Day XCIV: Snapchat

We are a generation of social media. Has anyone told you this? Apparently, a giant subset of humans--generally around my age and slightly younger--live more in the confines of Facebook and Instagram and Twitter than they do in their physical environment. Texting is how conversations work, phone calls are for emergency use only.

And if you're sending an email that isn't work related...

The golden days are over, ladies and gents, and we have ushered in the era of visual communication. 

And, god, am I fine with that.

Don't you ever wonder how we communicated without Snapchat? You know, last winter? Or how did you find your way around a convoluted city without Google maps? When did you first meet Siri? Do you remember what life was like without her condescending, robotic tone?

If you're not being retweeted, liked, double-tapped, tagged, or swiped right, WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?

I digress. Social media and technology have revolutionized our lives. And I am certainly not going to be the one to defend either end of the spectrum. It's neither good nor bad. It just is.

So rather than glorify our advances in communication or rant and rave about how great things used to be, I thought I'd share a few things I would never have learned without the assistance of one of my favorite apps, Snapchat. Photographic conversations--often aided with text and voice and art!--have become several of my daily highlights. And, god, what an easy way to stay in touch with your favorite people who may not be talkers or texters. You might not have the time to respond with sentences and feelings, but, dammit(!), you've got time to snap a pictorial representation.

You didn't come here to read anyway, right? You came here for the excitement and drama of the life of America's Favorite Twenty-Four Year Old!

Me!

This is Bernard. He's smoking a joint. His dreads are very pretty. He's not happy that I'm posting this because he thinks it's going to jeopardize is job.

It wont. Because he's a cat.

This is Sigmund Freud as a finger puppet. He hangs out in my window. When I was visiting my family in Colorado, Bernard expressed his pining for my presence by knocking Freud from his post. It was a sweet gesture, don't you think?

Kyle is my roommate. I haven't told him that I am gay yet. So, mostly, he tries to lure me out of the house with the promise of sex with women. And no one is believing it.

Ehren got a new dog and SWEET BABY JESUS (great name for a dog, right?) that little fluff muffin is effing adorable. It's not helpful that I received this snap right in the middle of my own puppy fever. There are some damn cute Saint Bernards in the area...

Well, yeah, Lauren. Who doesn't?

You know when your best friend has "big, beautiful, Spanish eyes" and wants to show them off under the thinly-veiled guise of struggling with a face mask? Yeah.

When my roommate Sibley wears a hat, zooms in tight, and contorts her face and smile: she does an incredible impression of Haley Joel Osment if he'd been gay and emo at fifteen years old. Just kills it.

I seriously need to come out to more people...

Couldn't Abby's cheekbones just cut you in fucking half?

Something really odd happened to Bethany after she moved from Minneapolis to Portland. But if SNL ever needs to reshoot the infamous Mom Jeans commercial, I know just the lady.

Vaughn sends a lot of snaps of him eating at work. I can't decide if the salami is supposed to have a face, or if he just tried and failed to get his tongue through the other holes.

Jenny Katz was the lucky recipient of an incredibly blessed pamphlet. Did you know that after praying, you can just mystically receive $47,000 to get back on your feet?! Me either.

Needless to say, I've been waiting for my Jesus Cash for a few days...










There are plenty more where that came from. And I think I may have found a new favorite feature...

Day XCIII: Humanity

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person 

is essential to your own.

-Robert Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

I was in love once.

Perhaps twice.

Have fallen inexorably, dishearteningly, suffocatingly into the breath of puppy love a thousand times over. To fall into the arms of missed opportunities, of glances misunderstood, of smiles that were just that: bruising isn't always a surface-level change. There are moments I look back upon and think, huh, that was pretty obvious, and  wonder why it is that hindsight can be so painfully crystalline. And regardless of how easily misery breeds company, I don't think there's a thing I would change in how I relate myself to others.

(Okay, that's not fair. There are plenty of times that I find myself wishing I hadn't said X or laughed like Y. Or wondering why didn't I ask this or reacted like that. Or why I went for a handshake. Or--much worse--why I only used one arm for the hug. But, generally, I take a lot of pride in composing myself in this way or that, almost always aware of how I'm presenting myself in a situation. Truthfully, I can't be too upset.)

