1/27/2017 0 Comments I'm 21 now.
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1/19/2017 0 Comments Girl Meets CancellationFor the past three seasons, my little sister has had a favorite television show that centers on the themes of love and friendship. Amidst shows of the supernatural, spies, and talking dogs, I would say a show about regular kids growing up and learning how to navigate life is a good thing. Girl Meets World has a long legacy since it is a sequel to Boy Meets World, which centered on Cory, Topanga, and Shawn, high school students who deemed friendship and love the two most important things.
Girl Meets World mimics the plot of Boy Meets World, but with gender roles reversed, staring two girls who are best friends. The two girls are Riley and Maya, high school students who are learning how to understand everything from female empowerment to boys to bullies. Riley and Maya’s friendship seems similar to that of Cory and Shawn’s bond. The two different types of friendships give an example to children watching what good relationships look like up close. The two friendships also show the importance of loving people who are different from them and encouraging individuality, quirks and all. My sister has always been pulled to focus on the life of beloved characters in books, movies, and shows she has read or watched. She loves watching her superheroes fight off bad guys in Marvel movies; she loves reading about wizards defeating evil in Harry Potter; she loves watching two best friends grow closer in Girl Meets World. I’ve seen first hand my sister learning from Girl Meets World. I’ve heard her relay stories at the dinner table about what she did earlier that day to help another student out or befriend a new girl at school. She’ll tell me the story and then honestly claim, “Yeah, I was just thinking about what Riley would do.” Her on screen heroes quickly became her real life role models. Some would say that my sister is young and silly to believe that tv and books really have the power to change someone for the better. But isn’t that the point of literature? Sure, Girl Meets World echoes the demands of entertainment and the necessities for high ratings, but the show centers on two girls who just want to be kind to their world, which makes the show have something important to teach my sister (and me). Unfortunately, shows always end. Earlier this year it became unclear if the show would run for another season. Devastated, my sister began signing petitions online and getting on Netflix’s website daily to add Girl Meets World to the list of shows they should consider rebooting. Whether or not the show is canceled, I think my sister will be ok, because she’ll learn that literary heroes are only literary. They seem so real to her now because she reads about them or sees them come to life on the screen. But one day she’ll understand that art has one true lesson to give and it is this: art is here to teach her and do nothing more, because she is the one that must do. My sister will always remember Riley and the powerful decisions that helped make her imaginary world a better place, but now it’s time for my sister to continue to make those decisions in her own life. It’s time for my sister to meet the world. Written By Rachel 1/9/2017 1 Comment New Year, New AdventureToday is the first day of classes for me, technically, but it isn’t truly a school day because I’m currently in my kitchen jotting down notes and watching a girl tell me about her January Sales Haul on YouTube. Yes, glorious—I know. My coffee is now getting cold and I need to send some emails. But with all that drudge of honesty behind me, what good news do I have for you all?
First, why am I in my kitchen and not in Searcy, Arkansas, for the spring semester of 2017? I’m so happy you asked. I’m going abroad! I’ll be in Chile and in Peru, studying Spanish and trying to be good enough at it to truly understand the soap operas that I’ve been missing out on. I think I’ll have a great time. So once I get my emails sent and after I’ve figured out what I need to buy because of this girl on YouTube (and once I warm up my dang coffee), I’ll have some things to do. Here’s what I’m hoping to do while I’m gone:
So with the coffee warming up, let the new year and new adventures begin! By Rachel 10/30/2016 0 Comments Rumi and CroweWhen you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy. -Rumi Photography by Rachel
Special thanks to Haley Crowe 10/16/2016 0 Comments ArrowsThe mystery of light
Caught the jewels dancing on her Fingers pointing up to the Sky All ten arrows Singing a Song of October Heaven unanchored Delivered Written by Rachel 10/9/2016 2 Comments Separate but Equal?In my advanced composition class, I selected a writing prompt that asked me to define “Christian Feminism.” I was hesitant at first, because this type of topic can often become rant-like and I also don’t have a clear picture of Christian feminism; it’s somewhat foreign territory to me. And then I read the second line of the prompt: “Your thoughts could be read at a women’s devotional or conference,” revealing to me the problem that I've encountered too many times in my life. So, of course I couldn’t pass it up, and I wrote about what I’d like the picture to look like for all of us in the church:
