Lessons I Extrapolated from my Parents.

My parents and the twin came to visit me this weekend, which was super nice of them, considering how rubbish of a daughter I am. I average a call home maybe once every two months, and that's usually due to birthdays or holidays. I haven't been home for more than a week in...a while.

Which is unfortunate, because I actually think my parents are pretty cool. Sure, it might be super dorky to publicly admit that I think my parents are cool people, but I know they think they're pretty cool as well. And you know, three people can't be wrong about something like this.

Plus my parents are like, super attractive.

In August, those two weirdos are celebrating 25 years of marriage. Having known them for 22 of those years, I'd like to be able to say that I could write books on the sage advice and wisdom they've imparted on me thus far. But my parents were never the "sit down and let me give you the facts of life" sort of people. They were more of a "teach by example" type. That's not to say I haven't learned great things from my parents, but some of those things were learned only after I looked for the meaning.

And as a JV, I have become very good at finding meaning in things that should really be meaningless. It kind of comes with the territory.

So let's take a break from reflections on spirituality and social justice and turn our attention to the people who literally made me the girl I am today- My Mom and Dad.

And if this post wins me brownie points with my parents and possibly results in better birthday presents this year, well...just know I made this post for y'alls benefit with no ulterior motives in mind.

I now present to you:

Lessons I Learned Extrapolated from my Parents.

As long as you think you're funny, that's all that matters. -Mom 

Personally, I think I'm very funny. Not everyone agrees. While I respect their opinions, they are wrong and we aren't friends. I'm hysterical. This blog largely operates on that fact. This indisputable belief is definitely something I picked up from my mother. Mom once dyed our carton of milk blue on April Fool's Day and then told us we were all having cereal for breakfast. Mom also routinely laughs too hard at her own stories to finish them. She's a plethora of corny jokes and pun-tastic remarks and if you don't laugh, well, that's your fault.

My mom's unshakable belief that she's funny, at least for me, is a testament that it shouldn't matter so much what others think. As awkward and ripe with insecurities that I am, it becomes very easy to give people's opinions of me more value than they're worth. Sure, if the rest of the world thinks I'm an asshole, I might need to reevaluate my life choices. But otherwise, if I'm happy and having fun, who cares if people think I'm super strange?

Besides, you laugh a lot more when you think you're funny.

Everyone else is an idiot.- Dad

You'd think this would be self explanatory. My dad is a bright guy. Some may say very bright. Some would say that because Dad is always confident in what he knows. He keeps things realistic and grounded at all times, prone to logic and reason over drama and semantics. 

And more often than not, Dad ends up being right about things. Now, I probably could write a book about the frustrations of having a parent who knows he is always right, but this is a post about the good things I learned. 

My dad taught me that confidence in all things is key. Even if you know you're going to fail, simply pretending you're confident anyway is going to get you places. No, I don't believe my father is actually always right, but his confidence in his answer is usually so strong that he could argue that Lake Michigan is actually a small ocean, and I would find myself questioning what I know to be true.

So, yes, the clichéd lesson is to believe in yourself, but also that a tiny bit of pride and arrogance is actually quite useful. 

Once, in my sullen teenage phase, Dad told me I should stop slouching.

"You're a Miano," he said. "You should stand like it."

Who knows what being a Miano has to do with posture, but I find I'll repeat this to myself sometimes if I ever catch myself slouching. And you know, that arbitrary pride of being a Miano helps me stand a bit straighter.

No, we can't just get a Christmas tree from the gas station. We have to cut down our own. It's tradition.- Mom 

Mom has always been a sucker for tradition. Even if that tradition involves driving an hour plus into the god forsaken state of Connecticut to go to a tree farm in freezing and often snowy weather. Heck, we still went to cut down our own tree even after I pointed out that it's sort of creepy that we go kill a living tree, cart it back to Yonkers, and then display our kill in the living room all decked out in lights and ornaments, like those hunters with deer heads above the mantle. Or serial killers.  

But my mom has never been deterred by my cynicism. Because no matter how many times I imply that our traditions are vaguely Silence of the Lambs-esque, she maintains that there's value in them. And she's right. I haven't gone to cut down a Christmas tree with my family three years, and I miss it. Yeah, I remember my feet were always freezing and looking at pine trees for hours was nothing short of mind-numbing, but it was something we all did together.

