. Amid the goodbyes and hugs and the reunions and the more hugs and the past 12 hours (to the minute, would you believe) of getting reaquainted with the little sister I guiltily abandon for 9 out of every 12 months of the year, in all the little silences and moments of peace (including the one right now) it's the words of Andy Lawton that continue to ring in my mind.

"This is the best thing I've ever done."

Maybe it's just because I remember saying the same thing to Jessica after we left the Grotto that night of the Senior Concert. But of all the seniors' beautiful words during wrap up, none rang as true for me as Andy's did. Nothing profound. Just true. Of all the things I've done in my entire life, of all the teams I've been apart of, all the clubs, all the groups, of anything I've ever said or written or accomplished in all 20 years of my life, this is the greatest thing I have ever done. This is the greatest gift I've ever been given. All I've been able to think about since that moment is how grateful I am. Grateful for the seniors, for the choir, for Steve and Karen, for everyone. For the look on the deaf kids' faces in Schaumburg when Matt started signing during the concert. For the guy who came up to me in Red Wing and asked me to teach him to play the bodhran. For the joy. God, for the so much joy, for answered prayers, for the miracles that just happen, without burning bushes and earthquakes and halos and stuff, and for the world that goes on its way and doesn't even realize that everything is new. For the brightest moon ever and the list of all the incriminating things in Mary's purse for Michele to find, especially the original manuscript of Rosa Mystica. For Jessica Mannen who is the best tour coordinator in the entire world and also just... pretty much the best in the entire world. For Cassie's kind words after wrap up and the quote book and getting to teach a 2nd grader named Graham how to play the tambourine on African Gloria. For Andres and his 'fro, hugs and naps and back massages, for nuns and modern art and for the old ladies who made us sing for them after lunch in the middle of the MOA Italian restaurant. For my aunt and uncle who came to the last concert, and for Dismissal Amen, and for that one kid right front and center at Holy Family who fearlessly sang along to everything even though the rest of his peers looked like they were waiting for the perfect moment to storm the gym floor and kill us all. For being initiated. For Sean Pietrini talking and being hilarious. For host families, the Kirner family, the Folk Choir family, for my family and all our families, for Holy Family Catholic High School. For shattered preconceptions. And for not letting go yet and opening our eyes and looking around. If I live to be 15o, I'll never forget that moment.

St. Cecilia, pray for us.


I'm gonna go ahead and refer you to Jessica, who deserves like a twelve minute long standing ovation and the most glorious back massage in the world right about now, for a more comprehensive tour wrap up. I just realized that this blog serves no purpose whatsoever other than to chronicle with poor use of punctuation whatever half-formed thoughts happen to roll across my heart at a given moment and also perhaps to immortalize in cyberspace my passionate embrace of the run-on sentence. I'm glad you're here though. Add you to the list. I'm grateful for you. I hope your day is filled with miracles and wonder.

I'm glad this happened.

Broken as a sign of love

Tonight eight of us got together and made dinner. Sauteed chicken breast, sauteed green beens, rice pilaf (not sauteed) and a delicious brownie dessert (also not sauteed). And ice water. We even set the table. And did dishes. It was one of those truly beautiful ordinary little moments. It reminded me of that one night in Atlanta (was it Atlanta?) when we stayed at Meg Hunter-Kilmer's house, her little house with her used furniture and a simple rosary adorning the living room wall and the jumping room (oh man I almost forgot about the jumping room), and we stayed up late around her kitchen table, a single light on above us, with cookies and lemonade and water and talked about life. And the cool thing was we were all different years in (or out of) school and at all sorts of different places in life, and it was like we were a little family there around the table, brought together in Notre Dame our Mother. I'll always remember it because it was the first moment I've ever felt like an adult among adults my own age. That's kind of how it was tonight: Gathering around a table, sharing a meal we all helped prepare, sitting there for hours talking and laughing, scooting over and pulling up chairs, sharing in the sacrament of one another's company. Beautiful.

