Inhabiting My Real Self

Here I am.

Yesterday in a session with my spiritual director, Elaine, I became aware of a dynamic in me that amounts to the equivalent of living outside myself. I wrote about this dynamic a bit on Still Forming today, comparing the experience to "what if?" clouds and pretzels. 

When I pay attention to the "what if?" clouds, I'm living in the future -- the possibility of something that might happen -- and it affects my right-now reality because I start preparing and obsessing over how to prevent disasters that may never, in fact, happen. 

And that's when the pretzel contortions come in. I'm not inhabiting my real self there, either -- I'm twisting and turning and curving into whatever shape I think other people might expect or want or demand. 

This is me. 

And now, here I sit, wondering if this all somehow connects to the body series I've been writing this year in some unexpected way.

I keep having this image of not living in the throes of the "what if?" clouds and not becoming a pretzel in response, and it's an image that takes the form of standing up straight and inhabiting my real self and body. This morning, that took the form of continuing to walk with Jesus on the beach in the way that we do these days, just being myself with him and agreeing to live openly and in risk for the things he is asking and calling me to do. 

Standing up straight and inhabiting my real body. 

Maybe the dynamic of clouds and pretzels in my life is connected to my lifelong existence of not caring for my body in any real, substantive way. If I choose to inhabit my real self, then maybe caring for my real body will come along as a greater priority and desire in my life, too.

Such an interesting new thing to ponder.

Hold in Grace

It's become my prayer of late for those I love dearly. Knowing their struggles, knowing their pain, their questions, their darkness, their fears. 

Hold them in grace, God. Hold them in your grace. 

And knowing that, indeed, he does.

Praise be to God.

Questions I've Held, and Still Hold

Last night, as I stayed awake and read one more chapter in Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, I got to thinking about the questions I've asked in my life -- and still, pretty much across the board, have continued to hold for years.

A retreat director I once met would call them persistent questions. "What persistent question are you holding right now?" he asked. 

At the time, having just started out on my nonviolence journey, I was holding the question, "How do we grow in our capacity to love?" I looked through my journal of notes from the week-long retreat, and that question or some form of it was on almost every single page. 

I go back to that idea of persistent questions now and then. 

And it's interesting to me that the questions seldom change. The same questions have persisted for years and years. They've formed the person I've become and the work that I am now called with my life to do.

These questions have been, and continue to be:

• What is grace?
• What is my need for Jesus? 
• Is love really the transforming force that overcomes violence? Why? And how? 
• How do we grow in our capacity to love? 
• How do we learn to receive love?
• Where is God in the darkness?

That last one is rather new, born out of the darknesses I've watched people I dearly love struggle through and out of my journey that continually bumps me up against the dark reality of pain, evil, and suffering in the world. 

What about you?

Do you have persistent questions you've carried throughout your life? What question or questions are you carrying right now?

Some Thoughts on the Body I've Been Holding

I mentioned in my last post in the body series that God's first response to my prayer to learn how he views my body and to teach me how to view it, too, was to give me a freelance assignment of editing a health book and that this led to writing down my health goals for 2012. 

The second way God responded was to give me another work-related assignment. 

I was at my dear friend Kirsten's house one day in mid-December, and I happened to check my e-mail on my phone while I was there.

In my inbox, I found an e-mail from the editorial director of one of my favorite magazines. We'd been discussing some possibilities of work I could do for the magazine, and she'd recently invited me to write a 6-part study guide for a book they would be sending to some of their subscribers. She needed some time to decide which book they were going to use, so I'd been waiting to receive word from her on that point.

The day I was at Kirsten's house was the day I found out the book they wanted me to use. And it was, as you might already have guessed, a book about the body. Specifically, it was called Earthen Vessels: Why Our Bodies Matter to Our Faith. 

Pretty perfect, no? 

As soon as I read the title of the book in the e-mail, I let out a really loud hoot and then covered my face with my hands. "Of course it is," I said. "Of course that's the book they want me to use." 

When I shared with Kirsten what was going on, she walked over to her bookshelf and pulled another body-related book off the shelf. It was called Reclaiming the Body in Christian Spirituality (pictured above in blue), and she said I could borrow it to further help me along in my journey toward understanding the body. 

