Among the Stars

My mother raised me on science fiction.  I don't think it was her intention, but I spent my tween and teen years watching reruns of Batman and Star Trek, and I read comic books as well as classical literature (that, I admit, had nothing to do with my mom).  I wanted to be Deanna Troi when I grew up (not realizing, of course, as a preteen, that the character was originally meant to be little more than eye candy).  When Star Trek: The Next Generation was finally cancelled, I remember crying.  I legitimately, really and truly cried.  On and off, for maybe like 4 days.  

Then the miracle of Netflix brought it all back to me.  Fortunately, I married a man who thinks eating popcorn while binge-watching science fiction series can be considered dinner and a movie, so I've been able to enjoy that part of my youth all over again.

Image courtesy of twitter.com.

So I guess it's only natural that I take my place among Mr. Nimoy's many, many fans and say that I'm so grateful for his legacy.  As a child, I considered Mr. Spock my least favorite character on Star Trek.  He was different.  Dispassionate.  He seemed critical and cold.  I didn't like that.  As I got older, I realized that there was some value in controlling one's emotions, at least to a degree.  And, I've also come to realize that he represented the role of The Other.  He was never anything less than himself, but when others didn't understand him, he didn't take it personally.  He went right on being himself.  He had great value as a team member, as a leader, and as a support to his captain and crew.  He never quite fit in as a human or a Vulcan, and even though he struggled with it, he tried to embrace his unique identity.  There are a lot of people - minorities, women, 

What a wonderful lesson science fiction taught us!  During a time when sci-fi pulp mags all showed the bulky blond spaceman blasting aliens with his ray gun, while rescuing the scantily-clad (also somehow Caucasian) space princess, Leonard Nimoy portrayed the green-blooded, stoic antithesis of Captain Kirk and became both a hero and sex symbol in his own right.  

Some folks might take issue with a Christian who loves science fiction.  Yes, it's true!  *Gasp!*  There are people who are SO straight-laced that the idea of living in a world where characters don't believe in God is shocking and offensive.  I say - look around you, brothers and sisters.  That world is THIS ONE.  I posted this years ago about why I love Doctor Who, even though the fictional world of the famous Gallifreyan is basically one that defies the idea of an all-powerful celestial deity.  

That all being said, I just want to go on record as saying that I, one voice among many, so very much appreciate Mr. Nimoy's contributions to the world of science fiction, of early television, of film, and the many realms his legacy has touched.

May memories of you live on as long as the stars, good sir.

Nibble, Nibble

A lot has been going on in my life lately.  As I mentioned in my previous post, after six months of unemployment, I am now working full time again - and I'm loving it!  Working at a pediatric office is not my dream job, but I have to say that it's surprisingly fulfilling.  I admit that seeing all the newborns gets tough because of what I have gone through, but I get to see some pretty inspirational things, too.  I children with special needs whose parents are 100% invested in their growth and development - no matter how different or difficult that might prove.  I see men taking responsibility for their children and refusing to be just another "baby daddy".  I enjoy interacting with the kids - especially the ones who haven't yet equated the notion of the doctor with the pain of a shot.  They're fearless, and quite a bit of fun.  

Along with the sense of peace brought by being a "productive" member of society again, my job has given me another opportunity for which I am deeply grateful -  an hour-long lunch break.  I don't use these sixty precious moments to socialize, but, for the first time in a very, very long time, I use them to exercise.  Although I started counting calories over seven months ago, I hadn't added exercise to my plan until three months ago, when I started working again.  The changes in my body, attitude, and health have been mind-blowing.  I even got the chance to write about what I am experiencing on the practice's website!  I've lost seventeen pounds (give or take) and two jeans sizes.  I even did the unthinkable (for me) and signed up for a Couch to 5K program, which started this week. 

When I look at the progress I've made this year in the area of my health, I'm both very proud and very grateful.  I know that God has been with me during the whole process, even though I haven't talked to him about it a lot.  But when I sit back adn examine other areas of my life, I'm very disappointed.  For instance: my writing.

I call myself a writer.  In my head, that looks a lot like this: I use every spare moment to scribble on napkins, in notebooks, on my own skin the ideas that leap into my consciousness; I rollphrases around in my mind and on my tongue; I have conversations with characters that exist only in my imagination; I relish in sitting down before a blank screen and bleeding words until that screen is full of perfect little rows of beautiful black letters.

But, actually - at least lately - it's looked a lot more like this: I think about my blog and my two novels-in-progress while I'm power-walking on my lunch break, then I come home and have dinner, change into my pajamas, and watch Netflix (the show of the hour is currently Twin Peaks, since the parents wouldn't let me watch it the first time around).

ThenI I feel bad about my lack of writing, and plan to make up for it the next day.

Which, of course, never happens.

Well, I'm going to do something that I've never done before, and take a cue from my own success.  In regards to my health, I had determined to take things slow, one step at a time, and actually stop believing that change was impossible.  I set goals that were reasonable for me.  I took things one day at a time, one decision at a time, and, when I made poor choices, I forgave myself quickly and started anew the next day.  Instead of ripping off huge chunks, I was nibbling away at my goals, allowing myself to adjust to a different lifestyle. 