On a cold weekend in January, I sat in an outdated college classroom filled with adolescent girls, with my 12-year-old sister by my side. I was 15 at the time and so excited about the women’s youth conference class, as there are few chances to attend a lecture given by a woman in my religious culture. What was said in that classroom, however, inside the wood-paneled walls, awakened me to a host of problems in the church that has pierced my consciousness ever since. I was expecting a class about my faith and struggles, but was handed a message of discrimination and depreciation. I was told that serving God consisted of honoring and submitting to a husband, of taking care of a home and children ― assuming, of course, that I have a husband and children to truly “find fulfillment in life.” I grew up in a wonderful home with doting parents who wanted my sister and I to know that we could do and be anything in life. And I believed them. I believed I was enough. But sitting in that metal classroom chair, surrounded by young, impressionable female souls, I was so confused as to why the church didn’t agree. Five years later, I consider myself a Christian still, despite many questions I still have about faith. And I consider myself a feminist, despite the string of offensive words that often come with the label. I hope to someday put the two words together, but so far I can only claim that I am a Christian and a feminist. That “and,” typically a simple and innocent word, stands firmly in between my moral and my spiritual values, between what I intuitively feel and what my faith says I should cling to. In the Christian faith, there are deeply rooted traditions telling us what we should believe about women, what women can be and say and do. These traditions remain, keeping men and women separate but “equal”; all the while the roles of women everywhere outside the church continue to be shaped by society and culture. Christian feminism is the belief that women should be seen as intellectual, social and spiritual equals to their Christian brothers. Christian feminism in its ideal state should be about closing the gap between genders in our lives, leadership and practices. It should push us to be open to new ways of thinking about men and women and the church. And when we say, “love your neighbor as yourself,” it should open the door for our female neighbors too. There is no denying that we live in a world bent unfairly for women. We live in a world where 511 million women are illiterate; where 35% of women have been subjected to physical, sexual, or emotional abuse, or a combination thereof; where 1.65 billion women live on less than $2 a day, a disproportionate two-thirds of the 2.5 billion people classified as poor; and where at least 100 million girls are missing from the population because of gendercide and the preference for male children. Christians know this is wrong. Some Christians even devote their lives to solving these problems, and rightfully so. Our faith should drive us to seek equality for all humans regardless of race, ethnicity, social status or gender. But why do we often turn the other way and ignore the discriminatory traditions and beliefs that reside inside our own churches? I’ve seen women told that their place in the church is preparing potlucks and teaching children’s classes. I’ve seen women excluded from worship because of how they were dressed, because it’s their fault if someone lusts after them. I’ve seen women taught modesty in such a way that conditioned them to hate their own God-given bodies. I’ve been one of these women. Similarly, I’ve seen men forced to take on roles in the church that they aren’t comfortable with simply because of their gender. I’ve seen men discredited and told that they are programmed to sin when they look at a woman. I’ve seen men convinced that their eyes consume instead of see. We are constantly dehumanizing one another, our brothers and sisters in the church. With this mindset we are flattening the beautiful complexity of our souls. This is why Christian feminism is important. Christian feminism is for all the strong women who have been scolded and made to apologize for not being meek or gentle enough. It is for the men who have been taught that they are only sexual beings and the women who have been taught that they are only sexual objects. It is for the people who don’t get married and don’t have children, and for the people who do. It is for the people who don’t fulfill the “roles” that church traditions ― not scripture ― dictate. I fully believe Christian feminism is possible, because I believe the character of Jesus was a feminist. I hope words like these aren’t only read at a women’s devotional. I pray they aren’t just spoken inside the wood-paneled walls of a girls’ class at a youth conference. I hope we can all recognize that feminism ― especially Christian feminism ― is not a female issue; it’s a human issue. It’s a soul issue. Maybe it is fundamental to see that God is female too, despite all the “Father,” “He,” and “Him.” And maybe our souls are equal in worth after all. Of course we are exquisitely different and unique, but ultimately Jesus wanted the same thing for all of us: salvation. “There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus” -Gal. 3:28. It’s time to recognize that. I want to call myself a Christian feminist, no “and” necessary. Written by Sarah 9/25/2016 0 Comments QuietnessThe quiet porch is where I write about writing
It is where the dust settles Where the mystic things come to live I can hear the bees and The wind flying In circles Motioning for me to Dance with them I rise Ready to be Lost in the quietness of the swaying And I wonder Oh I wonder If God dances too By Rachel I miss cathedrals.