As it turns out, Kirk and I already owned a copy of that book, and so I decided to take it with us on our holiday trip to California. 

I am so glad I did. 

While Kirk and I stayed at a retreat center for three days at the beginning of our holiday, I read the introduction and first chapter of Reclaiming the Body in Christian Spirituality. 

It totally started blowing my mind, filling me with new thoughts and questions related to the body that I discussed with Kirk and also put down in my new journal. 

Below, I've listed out the initial (huge) thoughts that Kirk and the book prompted me to hold, and which I have continued to hold ever since. 

1. Offered by Kirk: "Everything I know about you is mediated through your body." Even though we know each other at a soul-deep level, we only learned that could be the case through interactions our bodies mediated in the first place (talking, e-mailing, holding hands, enjoying experiences together, intimacy, etc.). 
2. Furthermore, it is only through the body that we know anyone. I know all of my friends through their bodies -- their voices, their facial expressions, their mannerisms, what they choose to share with me in conversation or things they write. 
3. God encased all of creation in a body of some sort (ie., matter). There is something about created matter and bodies that God saw fit to make. And this got me wondering: What is "good" about matter and our bodies?
4. To become like us, Christ had to assume a body. There is something fundamentally human about having a body. 
5. A question inspired by the book: Do we "have" a body, or "are" we a body? The book offered this quote by Stephanie Paulsell: "Such is the mystery of the body. Sometimes we know that we are our bodies, that our capacity for life and death makes us who we are. At other times, we feel that we simply inhabit a vessel that is inadequate to contain all that we are." 
6. And perhaps the most transformative question that I encountered of all: Are our bodies meant to experience formation, just like our souls are? 

That last question is one I've been carrying with me for two months now.

From a simple line in the book ("being transformed and glorified in [our bodies]"), I started thinking about spiritual formation and how intensely and single-mindedly I focus on and care about the formation of our hearts, souls, and minds. 

But what about our bodies? Maybe our bodies are also meant to form over time.

And if so, what shape are they meant to take?

It's a question that's kind of been blowing my mind ever since, and totally rocking my world.

Best Decision I've Made for the Year

So, I've been talking a lot about health with my body posts lately, and that journey has definitely been a big part of my year so far, and certainly a positive one.

But I have to take a moment to share with you another decision I made for this year that has been so supremely awesome, and that is this: 

No commitments before 1PM.

I noticed last year more than ever how impactful and helpful and wonderful it is to have my morning hours reserved for the quiet spaces in my life with God.

It is a beautiful day when I'm able to spend an extended period of time at my desk in the morning, curtains open and coffee piping hot, the Scriptures spread out before me and lots of room to just read and think and pray and write. 

Last year I grew into this habit with greater commitment and consistency. 

It was also last year that I noticed what happens when I don't take time for this in the mornings -- when I have to get up and get going and get out the door to make a meeting or an appointment. 

It's not pretty. :-)

So late last year, the seed of an idea began rolling around in my mind:

What if I committed to protecting my mornings in a concrete way in 2012? 

Would it be crazy to make no appointments in the mornings at all, as a rule?

Would that be selfish?

A bit over the top, perhaps? 

I decided it was exactly the right thing to do. 

I consider my life's work that which flows out of that essential and sacred time in the morning quiet with God. The week-daily posts written on Still Forming are the fruit of that time, as is the reflection and writing that happens on JTN. Still times of prayer for others happens during that time, as does much of the preparation and creation of the online courses I've begun to teach.

Declaring a commitment that protects the conditions required for this life's work is not unreasonable, I decided. In fact, it seemed quite sane.

One month into this new year, and I'm happy to report that it is, by far, the best decision I could have made.

It still lights me up with glee and gratitude each day to know that when I wake, nothing is required but that I spend time in the quiet with God, following him wherever that may lead.

Paying Attention to God's Signs

Self-portrait, January 2012

So, I mentioned in a previous post that once I asked God to teach me how he wants me to view my body, he began to answer my prayer.

I shouldn't have been surprised by that, but I was. 

And the first two times it happened, I laughed out loud.

(As you know, the third time it happened, I apologized to my body for the first time in my life.)