It's easy to be cynical about things. I know, because it's how I operate about 85% of the time. The other 15%, however, are the moments I realize that just because cynicism is easy, it isn't always productive. Learning to appreciate something as bizarre as tree-murder is easier when you don't come into it with a bad attitude. I look to my mom and see how she approaches everything with joy, even things she's expressed dislike for, because she knows that some good will come out of it somewhere. 

Mom reminds me that I can be as cynical as I want about our family traditions, but I'm still going to participate in them and like it. Because I probably will if I just let myself see what's so great about them. 

Figure out what you want before the waitress comes over. She's never coming back if you don't.- Dad

This in and of itself is good advice. I share this nugget of wisdom with everyone,all the time, including on pretty much every first date I've been on. Nothing breaks the ice quite like "You really need two more minutes to decide? You know my dad says..."

Or it can be a carpe diem statement. Some opportunities only come once in a life time, and if you're not ready to seize the moment, it could just pass you by. Be it life paths after JVC or just ordering a grilled cheese, know what you want when the time comes.  


Let's go look at the trees (in Fall)/ the Christmas lights (in Winter)/ the neighbors' flower boxes (in Spring)/ the stars (in Summer)!!!- Mom 

I'm sure if my mother had things her way, we'd take day trips to upstate New York in October solely to look at the foliage. In my youth, I thought this was an grown-up thing, something I would grow to appreciate. Now that I'm a quasi-adult, I realize this is just a Mom thing.

My mom never failed to see the beauty that was around her, though, and she never failed to take the time to appreciate it. Mom taught me to appreciate the beautiful things I would have otherwise overlooked, and it's in those little things that you begin to see how amazing the world we live in really is. A little wonder and awe now and then is a good reminder that there's beauty in the breakdown.

You're only allowed to blame Mom and I for things until you're 33. After that, it's all on you. -Dad

Dad threw this line at me during a discussion we were having about being proactive in fixing the troubling things in your life. It's easy to look for someone to blame, and might make the situation easier on you to shift the heat onto someone else. But it doesn't solve the problem. The problem won't go away just because it isn't "your problem" or "not your fault." The only way to fix the problem is to actually put some effort into fixing it.

But I don't have to worry about that until I'm 33. Sweet.

The trip to Mark Twain's birthplace was not pointless. It was quality Mother/Daughter bonding time.- Mom

The twin and Mom came to visit me in St. Louis a while back. I lacked a solid plan for their visit, so I suppose the resulting road trip was my fault in a way. Should have planned for this better...

Anyway, Mom decided it would be fun to go see the house Mark Twain was born in, conveniently located two hours outside of STL. So we drove out into rural Missouri, past fields, and fields, and fields, and even fields. When we finally got to our destination, there was no house. There was, however, a Mark Twain museum...with a replica of the house on display.Touring the museum took all of 15 minutes. We didn't have to wait in any lines though, seeing as we were pretty much the only people there.

So we got in the car and drove two hours back. But on the way we stopped to get dinner and see the movie "Horrible Bosses." All in all, not a bad day.

And it is a day I'll remember for the rest of my life. Because sure, at the time it was boring and disappointing, and I didn't get much out of the experience but a story. But it's a story we revisit, to laugh at and reminisce. Life's most meaningful moments aren't always the flashy and exciting ones, but any moment can be treasured. Yes, the trip was quality mother-daughter bonding time, even if it was bonding over Mark Twain's stupid ass log cabin.

"This is wood mulch. It comes in jars." See also: "That pasta was spicy"/ That one video I have of my father riding a tractor in our back yard.- Dad

My father is often at his best out of context.

It's something I've seen at work this year a lot, but learned from my father years ago: There's always more to the story. With everyone you meet, you never know exactly what their story is-- why they are the way they are or how they ended up as you see them now. Especially in the EDSSC, all I have to go on sometimes is a moment in someone's life completely out of context. People are more than how you meet them out of context. It's only when you take the to listen to the full story and take the time to learn what got them to that moment that you finally come to understand them.

And sometimes my dad starts his stories in the middle rather than at the beginning like a normal person.

Do you need anything? Are you sure? Okay, next time you call me think of things you need.- Mom

Mom doesn't believe that despite a stipend of $100 a month, living in an apartment that probably should be condemned, and nearly losing an arm to frostbite this year, I'm doing alright for myself. If people had catchphrases, my mother's would be "Don't tell me not to worry. I'm a mom, that's my job."