I grew up in the kind of church that had blue carpet and scratchy blue pews. The walls were always some shade of beige, and there was wallpaper in the bathrooms. There were bulletin boards with cute phrases and pictures of members. It was comfortable—tacky as that blue carpet and mauve wallpaper were—and it was home for a long time. In my time in abroad, I went to several cathedrals. St. Paul’s, Salisbury and York Minster were among my favorites in England, and they carry a special weight in my heart that has started to feel like home. The enormity and exquisite design of these places of worship was so outside of my realm of religion. My little box with beige walls. It was safe, but I desperately need to see outside. I grew up surrounded by the idea that the church was the people, and so the church building didn’t have to be beautiful. And to some extent I believe that. But your environment does have an effect on you, especially in worship. Walking through cathedrals and abbeys, I remember this smallness—a shocking sense of humility brought about by the sheer amount of space between myself and the vaulted ceiling. Worship was different; it seemed more holy, more reverent. The ornateness of it all touched me in a way that I never expected. I remember thinking about all the skill and time and resources that were provided to make these places, God’s places, so beautiful. The marble floors and columns a perfect acoustic home to the ringing organs and choruses. The tiny candles, each small flame a flicker of a hope, a prayer, a need—someone is out there, we see your flame. The rhythmic sense of worship a quiet yet distinct heartbeat in this space that softly, but urgently whispered, This is Holy. It demanded my attention, and I gladly handed it over. The light beamed through each unique, hand-made piece of stained glass, and I found a quietness that was awe and peace all wrapped into one. I let myself step out of my own mind and into a more meditative and sacred state. I felt so much smaller to myself, but bigger to God. Currently I worship in a trailer—quite the juxtaposition, I know. Sandwiched between a church and a parking lot, we sit in our temporary classroom in a circle of black plastic chairs. We have donuts and coffee every week and talk about life. And that is worship. And I love it, for a different reason than I love the cathedrals of Europe. It is small and intimate and real, probably too real by most church standards. There is no hiding our humanity. I look across the circle into these people’s eyes and I see beautiful souls that say, This is Holy. This time spent in a mobile classroom is valuable, just like the scratchy pews, just like the stained glass. Because God is everywhere. And I’m trying to find that sense of Home and Holy more often. Rachel is correct in saying that it’s hard to talk about faith. It’s one of the most vulnerable parts of our humanity. To be honest, I try to ignore most of the time to avoid the mess. My faith has proven to be such a fluid and slippery thing the last few years, and I sometimes feel like I’m chasing after it. Like it’s just out of my reach. Sometimes I get tired of reaching too. But something keeps bringing me back, the feeling of importance. The flicker of a flame reminding you that you're never alone. The quiet heartbeat urgently pleading with you. This is Holy. Come back to this. I am trying. Written by Sarah 9/11/2016 3 Comments "Let your soul seek."“Let your soul seek.”
I was talking to a professor about how I wanted to be more spiritual, because I needed something more in my life. She smiled and nodded, empathizing with my struggle, “Let your soul seek.” I’d like to talk about my faith. This is hard because it’s a very personal topic, but it’s also just a lot of work. I don’t have a faith that’s easy to talk about. I’m probably a lot like you in that way, because whose faith is easy to explain? It’s difficult and it’s messy, but if I don’t do this, if I don’t try and piece together the spiritual parts of me that exist, I’ll be losing something. I’d lose the purpose that was set in my heart long ago. I’d lose a sense of belonging in the world. Essentially, I’d lose me. I’ve never been to the Vatican City, but I’d like to one day go and see the Sistine Chapel. I’d lie down and look at the world Michelangelo created. I’d stare at the part of the painting where Adam and God are trying to reach one another. I’d whisper to the walls, “Michelangelo, how did you know?” For a very long time, my faith was essentially me reaching out to God and only feeling air between my fingers. My heart would cry out, “Where are you God?” After months of waiting and reaching, my soul grew weary and my heart grew cold. Mostly though, my hand grew tired—so I stopped reaching. And soon, as the nights grew longer and darker, I began to lose something else, too. “Where are you, Rachel?” God wasn’t the only one missing. I guess I was missing, too. There are circles inside of me that never end. Sometimes I think they are merciless, because they cause chaos and fatigue. Sometimes I think these circles are only lines that enclose me, that take my freedom away. I’ve come to realize, though, that these circles are my truths. These circles are not lines that bar me inside, but cups that capture love and peace. These circles are my years that contain my great loves and my great losses. These circles are who I am. And so it is hard to pick at them. It’s hard to discover parts of myself that are missing. But I have to do it. I’m just not sure where to start. In one of my journals, I wrote a set of questions. They read: What do I feel strongly about? What are my core beliefs? How do these values play out in my life? How do these beliefs make me feel? How do they make me act toward others? How do these beliefs shape my writing? “Spirituality” is the title of the page. This is the first page of my journal, and all the other pages have poems, characters, outlines for stories, and quotes on them. After a page of questions dealing with God and what I want my purpose to be, I have creative outlets that let me be who I really am. Maybe I’m not truly broken, after all. Maybe I’m just trying to find out how to connect the first page of the journal to the rest. I’m not concerned with finding the “perfect” faith (as if there were such a thing). I’m more concerned about feeling content with my spirituality. I’m trying to find a way to God that does not restrict me or scare me. I’d like to find a way to God that lets me feel peace and love. I’d also just like to find a way back to the circles. I’d like to connect all the parts of me again. I’ll start by reaching and seeking again. And little by little the circles will heal. I’ll find me again and I’ll find the God of love, too Written by Rachel 9/2/2016 0 Comments WonderfulA lot can change in a year.
