Warning: Totally serious stuff ahead.
Over the past five years I've suffered many quakes of faith, pondering various natural disasters and other horrifying events that shook me to my core and felt like they created fault lines in my soul and tore away at the foundation of my beliefs.
I used to have a slightly easier faith, a half-comfortable, if somewhat tenuous trust in the mystery of existence. I wasn't sure about the nature of Heaven or whether or not there was one, but I felt pretty sure that each one of us and every event was a singular note playing out in the most beautiful symphony ever created and that, as is typical of a symphony, certain notes might be particularly harsh if singled out, but once heard in the context of the whole song there would be the realization that it was exactly the right note at exactly the right moment.
As I've grown older, more skeptical and, yes, even more cynical, I've found that I've lost even that trust and I miss it dearly. I envy people their faith and trust in a God. I am not convinced there is a God (and you probably have no idea how much the idea that there is not one saddens me), and if there is, the events over the past several years make me question what sort of God might exist. Not in a rhetorical way, but a literal way:
What sort of God is it that allows for destruction and pain on such a mass scale? Or is it even something God allows? If God is out there, is he more of a scientist, setting up the environment just so and then letting things run their course? Or is he the watchmaker, setting things in motion and occasionally making small adjustments? Or does he have his hand in every moment, orchestrating and twisting strings like a puppetmaster? All of these Gods have incredibly scary aspects to them and sound quite a bit different from the God I grew up with. It's easy to have faith in things when you're little because everything is SO big. Parents are veritable monoliths, Santa Clause loves cookies and bad men wear dark masks. In my life, age has been the enemy of faith. It's the thing that revealed my parents for the human people they are, complete with faults, showed Santa Clause to be nothing more than a fat guy working at the mall once a year and revealed that more often than not, the bad guys are particularly charming people wearing very beautiful clothing.
I will never forget when I found out that Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy weren't real. My next question was: "How old do I have to be before you tell me that God isn't real?" See I truly believed that at a certain age, my parents would sit me down and tell me that God wasn't real, too. And maybe that is part of the crux of my problem. Somehow, God got lumped in with Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy. But is that really surprising?
I often wonder how the survivors of terrible disasters feel about their faith, whether it crumbled or was built up stronger? What are the percentages? It is hard to look at the image of a woman grasping her dead mother's hand protruding from the mud under which she is buried and not try to place myself in her shoes? If I *am* able to take a step back and wonder if there is a big picture, if we have reached a particularly powerful moment in a symphony not meant for our earthly ears to hear, it is only because I am far removed from Japan, from Haiti, from 9/11. Because if I was there, if that was me kneeling in the mud holding my mom's darkening hand, I don't think I could see beyond the harsh, flat note of cruelty. How could I possibly make sense of that or ever be okay with that if it were my own mother? The grief would be unbearable in the senselessness of it all.
Of all things I could ever hope for, it's the desire for trust and faith in a God that my heart most desires; some strong, unbreakable foundation that I could rely on, that could provide comfort. I have fought for years. Years and years and years and I haven't found an answer that satisfies me. I wish I could. I have read everything I can get my hands on in the spiritual arena. I still do. I have studied the tenets of various religions. I have sought out spiritual leaders multiple times and have listened to what they have to say. I have fought and continue to fight for faith and belief with all my heart. I still pray every night. But the only thing I have found is that I suck at faith and belief, that the only thing faithful about me is my continued search to find faith. In something.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
|Despite my best efforts, this likely will never be me.|
For almost two years now I've had a smoldering fire burning in my loins for the fabric bastion of easy movement and carefree style known as The Romper.
I remember two rompers that my little sister had as a tot. She pretty much exclusively wore them (she had an OCD thing about clothes that warrants its own post at another time). Both had weird poofy cotton legs in a solid color and a patterned top half. At first I thought the Oompa Loompa pants flair was funny and made fun of the romper. Then, the more she wore them, the more I started to think that my 3-year-old sister had nailed some style points that, as a 6-year-old in my soft pink sweatsuit with an envelope design that opened on front (in case someone wanted to tuck a letter in my shirt. Guess what, no one did!), had missed out on.* Friends and family, I am somewhat embarrassed to tell you that I started trying to wear her rompers and my sad attempts at mastering that style were just as awkward then as they are today. After all, there's a reason that rompers are most often seen on children.
When rompers reappeared in stores and on runways a few years ago, they added a certain leggy drama to the
Unfortunately, like many storied romances, The Romper did not favor me with its flattery and continues to shun my shape to this day, despite my repeated and ardent attempts to win it over. Two years ago, when I first attempted the romper, I was carrying an extra 15 pounds that resulted in an overall impression of two fat holiday turkey drumsticks poking plumply out of their fancy paper frills. I spent an entire summer wandering from store to store, trying on one romper after another until finally my mother and sister actually intervened and told me that rompers just weren't going to happen for me (ye of little faith!). And thus, while I didn't give the romper the cold shoulder altogether, my passion for it cooled and I began to pursue other more age-appropriate fashion trends, like high-waisted mom jeans, whose 12-inch-long zipper (or fupa-paneling, as I call it) gave me a shapely abdomen. Hell, it gave me a shapely torso; the waistline was practically supporting my boobs.
To this day, though, the moment I see a romper in a store, I squeal inside with hope because each romper is fresh opportunity, another chance to set free the romper-wearing Rita Hayworth inside me. Which brings us to today, March 5th in balmy 29 degree Rochester (or, more aptly, Crochester), Minnesota's Apache Mall. Express was apparently oblivious to the fact that Minnesota is in for another 2 to, oh, infinity months of Winter, and had some lovely rompers displayed, aggressively urging us wan and weary eskimos to dream of warmer climes. Once again, I fell prey to the siren song of swishy fabric and a cinched waistline. And once again I got my heart stomped on when I turned to face the mirror and almost mistook myself for Shrek's albino cousin. I realized that all the weight loss in the world would not make my legs longer and leaner or my torso shorter. The addition of being incredibly pale (because I refuse to be orange like many of the tanning-bed loving girls here--have you ever gotten close to one? They smell like chemicals), was the proverbial final nail in the cloth coffin. The sight was ghastly, truly, and I immediately took the romper off in shame. I think I even sulked for a second or two. And then, like a fashionista version of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, I smiled determinedly and decided to completely ignore the obvious. Perhaps the next romper I tried on would have a better cut. Because it's always about the cut.
*This often happens in fashion: repetition until people are brainwashed, which is the only explanation for gauchos (*shudder*)