Here's how God got my attention the first time: through my work. 

You may or may not know that in my paid working life, I'm a freelance book editor. This means that a variety of different book publishers contact me when they have a manuscript that needs copyediting or a book that needs proofing just before it uploads to the printer.

(Sidenote: I absolutely love that my professional history over the last 12 years now affords me the opportunity to work from home on projects like this. Every book is different from the next, and I always learn so much from each one.) 

The nature of being a freelancer is that I don't often have a lot of context for the books I'm going to edit until they reach my inbox. But shortly after I prayed that prayer -- it may even have been the very next project sent my way -- I received a health book to edit. 

That's right: a health book. 

So I laughed. 

And then I paid attention. 

One little gem in particular jumped off the page of that book and lodged itself in my being, and that was this: to write down, with pen and paper, my personal commitment to my health journey -- and to specifically detail what that commitment would look and what I would gain from adhering to it. 

So I cracked open my brand-new 2012 planner, which I'd just purchased, and turned to the very last page. And I wrote the following: 

GOAL FOR 2012: HEALTH

I want to lose 25 pounds so that I can feel comfortable in my clothes, feel comfortable in my body, feel attractive to Kirk, feel strong, and not have to expend mental or emotional or physical energy worrying about how I look. 

In writing this, I realized something I'd never realized before: I spend a lot of time and energy thinking and feeling things related to my body.

Every day when I get dressed, I'm aware that my body is not what I want it to be. Every time I look in my closet, I'm aware of the clothes I can no longer wear. Every Sunday morning, I'm reminded how few Sunday dress clothes fit me anymore. Every day when I leave the house, I'm aware I don't feel attractive. Every time I pass a mirror, I'm aware of every shape and contour of my body visible to me. 

And that's just for starters. 

So the next thing I did was get specific with a plan.

My primary intent for the plan was this: 

Be realistic and gentle.

I wasn't interested in going from zero to sixty in three seconds flat. I was interested in gentle changes that I would realistically incorporate into my life. 

Things like choose water instead of soda. Or eat a piece of fruit at least once a day. Or take myself out on a photo walk three times a week for 30 minutes. (Photography has become such a nurturing and integrated part of my life these last six months, I figured that a creative photo walk was one gentle way I could motivate myself out of the house to walk a few times per week.)

I set very gentle goals for the first four months of this year, then broke the rest of the year into two more sections and slowly graduated my commitments -- with one caveat:

Only hold myself to the graduated commitment if the previous commitment has become a normal part of my daily life by that point.

A current favorite:

strawberry-banana-peanut-butter smoothie.

Just add ice! 

So far this year, things have really improved on the consumable goods front. I haven't had soda all year! And I've eaten at least one fruit per day this month, if not more. I'm in the habit of eating oatmeal for breakfast and usually a snack of string cheese or almonds or apple slices with peanut butter or a fruit smoothie at some point during the day.

But the photo walks have been slower to come along. So far this year, I've only taken one walk. 

It's feeling really good to feed my body better food. I like asking myself each day, "Did you eat your one fruit?" and smiling when I notice that I already did. I like that my normal snack foods are sources of better nutrients for me. I like that all of this is becoming habit. 

Slowly, slowly, treating my body well is becoming something I choose -- gladly -- to do.

A Book Can Be a Mirror, or How Far I'm Willing to Jump

Amazing exercise created by Susannah Conway

So, this is a little bit of a long one, so you might want to tuck in ... 

***

For perhaps the whole month of December, I had a sense that 2012 would be a very new experience. 

I've spent the last four and a half years being busy. I finished a master's degree in business in 13 months and then moved straight into a 3-year program for a second master's degree in spiritual formation, while simultaneously enrolling in a separate 3-year training course in the ministry of spiritual direction. And then upon graduation from both programs in June 2011, I dove headfirst into a contract project that kept me sprinting through November. 

Whew!

But as things settled down in December and I reflected on all that had come before -- all the preparation that several years of intensive study and training had poured into me, all the intimations of where and how God was leading me to work, and a half-year's practice in being faithful to it -- I then looked ahead to 2012 and sensed myself on the edge of something new. 