In the past year, I’ve seen more of the world. Hopefully I’ve become a better writer. I’ve acquired five jobs (yes you heard that correctly, five). I’ve gotten a new(ish) car. I’ve finally shed the last bit of a story that has been wrapping me up for a long time, making me feel shiny and new. I’ve grown close to some of the best people I’ve ever met; people I needed, people I love. A lot can change in a year. But one thing hasn’t. I have always been the girl who carries too much. Ironic, because I have a smallish body that isn’t necessarily strong and tiny hands that barely stretch an octave of piano keys. But in my mind, I can do it all; I can carry everything and I can stretch to the other side of the world. I think my strength is infinite. I think my hands are large enough to hold this array of opportunities, and to hold other hands too. I so want to do it all. I want to be it all. So I sprinkle bits of myself into the lives of too many, and why? I like to be needed I guess, but I don’t want attention. I love to be great at things, but don’t need glory. I just need at least one person to quietly think of me and think well of me. I guess that’s what I want. Like Hannah Brencher writes, “I want to be wonderful.” So I pick up opportunities and people and responsibilities like pebbles and place them in the small canvas and leather backpack I bought in London. After a while, they start to feel heavy. Day after day, I pick it up without enough sleep or fuel to propel my body, but my will does it for me. The tan leather is digging into the space between my shoulder and my collar bone, leaving a red mark. But I don’t let myself notice it. These pebbles are precious and they are mine and I can’t set them down. I have to be wonderful, don’t you see? This time a year ago, I was packing all my pebbles in a big tan suitcase. It’s funny now, but that suitcase was such a stressor at the time. How would I live out of just a couple bags for an entire semester?! I would do it again tomorrow, though. I would pull that tan suitcase—now a little scratched and worn—down from the attic and pack it again. I think I’d be better at it this time. This time a year ago, I was moving to London. And I wish I could say it was hard to move, but my soul knew she needed to get on that plane. London called me and changed me in the best ways. Other students I know say they never anticipated how great an impact studying abroad would have on their lives. But I did. I always knew. I expected that grand experience, and it did not let me down. I’ve always known I needed to go, needed to see. To be stretched and moved and changed. And what a semester it was. Typing this, I feel like a has-been in the worst way. I want to relive it. I want to keep it sacred. But in a few days, another group like mine will take their tan suitcases—or maybe they’re green or pink or black—and they’ll haul them up the five flights of narrow stairs in my old apartment building on the other side of the world. And to those students: I wish you the best. Say hi to the nice maintenance man with the long hair for me. Take a picture looking at St. Paul’s from the other side of the Millennium Bridge; it’s my favorite spot in the whole city. Eat all the almond croissants and drink endless cups of tea. Go to the park and read, often. I hope it is everything for you that it was and continues to be for me. I hope you find a part of yourself in that big, beautiful city that you’ve always known was there. In London, I found a girl who knew how to be happy with what she was already carrying. She didn’t need to pick up anything else to feel more accomplished. She could lay something down and not be stricken with guilt. She held out her hands to hold others’, but allowed hers to be held as well. She knew her smallish body was strong but could only go so far. Her hands were tiny after all, too small to stretch over an octave of piano keys. She was content and more present. She learned how to stop and breathe. Inhale, exhale. She had time for the things that make life precious and sweet; it turns out they’re not pebbles after all. They don’t leave you with red marks. And sometimes they’re not yours to carry. They are trips to a museum and sunny days in a park. They are late-night, sleepy-eyed conversations and endless cups of tea. They are big English breakfasts and two cappuccinos, please. They are simple and lovely. I loved that city, more than I can express in these little words. The ever-present sounds of traffic, the wide sidewalks and old buildings. The river and the flower cart at the end of the street. The standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the tube at rush hour while “Mind the Gap” is played over an intercom. The shows and clubs and concerts and ballets. The beautiful blend of laughter, languages and accents far below my street-side window. I loved every second of it. It was mine. It is mine. Even now I selfishly feel the need to protect my memories, to house them deep inside my consciousness. Like a photograph that sits too long in the sunlight, I have to keep them from fading. From letting their colors, sounds and feelings bleed together where you can’t tell one from the other and suddenly it’s not so special anymore. I’m afraid of that. I want to keep living in that moment. Because I didn’t just love the city, I loved who I was when I was there. I want to be the girl who doesn’t have to carry it all. I want to learn to breathe again. Inhale, exhale. I did it once and I can do it again. A lot can change in a year, right? London still calls me and reaches for my small, outstretched hand. For the first time in a while, I allow it to be held. And I am reminded how to be that girl I love. She was there and didn’t need anyone to quietly think she was wonderful. She already believed it herself. Written by Sarah |
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