I'm going to "nibble" at my writing, too.  Finishing two full-length novels and blogging regularly - well, that's a lot to handle, especially when I have the ridiculous mindset that all of my blog posts have to be life-changing - or at the very least, completely thought-out, rehearsed, and flawlessly edited.  Not that they always are, of course.  But perfectionism will do that to you.

I'm going to "allow" myself to post blogs that are neither deep nor meaningful.  I might even post some short stories or creative writing.  Poetry.  Movie reviews.  I will not post anything that violates my stated purpose - to encourage and inspire.  But maybe it would be good to start "nibbling" away at my dream again.

It might even taste sweeter that way.

Big Dreams, Little Me

Dreams bring with them the kind of euphoria that comes from triumphing over an unknowable foe. When we dream, we are unstoppable.  Possibilities spill forth, vivid, like party streamers - colorful, joyous, free.  Our minds rush to link together problems with solutions, transforming "if" into "when" and "someday" into "now".  In our imaginations, there are no unopened doors, no keyless locks, no hidden treasure chests.   When we dream, we are unable to hear the voices that remind us we are finite.  Fallible.  Fearful.

Most often, those voices are our own.

My husband has big dreams.  The people who know him, and love him, best often simply laugh when he shares his dreams.  "Ross," they say, "You don't have the experience to do that."  Or, "Why would you want to do that?  Aren't you happy with what you have?"  Or, the worst: "What if you screw up?"

I have said these very things to him myself.  Fear grips me, sometimes, and I speak out of panic or distress.  "Ross," I screech, "why do you want to flip a house when our own is falling apart?"  I coo, "Honey, why do you want to buy another gun when you never shoot the ones you already have?"  I squawk, "Why are you trying to get a job across the country when everything we love is right here?"

 

I peck away at his dreams even as I try to create a comfortable, happy nest for us both.  I am not unflappable.  I am clipping Ross's wings because I myself have forgotten how to fly.

This weekend, I remembered how to dream.

I traveled back to my alma mater, Clarion University, to meet with other theatre alumni for an informal memorial service.  We wanted to say good-bye to Melissa Lynch, our talented and beautiful peer, who died unexpectedly late last year.  About twenty or so of us got together and said our farewells with bawdy stories, silly memories, and some tears.  Melissa was different than many of us, we learned, because Melissa's dreams had been forcibly pressed through the sieve of life - and become her reality.  In fact, the reason Melissa held joy and success in her tiny, nail-bitten hands was because it was she herself who had grappled with those dreams and shoved them through that potentially destructive thing called life.  Dreams, to her, were never a far-off hazy vision of a future that could someday be.  To her, they were wild mustangs meant to inspire and delight - and, ultimately, be broken, tamed, and commanded.

I never had talent to rival Melissa's.  Thank God we were never up for the same roles, or I may have grown to dislike and envy her, rather than admire her.  Even as I remember her, I admit the hot sting of jealousy pricks at me, and I plaintively wonder why my life has turned out the way it has.  Do not misunderstand me - I would never want any man other than Ross by my side, nor would I trade my family - as wacky as they are - for any others.  I would not have given up my years at Starbucks for tireless nights playing the chorus in a Broadway play.  Yet...there is something beyond what I have.  Something bigger.  Something greater.

The Bible tells us that Joseph, the son of Jacob and Rachel, was a dreamer.  His dreams came directly from the Living God...and his sharing them got him into big trouble with his jealous family.  He was sold, thrown into prison, and left to die.  Joseph was mourned by his father, despised by his brothers, forgotten by all...he feared...except his God.  God orchestrated the events to eventually pull Joseph out of prison garments and straight into royal robes.  Joseph's childhood dreams came true in a literal sense when his brothers, starving in Canaan, bowed to him as they begged for food in Egypt.  The story of Joseph ends joyfully with redemption, forgiveness, and restoration; no wonder it was turned into a Broadway musical!

I believe that our big dreams often do come from God.  How we proceed to chase after them, however, is up to us.  How we respond to them, too, is up to us.  We can trust Him who is bigger than our biggest dreams to help us achieve them, or we can convince ourselves that our God will abandon us and our dreams, leaving us empty and confused.

I am coming into a place where I am learning, again, what it means to trust in an unseen God.  I am learning that he gives my husband dreams as he gives me dreams.  The difference is that Ross sees his dreams - however far-fetched - as God's way of reminding him that there is something bigger and better for him, that he is not abandoned, that his talents will someday result in success and achievement...and I -and others - have seen his dreams as inconvenient and foolish.

I am ready to start dreaming again.  I am ready to take the dreams God gave me long ago, hold them tenderly, and allow him to breathe into their lifeless forms again.  I am ready to allow him to outfit me with the wings of his making - not mine -and guide me to a place that I could not imagine before now.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I am ready to fly.