There is plenty to be upset with, I suppose, from an objective standpoint when it comes to dating/relationships/feelings and myself. I wear my heart on my sleeve; I'm reactive; I'm curiously naive; I'm idealistic; I'm overthink; I invest myself in others, often to a fault. Down the spectrum, though, I possess many traits that I hold in rather high regard: sincerity, humor, kindness, sarcasm.

It's an exhausting combination. Too often, I find myself lost in thought, fixating on a single interaction, isolating and examining every little building block that led up to and created that one mind-bending moment.

Worse: I acknowledge that it's happening. I can retreat from the scenario and recognize: Josh, you're doing it again. And can't help myself but to continue dissecting.

If I had a quarter for every time I've thought, It doesn't need to be like this...

Perhaps a change of habit is in order?

In Magers and Quinn: a navy jacket, a small Twins cap, and the same Sperry's hiding somewhere in my closet cling to a guy checking out Palahniuk, leafing through Tartt. Eyes flick to my own--shit, was I staring?--and I unsuccessfully cover my tracks in the spines of Rushdie novels in the corner.

In Bull Run: a book, coffee with splashes of soy milk, great smile. Conversation with one-second pauses wars could be fought in.

It's too easy to swoon in a bookstore or in a coffee shop. You're already surrounded by all that is good and wonderful in the world. You think of great poets and writers who taught you what it means to feel, to be vulnerable, to be genuine. You smell bittersweet notes of chocolate and berry that instill your body, your mind with romance and memory.

Environment can weigh so heavily on a person surrounded by everything they love.

I was sitting on the ledge of a hot tub, legs dangling in the bubbling water, when I said "I love you" for the first time.

Is that normal? To remember that moment?

I was young and enthusiastic and eager. And wrong.

In the years since, I've learned a thing or two about how feelings work, how we attach ourselves to others. Specifically, how my feelings work, how I attach myself to others. And while much of the learning can be chalked up to age, to experience, I like to think practicing more honesty with myself has given me a leg up on the world.

From honesty comes vulnerability. From vulnerability, freedom.

From freedom: revelation.

From revelation: humanity.

And from humanity...what more could asked for?

Day XCII: Sun

What a difference a day can make, eh?

In Minnesota, we're used to rapidly changing weather. Snow threatens every minute of our days for seven months out of the year. The humidity can make walking difficult. Rain comes and goes, a fleeting friend or a busy neighbor.

Of one thing I am sure: the sun in May brings out the best in everyone.

We've spent 2014 in the coldest, bleakest, most miserable winter on record. Anyone who's lived through the past four months can attest--with various degrees loathing--what a troublesome start to the new year we've experienced in the nation's northernmost state.

Perhaps I am alone in this, but the minute the sun peeks out, sneaks away from the clouds and frigid atmosphere, it's almost as if the winter of our discontent never happened. The grass is green. Robins are bouncing. Rabbits are hopping. Trees are budding. Foxes are slinking (NO, SERIOUSLY, MY SPIRIT ANIMAL RAN ACROSS BRYANT RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME). People are smiling.

That last one is the most important: people are smiling!

It's not as if smiling never happens in the winter. In the sunshine and warmth, though, people just look...happier. Auras are changing. Energy is flowing. There's joy and light, and it is radiant.

Calhoun was packed this afternoon. Joggers, bikers, walkers, talkers, skaters, sailors, drinkers, thinkers, dancers, bathers, readers: everyone refreshed and alive. And it's heartwarming to see. Hell, it's heartwarming to write! We did it. We made it! And we're on the other side, stronger for having made it through.

In a vase, on a table nearby, flowers bloom in a circle of herbs and small plants. Life springs forward, eager for the next arc in the circle.

It's hard to be sad in the face of such resplendent noise.

From a seat in Urban Bean--Bull Run closed early and I feel such elitist loyalty to them that even writing "Urban Bean" feels maddening--the I am watching the sun quietly take his  leave behind a massive slate roof. No grand production, no forced goodbyes. A simple, silent dip, tapping the glass panes one last time before submitting to the hour of the day.

Ah, the modesty of the sun. Such humility.

