Hot Take - Bible Studies

Written 8 December 2018, 11.40pm.

Let me just say something.

The Gospel is the same for both men and women (and non-binary people, but I'm not getting into that discussion today).

I hate this culture of 'women's Bible studies.' Are we not intelligent enough to attend a 'real' Bible study? Why is there this need to direct women off the 'real' Bible studies to a rabbit trail with flowers and fancy script and (barely) grown-up equivalents of 'girl power' slogans? I know men and women are different on a lot of different levels, but why do I get the sense that women are getting a watered-down Gospel fortified with word faith? Why is 'women's ministry' a whole entire separate subculture of North American Christianity? Yes, there are things that tend to affect women more than men -- homemaking, child-rearing. But honestly that's a fairly limited part of the female population nowadays. What about your professional businesswomen? Your firefighting/police force women? Your single twentysomething women who don't have a husband or children to worry about? Your senior women whose children are all long out of the house? Your artistic women trying to create stuff on par with a Terry Scott Taylor but told they can't because it's 'too personal'?

People -- men, non-binary people, AND women have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Why then do men get to hear a real gospel from the actual Bible and dig deeply into all that it means for the way they live their everyday lives, while women only get a feel-good devotional reading that, for many of us, has little actual bearing on our actual lives and potential and gifting?

If your God is too weak to help this passionately artistic woman that you say He Himself created, I don't know why you think I should bother with Him.

Writing Update

Been a while since I did one of those, eh?

Lately I've been feeling this pull back to the keyboard. Do I have inspiration? No. But I do have this urge to write that I haven't felt for a very long time. I also, while cleaning out my old room at my parents' house in recent weeks (that's a whole other blog post and also probably one of the main forces for this sudden nostalgia for the writing beast that I used to be), I found Chris Baty's much-lesser-known work Ready, Set, Novel!, a workbook for novel planning. At the time my parents gifted it to me for Christmas, I had inspiration coming out the wazoo and it was all I could do to keep up with it (remember when I'd do three novels a year? Ah, the good old days). But now... now that I've survived a college degree that did everything in its power to kill me, now that my only real writing buddy is dead, now that I've moved for good out of my parents' house... I'm tired of the seismic shifts, and I want to go back to the good old days, the way things were. Not literally, of course, I was living with an emotionally unstable caregiver and being ostracised by the church that is SUPPOSED to be loving and kind. But back to the days where I could escape by writing. Back before all the deaths. I want to time travel, just a few years. And the best way I can think of is to write again.

So what does that mean?

I've started on the workbook, though I went through my 'story ideas' file the other day and found one idea that feels promising. I'm also tossing about the idea of writing the sequel to 2253... the first actually decent novel that I wrote. I had a synopsis for a sequel sketched out before I even wrote the original in 2009, but in my early college years I started to lose the ability to write sci-fi, then I lost writing altogether after my 2016 novel. But if the goal is to time-travel, this would be the perfect choice -- the novel itself is about time travel, and this novel in particular is very strongly tied to and influenced by my dear late friend Brittney. She was the inspiration for the main character, and she also read and endorsed the original 2253 draft. Even before her death, I had planned to dedicate the book to her. If I write the sequel, I get to re-live -- just for a few more days -- the good times when she was alive and we would talk about computers and science together and we would write things and critique each other's work. It would be the continuation of a novel I have dreamed of writing since I was fifteen years old. My concern is that I'm so far removed from the person I was when I wrote it in 2009 that I wouldn't be able to get into the characters and the world of the novel properly and I wouldn't do it justice.

The other idea -- the one from my 'story ideas' file -- deals with societal and evangelical corruption, a theme I have visited several times over the years (probably because my writing is the only place I can have the illusion of even being heard, let alone getting justice). My main concern is that it would be too heavy for me to write this year, given everything that's happening in the world. I'm worn out from reading about and seeing injustice on my social media, and I don't know if writing a novel about it will make me feel worse or better. I'm also struggling to resist the temptation to overly-politicise this novel (which is difficult to avoid given the amount of social media I've been consuming lately -- no, I'm not proud of it, but I've been too worn out/unmotivated to do much else). This temptation has so far not been an issue with the 2253 sequel.

I'm not sure yet if I'm actually up to the challenge of NaNoWriMo, mentally. Yes, I did it last year, but that novel was actual garbage and I only won with fifteen minutes to spare. I have literally never cut it that close and never hated every word as thoroughly as I hated those 50k.

For now, I'll keep percolating these two ideas and probably decide at midnight on November first which one I'm going to do, like usual (I suppose it will be nice to have a 'usual' thing though -- there's so little of that left nowadays).

