Posts Tagged Lent
Lent: The Ultimate Sacrifice
Posted by Stephen Swanson in General, Life on February 25, 2010
Stephen Swanson, despite his public expressions of dislike of columns governed by the calendar, writes about a personal struggle with “snark”.
“Snark”, a Definition and Use
In addition to the definitions from urbandictionary that I link to above, I think it important to give a personal definition in order to further what might be perceived as an overly general terminology. “Snark”, the combination of “snide” and “remark”, fills a large quantity of time in on-line communication and chiefly serves as a tone for self-righteous indignation and belittling of others. For that reason, my omission of snark for the coming weeks might appear as a wholly beneficial enterprise, and to some degree, they have significant points.
At the same time, my snarkiness also serves as an outlet of frustration and a mask for more overtly offensive reactions to others. Rather than calling someone an idiot or just staring at them aghast and their comment question, I can compose a snarky reply in my mind which I will post later. It allows for some degree of fantasy play where I star in an amazingly hilarious sit-com filled with cutting commentary and insightful absurdity.
The Cost of Snark
However, as with all fantasies, there remains a significant price to be paid. Just like hours-upon-hours of GTA can breed a desire to not stop for a stoplight or an urge to pull in front of a better car and pull the driver out to claim their wheels as your own, snark can explode or, in my case, leak.
I find myself leaking snark in a variety of ways. First, I make noises. A not-so-subtle “humph” or a snicker that is not quite masked by a cough can emerge at the most inopportune times, faculty meetings for example. Second, my eyes tell my story. It is not just the huge eye-roll of adolescence. Even a looking away or a squint can be noticed and queried by a friend, student, family member, or coworker. It’s unavoidable. We are conditioned to pick up non-verbal cues, and when they are left unexpressed, the audience can interpret them as they will, often to my own detriment. After all, people will often assume the worst when left to their own devices.
What to Do? What to Do?
Well, I’m hoping to employ a two-pronged approach. First, I’m going to work on composing the snark into specific communications, things I CAN actually say or write to people. This will not only still allow me to think and create an outlet for my feelings but also force me to channel that into something public and more productive.
For example, this week in a college meeting, I was growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of direction in the meeting. We’d been there two hours and not really made any progress. A member of the campus communications and marketing area was having a devil of a time of pinning faculty down on who they were supposed to reach out to and what the message needed to be. Generally, I would spend that time creating snark. It’s fun. It makes for good bar/party stories and generally makes me feel better.
However, it does not really solve the underlying problem, and that’s the problem that I’m really seeing with snark, especially when compared to effective satire or critique. It papers over the issue and ignores the underlying causes, and I’ve determined that these sorts of communication represent central concerns in any hope in overcoming significant issues to our culture today. It’s much easier to snarkily point out others and label them as such.
As I tell my students, it’s easier to construct a fallacious argument or a general opinion than it is to construct something thoughtful and useful. I need to give it a try. I need to cage the snark.
***
Stephen Swanson teaches as an assistant professor of English at McLennan Community College. Aside from guiding students through the pitfalls of college writing and literature, he spends most of his time trying to remain aware of popular culture, cooking, and enjoying time with his wife and son. He holds degrees in Communications (Calvin College), Film Studies (Central Michigan University), and Media and American Culture Studies (Bowling Green State University. In addition to editing a collection, Battleground States: Scholarship in Contemporary America, he has forthcoming projects on Johnny Cash and depiction of ethics in detective narratives.
Relief News Tuesday 2.23.2010
Posted by Ian David Philpot in Relief News on February 23, 2010
My Name is Russell Fink a Kindle Bestseller
Michael Snyder’s first book, My Name is Russell Fink, is #2 of 100 on Amazon’s “Bestsellers in Kindle Store” page. The digital text download is currently FREE, so head on over to the Bestsellers page and get yourself a copy! Michael Snyder’s story “Normal People”–mentioned in Robert Garbacz’s blog on texture last night–can also be found in digital form on our Scribd page under Issue 3.1.
In case you missed it…
Relief is thoughtfully reading through some Psalms during this Lenten season, and you are more than welcome to join us. In case you missed the first post on Left Relief, click here.
We are also sold out of Issue 3.2. A blog was written about the details of the sell out, but, in case you missed it, click here.
Giving It Up
Posted by Amanda Bauch in Faith, General, Life on February 20, 2010
Amanda C. Bauch
Relief’s Assistant Editor, Amanda C. Bauch, ruminates on ritual compulsions and Lent.
My fingers were bleeding. Again.
Even as I pause while typing this, my right hand reaches over to the left hand, longing to pluck at a piece of loose skin on my pointer finger. I worried this piece of loose skin on the drive home yesterday, when I was working out, and while I watched the Winter Olympics with my husband.