And, yes, I am gushing. Wildly. Staining these keys, this page with happiness. But you'll hear no apologies.

We've waited long enough.

Day XCI: Snag

It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song.

Days sneak by.

And for most of us, that's acceptable. There's nothing wrong with a gray afternoon spent in blankets, or a bright morning spent between trees. Even an evening in front of bad television can be rationalized here and there (or, you know, whenever).

In the face of rain or gusty, cold Sundays, there are a myriad of ways to wrap yourself in time absently spent.

Thumbing through tea packets, praying for jasmine to pop up in the back, I think about what I've done with the day: croissants, coffee, books, lunch, lake, run, write, walk, rest, search. On paper, a productive day. In practice? Less so.

I've spent so many hours over the last few months pouring over the internet and classifieds: a job here, a job there, nothing fruitful. But lately, I'm tired. Sleepy with hustled eyes, cheated promises.

Optimism has been the best gift a mother and father could have possibly passed on with their DNA. And, while the ideal refuses to surface, I'm happy to wade through a difficult stream when the other shore, quietly eroding, lingers ever-so-slightly out of reach.

On a walk this afternoon, a football bounced with Minnehaha Creek. Lost by careless hands or a strong arm, the ball sped down the little river, urgently. Somewhere to go, I suppose. Somewhere to be. A few steps further, dirt path fanning into mud, the ball was caught, trapped in the debris of the river.

Snagged.

The ball will be there for a while; the log won't be budging anytime soon. Perhaps a friend will find it, rescue it from the current, from the cold. Or the log will roll, the river proving too strong for the old, dead, used-to-be tree.

Or the ball will be stuck. Circumstantially complacent. Not giving up, not giving in. Just waiting for a shift in the water.

Perhaps, it won't be so long after all: you never step in the same river twice.

#TenDaysLeft

Day XC: Swords

I was having a particularly troubling day on Thursday. Was it the gloom finally getting the best of me? Maybe the wind tousled me too many times?

I woke up to natural light pouring through my window. And as lovely as the singing birds and glimpse of sunlight was, I knew it meant my alarm hadn't been set and my dreams of getting to work before 8:30 were dashed. 

9:23. Yep, going to run a little late.

The work day managed to crawl by, which was somewhat surprising. When you're a little stressed and busy, there never seems to be enough time. Thursday was the worst of both possibilities: the day struggled along and the stress of having a lot on my plate was arresting. When I got home, it's fair to say I was on edge. I needed a break, badly.

In my room, I discovered that my trash can had been ransacked by Bernard and the black-and-white-cat. Books had been knocked outta one of my shelves. Three video games played dominoes on the floor. Clumps of hair spun in small twisters and danced out the door. It was...frustrating to come home to. You know I love those two to death, but they don't have much regard for the property of others.

My room was suddenly an image of my current struggle: scattered, deflated, lonely. Pieces of Josh: disorganized

So I took a moment to collect myself before heading to Bull Run to blog. 

I asked the universe for help.

I drew a card.

The two of swords is indicative of being too reserved. Of holding your emotions too close. Of denying your feelings. Of confusion.

The imagery on the card is particularly interesting to me. It addresses, very physically, to relationships. And, perhaps, that's another area I am feeling under-fulfilled? The painting speaks to love, struggle, care, and tension. 

Most appropriately? 

It evokes surrender.

Day LXXXIX: Aroma

I have no patience for bad smells.

Couldn't tell you if I've always been this way. It's highly likely, though, that my nose has held a particularly high standard of aromatic elitism.

My first memories of terrible scents: I am five and riding through Ontario with my parents. With no concept of isolated smells, I immediately assumed that Canada just smelled terribly. Everywhere. A pungent, plaguing mixture of sulfurous hotdog water and rancid lunch meats roasting in a pottery kiln. Spoiler Alert: just factory smog. Not all of Canada reeks so foully. 

Just most of it.

I was sipping a green tea the other evening and paging through a copy of At Night We Walk in Circles, quietly relaxing behind a pretty blonde working on what appeared to be roughly 300 different Excel spreadsheets. I wasn't completely enamored with her work or her pretty hair--but, god, it did look damn good--but I think I briefly fell in love her. And it was all because of her scent. Every time the door to the shop peeped open, the breeze would stir stone fruit and puppy breath and warm salted chocolate in one sensational gust.