Ten Years

A few months ago (June), this blog celebrated its tenth anniversary. It's outlived some of my friendships (because said friends died). Heck, it's almost outlived the Blogger platform itself. It's listened to me when quite literally no-one else will. Some people think I'm ridiculous for wanting to post my 'private' thoughts online 'where everyone can see them.' I've always had a couple rebuttals to that one:
1. Honey, this blog barely scratches the surface of my thoughts. These are by no means the private thoughts. Not by a long shot. I fully recognise that people might see them, and I am 100% okay with that. In fact, the reason I post things is because I want people to see them.
2. 'Where everyone can see them?' Don't make me laugh. Since Brittney died, there's been nobody to read these unless I post one of the especially good (or especially offensive) posts on my personal Facebook page. In a way, that's why I did this -- then those who really did care to know how I thought could read them at their own leisure, and at their own pace, and those who found this blog 'too negative' could simply forget about its existence.

I started this blog just before the car accident that almost killed me (we're talking days before). As a result, this blog has chronicled my life as I navigated through that paradigm shift and the consequences of my conclusions about life. That accident was a major life event and probably was the thing that had the greatest impact on my life up until 2015/The Year From Hell (incidentally, this blog also serves as a nice before-and-after of the state of my soul in relation to said Year From Hell). Many times I've posted things thinking it would be the final record of my thoughts before my untimely death, and I've also tried at other times to post the happy things that I could not feel in an attempt to remember something, anything besides the soul-sucking depression.

Often, this blog has been a place where I can offload some of the mental weight of depression without actually burdening an actual overstretched human being. I think in a way, that was my secret motivation for starting a blog in the first place (that and I thought people would be far more interested in me and my thoughts/writing career/computer nerdiness than they actually are). Turned out only Brittney was even moderately interested in such things, and she was the greatest supporter of this blog until her death in February 2015. (To this day, I would say she is still the greatest supporter this blog has had over the entire ten years.) I managed to somehow hold onto this blog during college, and it probably saved my life more than once by giving me a safe place to vent when not a single soul on the planet was willing to acknowledge my existence.

Anyone who's been here since the Brittney days (I don't even know if there are any out there) might remember the old name -- Thoughts From The Asylum. I named it that partly because sixteen-year-old me felt like she was living in an insane asylum (while this may have been a slightly extreme take on the situation, it was not entirely inaccurate), and partly because she took asylum from a dysfunctional home life (from which she had literally zero refuge because homeschool) in writing, which has been a focus of this blog since its inception. When dance started to become a bigger factor in my life and I started seriously considering making a career of it, I renamed the blog The Edge Of The Dream -- after the White Heart song -- in reference to my faith at the time that bigger and better things were to come for me in the world of dance and performing. (In a nutshell -- has that happened? Kind of... yes, in the sense that I have done more as a performer by this point in my life than I could have imagined eight years ago when I changed the blog name; but also no, in the sense that my hope was and still is to direct a dance team. In that sense, I am still, in September 2020, at the edge of the dream -- and wondering when I will finally start heading toward the centre.)

I'm glad to have this blog. Sometimes I read back through my own words and find deep encouragement here, from my past self, words that I need to hear in the present that no-one can provide. Often it provides me with a small escape into the world as it was before 2015, when my mother's family still spoke to each other, Brittney and I wrote copiously and proofread each other's work constantly, and I still had some semblance of childlike faith in God (to SUPER condense that update: I've somehow managed to not become agnostic. I definitely still believe God exists. But I'm still not convinced He loves me. I really think no-one other than God Himself will be able to convince me otherwise).

I plan to continue writing and posting here. Whenever I feel the urge to write but have no clear idea of what I want to talk about, I tend to go to Blogger and open up a 'new post' page. I have probably about as many unfinished drafts as I do published posts because of this practice. It's somehow different, more freeing, to write in Blogger than in a Pages document despite how simple literally all my Pages documents are (I keep them almost Windows-Notepad-esque in their simplicity, even -- perhaps especially -- for my novels). This probably also explains the amount of rambling posts on this blog (which probably also explains the lack of readership).
Anyway, where I was going with this is that this has been such a comforting habit over the past ten years. In this time of societal and personal upheaval, you'd better believe I don't plan on letting go of this blog anytime soon.

Thanks to any of you who may have actually stuck around over the years (and managed to not criticise me extensively for being 'too negative' on my OWN PERSONAL BLOG THAT YOU ARE IN NO WAY REQUIRED TO READ). Here's to another ten years at the asylum/edge of the dream.

My Room

Cleaning out my room at my parents' house for the final time.

Sure, I've moved away before, but before I always had the option of coming back. My possessions continued to reside here in this cheery pink room, under increasingly thick grey layers of dust and the occasional spiderweb. I never really truly had to move out of this room. I left for years at a time, but it was still my room.

But now I've just gotten married, and my sister is planning to take over my room. This requires me to clean it out for perhaps the first time ever. I've certainly straightened it up once or twice, but never truly deep-cleaned, and I've especially not had to pack it all away into storage at the same time. It's funny how few of my finds truly surprised me (apparently I pretty much knew exactly where everything was, despite some things not seeing the light of day for over a decade), yet when I dusted them off, only then did they bring back memories.