I am continually blown away and troubled by my mother's selflessness. I've seen her commitment to others leave her with no time, no energy, and more gray hair than I'm sure she'll care to admit. But when asked why she does what she does, she'll tell you because she enjoys it, or because she really wants to. 

Mom never stops caring about those around her. She's like, so JV without even being a JV, because she understands the value of caring and selfless action. Witnessing this taught me a lesson I couldn't forget if I tried, so rather than forget, I just try to emulate it.

My instance on doing a year of service kind of makes sense when you look at what I had to go on.  


Dad pays for college. Steve doesn't- Dad

There isn't a lesson here, really. This is just something my dad said to me when I tried to start calling by his first name. 

But this also serves as a reminder that I wouldn't be where I am today without my parents. Using the word "blessed" to explain what its like to have the parents that I have feels hokey and overly sentimental, but there also isn't a good word to really capture how I feel about the boundless support and love they've given me.    

When my parents talk about their daughter who's a Jesuit Volunteer, they like to make a big show of throwing up their hands and expressing surprise that I chose to do a year of service. "We don't know where that came from," they like to say.

The qualities I have that lead me to become a Jesuit Volunteer were largely due to my parents. To have them express anything different does them an astounding disservice. Even if they didn't mean to do it, they have helped shape me into the person I am today. Or at least most of the good stuff. 

Lessons from parents also include things like "The answer to the question 'Should I get a cat?' is never yes," and "Don't cut off all your hair. The humidity will destroy you."

You know, the good stuff. 

My community can attest to how cool I think my parents are. I was more than a little excited that they would finally get to meet them. But when we take a look at all the things they've taught me, can you really blame me for my enthusiasm?

So, thanks for visiting me in Chicago, Mom and Dad. And, you know, for everything else. 

/sentimentality  

PS: I've made five people cry with this post already. New record! Did you tear up reading this? Let me know and I'll update the count. 

So My Weekend was Pretty Quiet: A Post about JVC Silent Retreat

I'll admit it: I've been way too scattered recently to hammer out a decent blog post. Not that I haven't tried. A look in my Blogger drafts folder will reveal my airy-fairy reflection on the power of names, my idealist blueprints for a Wal-mart style social service center (one stop shop!), a blubbery love drunk post dedicated to Sister Helen Prejean, and a few one sentence blogs that stand more to be tweets than actual posts.

So going into silent retreat this past weekend, I didn't feel equipped to handle three days of any sort of reflection. What, between planning for my future, changes and hectic days at work, average community/family/friend obligations, and just standard life things happening all at once, I felt some genuine anxiety for silence. And I'm naturally an introvert, so really I should have been psyched for this. Introversion Spring Break 2014! Woo.

But up until the day of, I remained nervous. 

And, contrary to my introverted nature, when I get nervous, I talk. A lot. About stupid things. Rapidly. 

Like, for example, the second time I went to get my ears pierced, I was feeling kind of anxious. So I chatted to my friends, talked to my mom, and cracked jokes with the guy who was holding the piercing gun to my ear lobes, until I was eventually told to stop talking because the piercing guy was laughing and was worried he might give me crooked piercing. Yeah, that really helped calm my nerves. 

Pre-silent retreat wasn't much different. On the walk to the bus with my community, I just babbled. Figured I get it all out of the way then before we'd have to just sit and stare at each other for a few days. I'm pretty socially awkward, but when I want to talk to people, I want to talk. The thought of having that not be an option was causing way more anxiety than it should have. 

That, and the fact that the silence was supposed to be filled with prayer. I've said it many, many times by now, but in case you're just tuning into FishBreadHouseBird, I am bad at praying. No, shush, you can so be bad at praying. I know, because I am. None of that hippy, Jesuity nonsense about prayer being what you make it and therefore, is not a gradable skill. I have as much anxiety about praying as I do about silence, which I think is the opposite of what I'm supposed to feel about prayer. 

My plan of attack for this retreat, therefore, was that I would keep myself busy enough that I wouldn't notice the silence. To achieve this, I packed an entire extra bag of things meant to starve off boredom--four books, my crocheting, colored pencils, sketch pads, my running shoes, and enough pens and paper to supply a fledgling newspaper. 

I don't handle impending boredom well.This is exactly what I shouldn't have done, but I panicked. So sue me. 

Getting to the retreat center was, erm, a tinsy bit complicated, but trying to get nine JV's anywhere isn't going to be smooth sailing. All that matters is we got to the Bellarmine Jesuit Retreat House in one piece and:

Take this view and multiply it by 80 acres and holy crap, this place was beautiful. 