I'm not trying to gush; she simply smelled better than anyone else has in a long time. I wanted to take a bite out of her skin. And not in a freaky way. I legitimately was curious: did she taste as good as she smelled?

Reading that, I can see why someone might just stop reading, cold turkey. I think I might too. But, really, it's how I felt in the moment. Just trying to be honest. Surely you've felt like that at some point in your life?

There's something romantic about scent. It's an intimate sense, even without contact. Something so clearly alluring, hypnotizing exists in the space of our favorite aromas. Perhaps its the neck of another, a sheet in the wind, wet earth following the rain. Or smoldering logs in a fire. Or paint airing on a post. Or lemons beneath a knife. 

For me: it's the way a room can feel so particular without the scent of the person who fills the space. Perhaps that's an experience unique to me? You've been in that little box a thousand times before, rarely without the other person. And then, one day, they're absent, their scent lingering wherever they are, and the room is suddenly unfamiliar. 

I can't decide if that's tragic. 

Perhaps. 

Perhaps not.

I drew card this week, a particular person on my mind. The crisp scent of paper--quickly fading from my deck--came in small wafts as I shuffled. Then, like magic, like memory, I took a card from the top and my room was flooded with tangy metal and lilac.

Your scent. 

And then it was gone, out the window with the rustling of leaves. 

Day LXXXVIII: Empathy

Empathy is always perched precariously between gift and invasion.

-Leslie Jamison

I believe it was Aristotle that said "to perceive is to suffer."

It might not have been. Let's pretend, for now, that you can trust everything that I have to say.

The first time I heard the word "empathy," I was nine years old. That's not conjecture, that is fact. I was sitting in the living room, the carpet fibers spreading between my toes, the television raging. In my lap: a gameboy pocket. Barbecue flavored potato chips at 8 AM. Hard to be a happier nine-year-old given the circumstances. 

Pokemon was on. It was fall, I think. On screen, our hero, Ash Ketchum, was battling against the Celadon City Gym Leader, Erika. Regardless of how well his Pokemon matched up against her own, Erika was dominating the match--apparently all you  have to do to win a battle is train a Tangela to spin and spin and spin and pray that your opponent is a moron. I digress.

For the life of him, Ash cannot figure out why he's losing. Luckily, Erika is right there to clue him in: "...there's one thing you don't have--empathy for your Pokemon!"

In middle school, I was very active in the church, and spent every Wednesday at youth group. When I was thirteen or so, we took a spiritual gifts test that was supposed to enlighten us to our god-given strengths. Empathy happened to be one of mine.

It's a concept I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out. Initially, I thought the word made me sound intelligent, well-read. I liked the way it rolled off my tongue in conversation or the way I could drop it in the middle of a pool of friends and watch the puzzlement ripple from face to face. In college, I thought empathy was akin to listening, and listening well. To nodding along with knowing eyes and a comforting smile. I thought it was therapy conceptualized. 

An adult in "the real world," I think I am finally starting to understand what empathy means, how it works, why it matters.

In his book Social Intelligence, Daniel Goleman has a great line. Something along the lines of "when we focus on others, our world expands, and we increase our capacity to care." From his words, there's this great revelation that beautiful things, beautiful people, beautiful relationships do not just happen. They're created, from scratch, with effort and precision and compassion. With great and powerful understanding that nests somewhere between courage and vulnerability.

Perhaps that's where empathy lives?

I've spent the last few days paging through Leslie Jamison's The Empathy Exams, a collection of essays that meditate on humanity, on grace, on experience. It's been tough to digest, at times, because it highlights--with tremendous force--the lack of empathy in all of us. A window that's too quick to roll up, a coffee date cut short for better plans. I wonder: is it natural to forsake empathy? Was it always?

We move quickly. We dance wildly. We yell ferociously. 

We exist in such maddening shades of unrest. Would it be such a terrible chore to brake? To breathe? To ask a question? To listen and care about the response? To invest?

James Baldwin wrote: "You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read."

It doesn't take a book or a poem or an article to understand empathy.

It takes a decision.