I'm a terribly, terribly sentimental person. I will keep a Staples receipt for pens and paperclips for nostalgic reasons, even though I know I will probably never look at it again. Part of the reason I had never truly cleaned out my room was because I was suffering so much loss already and I knew I couldn't bear to throw anything away. But now I'm forced to, and that, coupled with knowing this room is no longer my safe place anymore, is a very emotional process.

This room was where I cowered in fear from my mother's outbursts and listened to ABBA CDs nonstop on my headphones. This room was where I listened to Oilers hockey games and paced the carpet in the dark as I listened, working out some new plot idea. This room is where I would write all day long and late into the night on my old Windows XP machine with a 20GB hard drive (pretty sure the processor on that thing was measured in megahertz), or simply stare at the screensaver and daydream. This room was where I would sit on the floor after dance class and choreograph to Petra and White Heart, planning all sorts of dance shows with M. This room was where I sketched out revenge stories centering around the youth group that hated me. I've fallen asleep on the grey-pink carpet, I've made endless crochet and cross-stitch projects, I played hours of Polly Pocket with my sister, I've written over half a million words of ideas and prose, I've tap danced, I've even practiced a few ballet steps here. I've done so many self-portrait photoshoots, written so many blog posts, lost myself in so many dreams, cried so many silent but tortured tears. I moved into this room somewhere around 2003/2004, and it's been a home base for me ever since.

I found cards with greetings in both M's and Brittney's handwriting. I found a bear that my late grandfather gave me when I got baptised. I found mementos from a 2004 trip to see my now-deceased great-uncle and his wife in B.C. I found bookmarks my sister had made me, story ideas I'd sketched out on the back of church bulletins, and tickets for shows I'd performed in as a child. I even found a folder with all my work and costume designs and very early choreography for a book/dance company idea I had nursed for some three or four years in my early teens before joining the real world and realising that that exact particular idea was simply not feasible (it's not completely dead, though, the dream of a dance team and even some sections of choreography from that period still live on in my present work).

These are things that you never know the value of when you first receive them. This is another part of why I can't throw anything out. How could I have known on my 20th birthday when I received that card from M that she would be dead barely five years later? If I had thrown that card out two weeks later like I'm told 'normal people' always do, I would now have nothing left of the fierce woman who so often inspired and encouraged me. No-one else will ever exist with that exact handwriting, that exact way of wording things. And even if someone could forge it, they could never forge her personality, her essence, her spirit, her -- the things that all who knew her fell in love with.

Brittney was one of the very few people who was capable of being encouraging in writing. Sometimes her birthday cards to me were the only source of encouragement I would get for that entire year. This words-of-affirmation person had to scrape together all the encouragement she could, and sometimes it was contained only in the left-handed script of this one dear friend.

How could I know that my grandfather would only give me two gifts in the entire twenty-three years he knew me? Yes, I will never play with that stuffed bear, but my grandfather was a hardened, bitter man who rarely showed approval, let alone affection. That bear showed me what his gruff voice and distant actions never managed to do. I would rather remember that than simply replay the fading memory of his critical voice over and over in my head.

Memories fade. And these people meant far too much to me for me to justify callously tossing aside the things that remind me of them and their huge, huge impacts on my life. And because I never know which bright young life will disappear next, I can't afford to lose any of those memories. I learned when M died that just because something is statistically improbable (losing TWO best friends at age 22 in three years?), DOES NOT mean it's impossible. Especially if it's something bad. You know, like losing SEVEN people to death in four years; all but one under the age of 27. What's to say there won't be an eighth? Statistically, there should have been no more deaths in my life after Brittney for a good fifteen years, save maybe my grandfather due to his age and health. Yet there were five more in 1,461 days. Improbable, you say -- but it happened. It happened in real life, in my life. You truly never know. You can 'be positive' and 'not think about it now' and believe in the health and wealth of your friends all you want, but you truly. never. know. Nobody escapes the death of the ones they love the most. Nobody. (Except the ones who die young.)

(Side note: I am literally not even joking, iTunes just started playing Memories Fade by Tears For Fears. I did not plan this, and I am not making this up. I just started playing TFF and I had completely forgotten that song even existed.)

This room has been my safe haven through a lot of things, when there was no-one to talk to and no-one to go to. The golden light, amplified by the pink walls, seemed to bring a modicum of hope even on the darkest days of suicidal depression. The lone incandescent bulb that hung from the 2x10s that made up the upper floor above me lit the way to many a late-night story idea -- the spaceships that allowed me to travel through time and space, away from the pain of whatever situation I was in.

To not have even the option of spending a day alone in this room again -- it steals the breath from my chest. This room was one of my few constants in a world that insisted on dying away around me. It was always there, even after Brittney died and M died. It was my sanctuary when the world was against me (and let's be honest, it still is in many ways). I feel untethered without it, but it is time...
Another goodbye. It never gets easier.

Thank you, big pink room with the tree-dappled southern sunlight and the desks lining the walls, for all the good times and for sheltering me through all the bad times. Thank you for all the memories. Thank you for the safety and protection and inspiration you provided. I'll miss you something awful.