But it’s not only the fingers. It’s also my legs, my face, my scalp. All subjected to frequent, almost ritualistic, picking. I’ve scratched and dug at my legs so often that they’re bloody and bruised. My face bears scars from years of attempting to rid myself of imperfections, whether real or perceived.
The face digging began when I was in junior high. The finger mangling started in college. The leg scratching and scalp digging are fairly new developments, added to my repertoire over the past year or so.
The escalation of my finger picking during college prompted me to seek counseling. I felt out of control, and I knew the problem wouldn’t go away on its own. All of my fingers wrapped in band-aids, torn and bloody, I cried as I told the doctor that I couldn’t stop and I actually enjoyed hurting myself on some level.
This initial appointment set me on a road I’ve now been on for over a decade, trying to understand why I do what I do.
While I’ve been diagnosed with OCD for some time, I’ve only recently learned about a disorder that goes by many names, but is most frequently referred to as dermatillomania. In layman’s terms, compulsive skin picking.
Viewing a variety of websites and reading testimonies of those who suffer from this ailment, I am amazed to see my story reflecting back at me from my computer monitor. However, one young lady’s comment resonates: “I have not felt worthy.”
Now that we’ve entered the holy season of Lent, I had to decide if I was going to give something up, and if so, what. During Ash Wednesday service, I sat in the pew, praying to God to help me make this decision, all the while picking my cuticles into oblivion. I pulled a particularly tenacious piece of skin I’d been attacking for some time, immediately feeling the tingle and rush of pain derived from tearing off layers of skin.
At that moment, I knew it had to stop, and I felt that God was telling me that it was time.
Granted, this skin picking is a habit I’ve developed over about twenty years of my life, and I know that it’s not going to vaporize overnight. However, I made a commitment to the Lord to try to change. To truly believe that with Him, all things are possible. I am learning to trust Him, trust myself. I’m learning to combat the self-criticism and feelings of unworthiness with His Word: “When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul” (Ps 94:18-19).
Over these forty days of Lent, I’m giving up my self-criticism. I’m giving up the belief that if I just had enough faith, all of my problems would be resolved. And perhaps most importantly, I’m giving up the belief that I am unworthy.
***
Amanda C. Bauch, is Relief’s Assistant Editor, a writer, and a teacher. She fled the harsh Upstate New York winters and now resides outside of Jacksonville, Florida. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University and is currently working on a young adult novel and a memoir. Her short fiction has appeared in Tattoo Highway, Bent Pin Quarterly, The Hiss Quarterly, and nonfiction pieces have been published in Writer Advice, Empowerment4Women, as well as two print anthologies, Tainted Mirror and MOTIF: Writing By Ear. She is also a monthly contributor to 30 Points of View, a blog/ezine/something-or-rather ( www.30pov.com).
Living in the Hours
Posted by Michelle Metcalf in Faith, General, Life, Writing on February 19, 2010
Good Morning. It i
s 5:45am, still dark. I have been up since 4:15. I woke up cold, restless, a little hungry. In the past hour and a half I’ve done what I can to satisfy myself: I’m now wrapped in a huge quilt sitting on top of the furnace vent on the floor in my living room; my dog is under the covers on my lap. I have been packing boxes in the kitchen—we’re moving to our first house in under a week and a half. I packed dishes quietly in the kitchen as my husband slept upstairs. I wrapped glasses in newspaper and towels. All of this while bread baked in the oven and too hungry to wait for it, I ate a bowl full of cut watermelon squares.
I wish all days started like today—with purpose and darkness and quiet and productivity. Just today, I feel somewhat akin to the monastic life; I feel connected to all the others awake right now in the world—working in quiet—its not just about waking up early—its about getting to work, about the ritual of living in these divine early hours.
Today, I will pray the hours, connected with the monks and restless morning pilgrims. Today I will not just intend it, I will do it. I will remember. I will stop. I will allow moments to be holy.
Today I will write. I will pray for inspiration. I will ask God for help. Today I will let it come. I will not be in a hurry. I will move through this work as if my life depends on it, and it does. Today I will not be afraid. Today I will believe for myself what I believe for others. Today I will show up and do the work. Today I will be a professional writer, even if I have to pretend. Today I will turn off my phone, today I will listen to silence. Today I will light candles. I will burn Fir Balsam incense and smell the air. Today I will look at what has been left undone and leave it undone. Today I will not be lost in distraction, in necessity that does not involve words. Today, I will listen to words; I will listen inside of my head. Today I will not use my ears, today I will not use my eyes. Today I will live in my spirit. I will condition my mind. Today I will work until the moon rises. I will pray the hours before I sleep.