In the way that 2011 was a year of preparations coming to an end and of learning to be faithful to what God gave and led me to do, I sensed that 2012 was going to be a year of fullness.

Not busyness -- fullness. 

Where God is calling me to work,

and where I keep my vocational treasures 

When Kirk and I returned from our holiday trip to California and I was deep in the throes of jet lag, I stayed up into the wee hours one night and created the above filofax/planner for myself.

It's a place to store all my vocational treasures -- a place for me to brainstorm ideas and remember ideas and work through ideas. It's a place to store my brain waves when inspiration strikes because relying on my memory to keep track of it all is a completely useless endeavor more and more these days. :-)

And then there's the above book, which Kirk got me for Christmas.

It touches on the section in my vocation planner concerning my blog about nonviolence, Journey Toward Nonviolence. For a while now, I've been carrying around a question about that blog. I've continued to wonder what level of commitment I am meant to bring to that space, since previously busy seasons have kept me from being faithful to it in the ways I've longed to be.

The questions of nonviolence -- or, more pointedly, the question of how we grow in our capacity to love other human beings -- is one that continues to take up joint residence in the penthouse suite of my heart. (It bunks in the penthouse suite with another part of me that fervently longs to connect people to God.)

So when Kirk got me this book for Christmas, it provoked that question again.

This book holds the diaries and letters of a young woman named Etty Hillesum. She's a Jew who was killed in Auschwitz at the age of twenty-nine and wrote copiously in her letters and journals the last couple years of her life. Most specifically, she is known for being someone who explored the deep questions of how to love one's enemies and forgive them.

It makes me shake sometimes to read her words -- just the holiness of her journey and questions, given the reality she faced and the way she eventually died. On Christmas, when I received the book, tears pricked my eyes just from reading the first paragraph of the book's introduction.

Yes, this book told me, the subject of nonviolence still touches a very deep part of me. It means something to me still.

So I continued to carry the question, and when we returned to Florida after the holidays, I slowly started to integrate some of the elements of this part of my heart into my daily life.

Like, for instance, reading sections of MLK's autobiography before bed or during my morning hours of quiet. 

Or reading the article Kirk left on my desk on Martin Luther King Day -- an article printed in RELEVANT magazine about the limits of civil disobedience.

This past weekend, I grafted that article into My Year With Gandhi journal -- a journal that hadn't been pulled off my bookshelf in at least 6 months. 

And then today, this book. 

I had heard of Ann Voskamp before and have even visited her blog a few times over the years when friends have linked to her posts.

But I'd never made a connection with her writing until now. 

I'm not going to go into the details of this book because I think it's one that needs to be experienced firsthand. But I will tell you this: this girl doesn't pull any punches. From the very first page, you feel like your inner distractions get pulled up by the scruff of the neck real quick and you're reoriented to pay complete attention. On the second page, you learn some really hard truths about the author's life, and it's enough to make you realize from the get-go: Wow. This girl really won't pull any punches. 

She's willing to go to deep, dark, and difficult places ... and yet somehow pulls out the sacred and beautiful. 

In reading just the first few hundred words in this book, I couldn't help but hear the question posed back to me, like a mirror: What about you, Christianne? 

One -- big -- reason I keep hesitating to fully commit to my online nonviolence space is because of those loud, snarling, rabid-dog voices we all hear in the back of our heads sometimes.

Those voices are snarling that I write too much, think too much, care too much, and dream and idealize things too much. They tell me I'm not practical, that I've got my head in the clouds, and the ideas related to nonviolence that captivate me so much don't translate well in reality. 

They want me to doubt the convictions forming in me. 

They also want me to just be quiet. You already write here on Lilies, they say, and five days a week on Still Forming. Do you really need a third place to offer your voice? People will get tired of hearing your voice so much -- and you'll get tired of hearing it too. Just be quiet and go away. 

Yep. Those voices snarl at me in my head on a pretty regular basis when I think about this. 

But this book of Ann Voskamp's that I received in the mail today shouted those voices down, at least for a moment. This girl doesn't pull any punches, it showed me, and then it turned to me and asked: What about you? 

For some mysterious reason only God really knows, my deep resonance with the philosophy of nonviolence is an important part of me, and I need to continue exploring it, understanding it, making sense of it, and honoring it.