Also, a HUGE congratulations to the class of '07!!! Oh man, I feel like a mom... I'm so proud. I'm not going to lie, I cried a little watching the webcast as all the bachelors of arts stood up. It was so grand, so triumphant, so joyful! After all the tears of this week and the humble, grateful beauty of the Folk Choir senior concert last night, it made me happy to see the joy. Also, I had to shave twice today because I got chills like crazy throughout the entire time. Haha. No seriously.

Okay, sleepytime, because in 3.25 hours, it's TOUR time! Oh man TOUR. Yay.

The higher gifts

To congratulate myself on my not bad, not bad at all 3.8 this semester, on "scoring" a solo on the celebration choir recording on the same ridiculous song that I messed up so bad at a concert last month that I got taken off the verse of "Lead, Kindly Light" I was supposed to sing for Ordinations, and on finally moving a good amount of the way too much I own to storage, I bought Folk Choir's "Seven Signs" album off iTunes this morning. Needless to say, that did nothing to ameliorate the situation of "Coventry Litany of Reconciliation" being stuck in my head for about three weeks now. Not even the whole song either, just the delicate little "Be kind to one another" soprano solo. Over and over again. In my head. Three weeks.

Senior week is neato, gang, even though I'm very little caffeinated and as a result about two-thirds awake and only about three-fifths as funny as usual. Honestly, I'm sort of at a loss to explain my feelings about Senior Week just yet. I think "unsettling" is the word. Not in a way that a little Pepto would clear right up, and not just because nobody likes goodbyes, and not just because I'll never forget what it was like to look into the teary, somehow pleading and utterly and sincerely loving eyes of the Folk Choir seniors as we sang "Jesus the Lord" and "Lead, Kindly Light" at Senior Last Visit to the Grotto. Like I said, I'm still not sure. But I feel unsettled. I love that we all just hang out all the time though. I'm a little nervous that once I've gone Senior Week, I'll never go back. School really gets in the way of kickin' it with everybody and staying up until all hours of the night talking and laughing and learning the High School Musical Dance and going to the mall expressly to eat at Panda Express and watching The Original Kings of Comedy for the first time, or the eighth if you count how many times Blair and Tony P have, at one point or another, recited the entire movie. I love being a part of this. I love, I love, I love this.

In the midst of all this Senior Week goodbye madness, I've been trying to figure out what it was exactly that made this past year so transformative for me. Friendships, Folk Choir, faith and understanding and the glory glory hallelujahs of my beloved theology major... it's all of that, but it's more. I realized last night, as my eyes blurred with tears during the part at the beginning of "Jesus the Lord" when the cello crescendos for the first time, as I contemplated the reality that I won't be returning to the ol' loft until I get back from Chile in January, and how in the world the seniors must be feeling at that moment, and how completely impossible it was to not cry, and wondering why that was, as I looked from face to smiling, singing, sobbing face, trying to somehow memorize the familiar panorama and take it with me, keep it with me to constantly wipe away the dust and readjust it on the desktop of my mind like the one precious family photo you keep with you in a worn frame during your exploits in a far off lands... I realized that I've never felt more human that I did at that moment. I've never felt more a part of something larger than myself than I have this year, and somehow, in becoming a little piece, a little member, a little flower, I feel like I'm finally becoming a whole person, the kind of person who might someday understand what it means to be made in the image of a God who is love. I feel real. Our culture tells us that independence is the name of the game; that in this life, it's every man for himself. But I think Fr. Poorman put it best when, during his speech after being honored as Senior Class Fellow, he said, "Choose a community here: academics, sports, your dorm, the band,

the folk choir.

All of these communities have shown us the way we are to live, and that way is together."

And that way is together. And that way is together.

Goodnight, everybody. I love you a lot.

Behold, behold...