An invitation to pray the hours during Lent, and maybe not during Lent too: 
http://www.explorefaith.org/prayer/fixed/
* * *
Michelle Metcalf feels inspired today because the sun has finally started to shine in Cincinnati, OH, where she lives with her husband and dog. She lead a writer’s group this morning, just like she does every Friday. That’s her favorite part of the week.
Susan is giving up Facebook for Lent
Posted by Guest Blogger in Faith, Guest Blog, Life, Writing on February 17, 2010
Susan Fish
Susan is giving up Facebook for Lent.
Susan’s fingers instinctively reach for the F for Facebook.
Susan wants to check in with God fifty-million times a day, instead of checking for status updates.
Susan is grateful for the friend who emails her status updates the first day.
Susan wonders what role Facebook plays in her life, what boredom it staves off and what will become of her without it.
Susan has to go on Facebook the very first day – to retrieve business information from an old message. She shields the page with her hand, ignores the new message in the inbox and finds what she needs before exiting quickly.
Susan is not exactly praying more yet, but it has been a busy day.
Susan has realized she thinks of events now in terms of how she will frame or caption them for Facebook: how will life be shaped into a status update?
Susan thinks about how Facebook is utterly self-centred. What is the motto again: connecting and helping you share with friends. Something like that. But every sentence starts with me.
Susan has more than 25 random facts to tell you about herself. She is so fascinating. To herself. And can she employ her skills (Random Fact: Susan is good with words) to make you fascinated with her too?
Susan wonders what this Facebook fast is about, anyhow. Narcissus not being allowed to look into the pool? Perhaps.
Susan wants to express her feelings, to be heard. Is FB more gratifying than prayer? If a tree falls in the forest, does God hear? And will God comment on the status of the fall?
Susan misses the juiciness of the details. And can make a rational argument that FB is better than gossip or reading tabloid stories.
Susan decided not to break her fast on Sundays. It seems arbitrary and weak to take a break.
Susan’s grandma is sick and she wants to blurt it out once and get lots of nice notes back. Would that be so wrong?
Susan watches how she fills her Facebook hole and is not exactly proud. But I’m trying.
Susan thinks it’s funny to speak in the third person. Not the royal we. The self-reflexive she.
Susan really, really, really, really, really wants to go on Facebook. A lot. A really lot.
Susan is going to Italy tomorrow.
Susan is exploding with anticipation and she has already called everyone reasonable to call. Must. Get. Going. To. Italy. Presto.
Susan hopes she is not sending her children into therapy by leaving them on the other side of the world.
Susan is dreadfully homesick, jetlagged and culture shocked but she has never ever seen such beauty.
Susan was wooed in a garden today.
Susan is in a quiet place: no Internet, no phone, no tv.
Susan’s thoughts are clearer, way clearer.
Susan was afraid to be alone for ten days with her husband and without her kids and the props of daily life, but now she loves it.
Susan is dreaming in Italian…un poco.
Susan is dazzled by beauty.
Susan is pondering.
Susan is learning that anxiety comes more often than I would like, but it goes too, every time.
Susan feared they would have to spend the night in the car when they got lost, but they got home. Grace.
Susan’s children are doing well. More grace.
Susan thinks people are delightfully kind.
Susan learned to make pasta.
Susan does not have Stendhal Syndrome, just Art Overload.
Susan may have had the happiest time of her life.
Susan can’t wait to be home.
Susan is dizzy with fatigue. Her kids are not.
Susan needs more beauty, less noise.
Susan is scared it will recede and fade. How do you hold onto it?
Susan is sorting things out, examining the things I stuffed away, preparing to enter the fray again.
Susan feels like my garden: boggy, slightly mildewed and winter-weathered, but with fresh green shoots of hope.
Susan is editing up a beautiful storm.
Susan is sleeping naked.
Susan is glad to see the world greening up.
Susan no longer feels like there is a glass ceiling between her and God.
Susan has fancy eyelids.
Susan can now write about prayer in a visceral way.
Susan feels surprisingly regretful at the end of Lent: do I want to start narrating my life again? Unlike other addictions, this one is social. Can you go to a party and just sit in the corner? Why not stay home?
Susan circles the site like a cold pool, dipping a toe in here and there, reluctant to take the plunge.
***
Susan Fish is a writer, editor, wife, and mother of three school aged children who lives in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Her first novel Seeker of Stars was published in 2005, while her second is still looking for a home. She is always intrigued by the signs people choose to erect on their garages, fields, or lawns, and once had both a pesticide sign and a Green party sign on her front lawn at the same time. Fortunately, she saw the irony in the situation. Susan’s story “That Sign” can be found in Relief Issue 3.2.
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Through the Veil