Even if no one else reads along. Even if the plethora of words I write only overwhelm everyone else. Even if my thoughts are still scattered and unformed right now. Even if I feel like I'm hacking through a tall, thick wheat field as I go.

And so I will.

Toward a Theology of the Body

The thing about this body stuff is that I had no motivation whatsoever to do anything about the problem. Yes, I hated the way my body had changed. Yes, it completely befuddled and bewildered me. Yes, I knew that the tools for change were right at my fingertips.

But nothing I thought about or pursued went deep enough for me. No amount of information or even discomfort in my own skin was enough to propel me into action.

Over the last five years, I have tried so many thoughts, admonitions, truths, and experiments on for size in trying to face the reality of the changes in my body.

When Kirk and I first got married, for instance, I worked full-time as an associate book editor for a publishing company that published health books under one of its imprints. Through editing books under that imprint, I gained a lot of great information about how to live in health -- drink lots of water, eat fresh whole foods, exercise, and so on -- and so for a while I faithfully brought my bottles of water and bags of almonds and carrots to work with me for a midday snack. I tried working out at the gym, first on the elliptical trainer and then by swimming laps in the pool, and then later by trying yoga classes, Zumba classes, and even a class called Boot Camp. 

None of these things stuck, and I'm convinced today that it's because the motivation simply didn't reach deep enough for me.

I was doing these things because I felt I was supposed to, not because I was deeply convinced it was the right thing to do or because I really wanted to do them. I was doing them because I felt ashamed of my body and knew that the shame would continue if I didn't get a handle on what was happening with my body.

I also knew that some people get motivated by the science and the numbers of it all. There's the reality of biology -- that a correct blend of protein, carbohydrates, and fat is optimum for the human body. And there's the reality of math -- that consumable items carry calories and that the amount of calories consumed minus the amount of calories burned will result in either gaining or losing weight. 

But the science and math just didn't matter or stick. It felt like a tennis ball bouncing off a racquetball court wall. I was completely unmoved, and I really didn't care about those things -- no matter how true they were.

So, what to do? 

This is where the conversation with Elaine in my spiritual direction session comes into play. I shared all these things with her -- told her the background with my body and how it had changed, told her the motivation simply wasn't there, and yet I still was left with this problem with my body.

I just didn't know what to do.

On the one hand, it seemed like part of the problem was the way I viewed my body that had changed on me. I resented it, and it seemed like that resentment wasn't the best possible view to have of my body. Perhaps acceptance was part of what needed to come into this situation quite a bit more.

But I also knew the way I physically lived inside my body was not in line with what science or math taught about what the body needed. Even if I learned to better accept my body in its current state, that current state was still not healthy. 

And that's where the motivation aspect mattered. 

We wondered aloud what motivation would really make a difference. Was there anything that would get down deep enough? 

That's when I recognized the only thing that would matter enough to change my view of my body was to come to understand why my body really mattered to God. Not in a shame-inducing, "Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit!" kind of way, but in a real and deep-down way of understanding that was rooted in my relationship with him. 

And so, even though it took me a couple tries to be able to pray this prayer from an honest and heartfelt place -- even though I didn't want to say these words at all when Elaine first invited me to talk to God about it -- eventually, I was able to say to God in spirit and truth: "Help me learn how to view my body, and help me learn how you want me to care for it." 

I am so far from understanding these things, and I have such a long way to go. But at least the initial steps have been taken, and I'm aware this is something I'm in the process of learning and discussing with God.

A Conversation with My Body

Enjoy some photos of Joshua Tree National Park

that I took as part of our holiday vacation while you read. :-) 

***

So, in the wee hours of the morning that transitioned New Year's Eve to New Year's Day, I vomited for the first time in my life since I was 7 years old. 

And I did it five times in succession. 

It was a violent introduction to an illness that would render me in the most miserable state I have ever experienced in my body, and it lasted 4 days.

The timing of this violent illness was not lost on me. In fact, I consider it a grace to have happened, even as miserable as it was. 

And here's why.