Plus interiors like this:

And guest rooms that looked like this:

And I was at least comforted that I was going have a stellar view while I struggled silently. 

We began our silence with a prayer during which we all named things we hoped would occur during the retreat. Unsure of what I wanted, I threw out my new favorite Jesuit buzzword: "Discernment."

And then everyone dispersed.

Not knowing what else to do, I decided I would go for a run. What I didn't take into account was that at 8:30 p.m. in MiddleoNowhere, Illinois, it gets really dark outside. I'm used to my city lights. Even on moonless, cloudy nights in the city, I can feel reasonably certain that I won't walk into walls or trees should I go outside. The grounds of Bellarmine gave me no such guarantee. After the eighth or ninth time I mistook a mailbox for a serial killer, I began to think that I probably could have planned this better.

Insecurity and doubt was definitely the theme of that run, as I found myself using my miles to wonder how I was going to take something away from the weekend. I was bad at praying, bad at staying focused and already off to a rough start with my spastic nighttime jog. As I pondered how ill equipped I was to be on this retreat, I thought I saw something moving in the woods just ahead of me.

I figured it was just another mailbox.

That's when two deer came charging out of the trees right in front of me, completely cutting me off and giving me a small heart attack.

My first thought was "If I die out here, no one's going to know what happened to me because we're on a stupid silent retreat and I didn't tell anyone where I was going and no one is going to be able to ask where I am."

My next thought was, "That could mean something."

Not in regards to the dying bit. The fear of dying was real. Instead, I was struck that I was expecting one thing, but then was pleasantly surprised when something else came hurtling my way.

I was expecting to leave silent retreat no closer to anything, be that a life trajectory or an understanding of God or a stronger sense of spirituality or...anything. I was expecting to feel inadequate in my ability to work with the silence. I was expecting that my own underdeveloped sense of the spiritual would, once again, leave me feeling as though I had missed a few classes way back when and I wasn't going to be able to catch up with the other JVs  students. I expected that my own worries about everything else going on in my life would be too distracting to get anything meaningful accomplished at all. 

I wasn't expecting deer. Or heart attacks. Yet I had just had both.

Thus was born the promise that I would stop expecting things that weekend. The only obligation I had this retreat was to be there. Everything else from mass to meals was optional. I was going to do whatever I wanted when I wanted to and whatever happens in the process would happen.

Hokey and overly sentimental? Maybe. But I had just had a near death experience. I was allowed a moment of grand and cliche promises.

So I took walks. Crocheted a little bit. Put a dent in James Martin SJ's The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything. Went on more runs (in the daylight), got a little sunburned, drew some dumb pictures, ate a lot of salad because apparently "vegetarian retreat" is a very loosely defined term. I even went to mass. Twice.

And I tried praying. And something just clicked this time.

I'll spare you my own revelations and adventures into the spiritual. I gave my spiritual director an earful of all of that and I'm pretty sure he was glad he only had to deal with me for a weekend. It's almost embarrassing to say, but it took getting rid of all the pressure to get the value of spirituality right for me to, finally, in some weird way, get it right.

James Martin writes in The Guide that one of the most important insights of Ignatius was that God speaks to people in personal ways. The trick is not to discount those experiences as a strictly emotional or imagined, but to accept that God uses those very experiences in which you feel something as a means of communication. As an English major, I know the danger of trying to find meaning where there isn't any, but if I find meaning when I'm not looking for it, am I going to fail for calling it real?

In silent non-expectation, it's a lot easier to believe that, sometimes, God is trying to find you. Yeah, finding God in all things and whatever, but looking at everything is exhausting. Sometimes, God finds you when you are absolutely are not expecting it.

I didn't find God, so I can't tell anyone where they should be looking. I wasn't saved, and I'm not joining a convent. I still need to force myself to go to mass and promise I will never ever ever memorize scripture with the intention of using it for anything.  

But I feel like silent retreat left me with an appreciation for the JVC value I was neglecting. And it's something I felt like sharing. Yes, it was dumb of me to be nervous, and yeah, I'm discovering a lot of things only now that have been obvious to other people for like, ever, but it's new and neat for me.

Things with God are less awkward, that's for sure.

And to any JVs reading this who haven't gone on Silent Retreat yet, enjoy it. It's kind of fabulous.

Thanks for reading. You rock. Peace.