I walked around campus last night after the storm, looking at all the splintered trees and the empty concrete perch where the fourth of four Basilica spires used to stand, ducking under caution tape, my sloshy steps marked by an ever-increasing combination of fascination, curiosity and profound sadness. The sadness surprised me - not that I expected to be happy at the sight of destruction or anything. But I guess I never realized how much I felt that this place, and especially the Basilica and the trees (...damn hippie), somehow belonged to me. And not actually to me. To us, you know. To everybody. I can never not smile at that beautiful, almost giddy feeling of being a part of everybody in the way we're meant to be, in that Body-Of-Christ, that-all-may-be-one sort of way. A tiny piece of a beautiful whole, a piece so small that it's impossible to conceive that the whole would be any different if you weren't there, but still believing that somehow it would, and knowing that you would be different and maybe nothing if not for it. And realizing that life loses its purpose when lived solitarily, it hits you in the strangest moment, after a maybe-tornado perhaps, that we're all meant to be a part of something larger than ourselves, and that, truly, this is the thing you're meant to be a part of. The moments I've shared in that choir loft have come to define not only my college experience but my life. And even those moments belong to everyone, folk choir and congregation and university and anyone else who comes to be annointed with a song of the Lord. I wince as I gaze up at the shrouded damage to the Basilica, a quick shot of pain running through my heart like a shiver, even though it's relatively minimal and probably less than it could have been, and even though it will probably be repaired in a matter of weeks. And then it hits me, as I walk and stare, that this is the sort of thing Christ meant when he talked about destroying the temple and rebuilding it in three days. No damage can be done to a Church who celebrates every day as Resurrection Day, who builds its life in God who makes all things new and all things one. Resurrection. Oh man.

So anyway I'm walking around again tonight and it occurs to me how amazing it is that this great and mighty wind, which in its swirling fury downed power lines and cracked the trunks of gigantic, hundred-year-old trees right in half and sent a piece of the Basilica crashing to the sidewalk below, also left most of the millions of leaves, hardly connected to anything at all to begin with, perfectly unharmed on their branches. Maybe it's science or something, the pole-pavement/trunk-soil/concrete-brick bonds and the twig-leaf bonds, and the wind currents, maybe some tectonic plate movements, and things of that nature. Probably. But in an everybody-now, Body-Of-Christ, all-may-be-one little way, it makes me smile a little bit that the leaves hang on to the branches even after the entire tree has blown to the ground.

Or maybe I've just been watched a little too much "High School Musical."

Nah.

i couldn't think of anything to write about

...and then this happened:



coming soon: visitors center-eqsue walking-backwards guided tour of jessica and susan's desktop claymation notre dame! i have to go to bed now though, so my voice will be nice and rested up for "sunnnn ressts lowwww beenee-eeth the skyyyyyyy" and mouses toiling long to make their nests and lily wearing her bright array and other such recording fun tomorrow.


i love you.

you can't love whom you don't know

(it's in the bible.)

when i was just a wee little lass of two days older than however many months babies are when they start walking, i was taking a stroll around the ol' house when i misjudged my newfound walking abilities, got going a little too fast, and tripped and fell. on the way down, i cut my forehead open on the knifelike corner of a webster's unabridged dictionary. two hours, two thousand tears, and five stitches later, doctors gave my parents the tragic news: not only was their oldest daughter the least coordinated young woman on the planet, she was also the nerdiest.

they wept for days.

you can see the scar if you want to. it's a little like harry potter. i would describe it more like a comma than a lightening bolt though. and instead of surviving the forces of evil, it was pretty much just a dictionary.

that's also how i got my indian name, dances with wolves. oh no wait, that was a different time. that story will come later, after we've gotten to know each other a bit better. for now, let's leave it at this: my name is susan. my middle name is danger. and my confirmation name is mary. my mom named me susan because of a survey she read in "good housekeeping" showing that "susan" was the most common name among female doctors in america. i'm a soon-to-be junior notre dame theology major and, needless to say, a major disappointment to my family. it's okay. all the great ones are.

this morning, i couldn't decide between lucky charms and smart start, so i had a bowl of each.

deciding to boycot studying for finals for the day, i then made two pans of chocolate chip cookies for my friends who judged that there were probably better ways to fight the man than just saying no to cracking the books. i felt it was my duty as a friend and, gosh darn it, as a catholic, to be in solidarity with those suffering in my midst. and there is no solidarity quite like warm, oven-baked, chocolate-chipped solidarity dunked in a tall, cool glass of milk.

that's in the bible too, i think. in one-a them books them catholics added, prob'ly.


the word "blog" makes me giggle. welcome to lots of that.