In mid-November, in a session with my spiritual director, Elaine, the conversation took a surprising turn toward a discussion of the body -- and specifically, my body. It wasn't something I planned to discuss with her, nor did I see it coming when it came, but I had known for quite some time that eventually we would need to enter that territory and talk about it.

Here's the skinny on my story about my body so that I can bring you up to speed. 

I grew up with a super-high metabolism and never worried one bit about what I ate until I was 25 years old. When I moved to college, I gained only two pounds and felt proud to have avoided the dreaded "freshman 15." I sincerely loved being small and petite and loved being able to fit into any clothes I wanted and to eat any food. 

I ate like a bird, but what I ate was absolutely not nutritious in the slightest. At one point in my twenty-fifth year, I noticed that I was practically subsisting on Jack-in-the-Box tacos, Dr. Pepper, and Hot Tamales. But since I hardly ate anything, it didn't seem to matter. I was thin, and I loved not having to worry about it. 

But something changed on my honeymoon in Europe with Kirk in 2006.

It's something that I think had been slowly changing for several months beforehand, actually, and the thing that changed is that I no longer ate like a bird. 

Something about being with Kirk made me feel safe and secure and loved. I felt able to rest. And I felt especially able to celebrate life with him.

So on our honeymoon, celebrate we did. I must say, I reveled in the delicious fare that Paris had to offer, in particular. There's a restaurant I will never forget where I ate the most incredible risotto of my life. We drank wine and ate pasta, and we always -- always -- ordered dessert.

And when we returned from our honeymoon, the celebratory approach to food that I'd adopted with him continued. 

I gained 10-15 pounds on our honeymoon. It sounds incredible, but it's true. And I really didn't know what to do about it.

The reason is, I've never learned how to care for my body. I don't know what it means to take care of the physical fibers of my being. I never had to worry about it, and so I never learned, and once my lifestyle completely changed -- and my body with it -- it took a long time for me to face the reality that things had permanently changed in the body department for me. I kept denying my body was no longer able to ingest whatever I gave it without so much as a stumble. 

But it had changed. Incredibly. And I had no idea what to do about it. 

The truth is, too, that I didn't have much motivation to do anything about it. I simply didn't care to take care of my body. I considered my body to be an object that was supposed to serve me -- make me look good, and not flinch at anything I gave it to consume -- and when it stopped doing that, I had nothing to say to it, except maybe bad and exasperated sentiments.

So the last five and a half years have been a very confusing and frustrating ride -- a vascillation between denial and fear continually.

Which leads me to the conversation that cropped up with Elaine in November. I didn't want to talk about it, but there it was -- the issue with my body had slipped out of my mouth without my intending it, and the invitation to talk more about it was there. 

I'll share more about the content of our conversation and my reluctance to do anything new to care for my body in my next post on the subject, but for now I will share that by the end of our session, I was able to tell God the most honest thing: "Help me to learn how you view my body, and help me learn how you want me to care for it."

Which is why the physical illness that landed me on the tile of the bathroom floor at 4 in the morning on New Year's Day was not lost on me. We'd taken my dad and his wife to a very nice dinner for New Year's Eve, and immediately following the dinner, I felt it had been a mistake. At least, I felt that I'd made a mistake: I ate too much food. Incredibly rich food. Way too much rich food.

All the way home from our very enjoyable evening, I felt a pressure in my abdomen that would not subside. We rang in the new year with my sister and played some games at the kitchen table, and all the while, the pressure in my stomach was there and I felt pretty low. I went to bed, but by 3 a.m., I was moaning and tossing in my bed, still feeling incredibly bad. 

An hour later, I vomited five times. The next 12 hours are among the most miserable hours of my life, and the 24 following that were pretty miserable too. In all, the illness lasted 4 days and this is the first day I've actually felt like a real human being again.

By now, I've learned that I contracted a stomach virus -- not food poisoning, and not indigestion, as I originally thought -- but at the time it happened, the way I felt was so closely connected to that last meal that I'd had, and all I could say to my body for the first 12 hours of my illness was, "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Over and over again. Repentance. Repentance.

I simply could not -- and still cannot -- fathom eating a rich meal like that again. The sickness took me one step closer to a willingness to treat my body better. 

This illness was actually the third sign offered in the course of a few weeks in answer to my prayer that God would teach me what it means to honor and care for my body. I'll be sharing this ongoing journey here with you -- what the struggle to care for my body has been like for me, what the other signs in response to my prayer have been, and what I'm learning as I continue to journey forward.

In all of this prayer and talk about the body, I trust there is something redemptive and grace-filled to be found and learned for me. In fact, it has already begun.

Perhaps there'll be something in this prayer and body conversation for you, too.

xoxo,

Christianne 

Reflections on a Spiritual Retreat (Part 3 of 3): Scenes from Our Stay

Of course, given my emerging love for photography this past year, photos were a large component of the way I experienced the spiritual retreat.

One of the first things we did upon arriving at the center, in fact, was to take a photo walk in order to explore the grounds and enjoy the last hour of light in the day. (I believe photographers call it the "golden hour" because the light from the sun as it glances on the earth is just perfect during that time of day.) And I took photo walks a couple other times during our stay on the grounds. Those photo walks are among my favorite memories of our time there.

So below, I've shared a glimpse of the experience of the retreat in pictures for you. Enjoy. :-)

Beauty in light. 

Come and sit. Rest.

Art in the wild.

Time for the morning quiet. 

Come and enter in.

Sun-drenched foliage.

That I would adore him.

Bouganvillia in light.

Through a doorway.

Ascendance.

Reflections on a Spiritual Retreat (Part 2 of 3): Nouwen & Merton

Bedside at the hermitage

While staying at the Immaculate Heart Center for Spiritual Renewal, you have two options for lodging. The first option is to stay in the main house with the sisters and other residents and take your meals with them each day. The second option is to stay in a hermitage on the property and take care of your own meals through the purchase of your own supplies and the use of the hermitage kitchen. 

We opted to stay in the hermitage this year. 

Small writing room adjacent to our room at the hermitage

On the first full morning of our stay, Kirk met with the spiritual director who lives at the center. Her name is Joann, and she has belonged to the Immaculate Heart community for 50 years (!). She is a dear, dear heart. 

During the course of their visit together, Kirk learned a number of unusual and amazing facts about the retreat center. 

Such as the fact that Henri Nouwen once stayed in the very same hermitage where we stayed! He came for a week and brought a driver and a young member of the L'Arche community with him, and the three of them stayed together in the little house on the property where we also stayed. 

Amazing. I consider Henri Nouwen one of my spiritual fathers, and it was pretty incredible to consider that we were staying in the same place he did during our time there. I can imagine he made use of the little writing room off our room. 

Can't you see Nouwen sitting here and writing each day? 

The next story Joann related to Kirk is that Thomas Merton had also stayed at the center, in the main house, in 1968 ... just before he left to Bangkok, Thailand. 

If you are familiar with the life of Thomas Merton, you know that his fateful trip to Thailand was one of the most anticipated and treasured of his life. He was to attend an interreligious dialogue of monks there, and it took a very long time for him to secure permission from his abbot to leave the community at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Louisville, Kentucky, and travel across the world to attend such a conference at all. 

While there, after giving his paper at the conference, Merton was electrocuted by an electric fan in his bathroom and died. 

Room 1, where Merton stayed prior to leaving the States for the Bangkok conference.

Merton, too, is someone I consider to be one of my spiritual fathers, perhaps even more dear and instructive to my life of faith than Nouwen is today. To learn that he had stayed on the grounds and at such a momentous point in his life's journey was ... well, it was humbling and awe-inspiring, to say the least. 

Next time we return to the retreat center, we may see if Room 1 is available for our stay. (Wouldn't you?!)

Reflections on a Spiritual Retreat (Part 1 of 3): The Labyrinth

We spent the last three days at a spiritual retreat center in Montecito, California, and it was such a beautiful, refreshing time away. We both greatly anticipated the time we would spend there, especially since it was situated at the very beginning of our scheduled vacation. Three days of retreat seemed like such a fitting way to officially enter into a period of rest. 

Over the next couple days, I'll be sharing with you some snippets from our time, the first being my experience walking the labyrinth on the property. 

The first thing I noticed after I struck out on the path of stones that led to the labyrinth's entrance was that the path of stones was part of the journey. I had started out walking them quickly, anticipating getting to the official opening of the labyrinth, only to realize that I'd already begun the journey.

So I stopped, turned around, and went back to the beginning. 

I stood for several minutes on the very first stone. 

It was flat, firm, solid, and flanked by two tall stones on each side. I felt an immediate connection to Jesus -- the one who has been with me always. I often say that I don't have any memories of my early years that didn't include an awareness of Jesus being there with me. That very first stone stood for my entrance into the world, my very first years, and it was supported by Jesus -- firmly -- on both sides. 

He has been my ever-present and firm foundation.

I gave thanks. 

I continued along the opening pathway of stones in a slow and prayerful way, stopping every step of the way with both feet upon each stone, very mindful of the memory or moment or series of events in my first nineteen years of life that each stone symbolized for me. 

I remembered my first communion in the Catholic church ... and gave thanks. 

I remembered attending mass each Sunday, and also CCD classes in the evenings during the week ... and gave thanks. 

I remembered three key events in my young, elementary-school-age life that marked and changed me in significant ways. These are difficult memories, moments I wish weren't there. They scarred me and fashioned much of the person I would become. But they also paved the way for my later formation, and they gave me a more compassionate heart for others who've been hurt. I gave thanks. 

I considered my family of origin: large, Irish-Catholic, loud. So often I felt like an oddball, one lone and introverted girl sitting in the corner, reading her books. So often I felt like the silent observer, watching the interactions and trying so hard to learn the rules. This, too, formed me in ways I never realized it did at the time. It is still an area that intends to teach me more. I gave thanks. 

I considered my parents: the people they are, the love they've always had for me, the ways in which their particular lives and stories formed mine. I thought of the ways I have grown to know and understand them better than I used to, and yet how they will always -- just like every other person on this planet -- be a mystery beyond my full knowledge. I gave thanks. 

I remembered the new church we began attending when I was nine and the ways it taught me about Jesus, andI gave thanks. 

I recalled my junior high and high school youth group experiences and how they, too, formed me deeper into the life of God and the church. I gave thanks. 

I thought of my first real, significant relationship. I noticed the painful memories and yet how significant a portion of my story that relationship is. I remembered the healing work I have done regarding it, as well as the forgiveness work, andI gave thanks. 

I remembered a particularly painful memory from my sixteenth year and honored the repentant moment that arose in me. I confessed my remorse. I told God how much I wished I could change that memory and that moment. I acknowledged that I couldn't. I accepted his absolution, andI gave thanks. 

Then I came to the threshold of the labyrinth, the beginning of the maze that was and is my continual and intentional formation. 

That threshold symbolizes the moment in my nineteenth year when I asked God to teach me about grace and about Jesus, and to teach me my need for both. 

Ever since then, my life has been turned upside-down as he has been turning it right-side up. 

It was rather momentous to step onto that labyrinth's path and then turn and look back at the place from which I'd come. All those moments. All those memories. All those misinterpretations of truth and of my worth and value. 

Each one of them forming a piece of my inner life's work from that momentous point forward. 

So I walked, and turned, and turned some more. And as I walked, I mentally walked through the years that followed that prayer at age nineteen. Nineteen ... twenty ... twenty-two ... twenty-three ... twenty-five. So many moments. So many memories. So many reinterpretations of truth and of my worth and value. 

Occasionally, a turn in the path would occur at the same moment I was remembering a real turn in my story, and so I would stop in the midst of that turn and remember, and acknowledge, and give thanks, and then continue. 

I recall reaching the outermost layer of the labyrinth just as my mental walk turned to the entrance of Kirk into my life.

I stopped at the corner of that outermost layer's turn and remembered: the early conversations by e-mail, the honest and frank admissions of where we stood, the deeply beautiful letters and gifts and cards sent across the miles, the phone calls and visits ... each moment of our courtship so deeply honoring and beautiful and true. I married an honorable man. 

I gave thanks. Deep, deep thanks. 

And then continued walking, this time with a noticeable lightness to my step -- a swing, almost, to it -- and a smile on my face. Our life together is a place where I've experienced the gift of being invited and encouraged to be myself. I have come more and more into myself in my life with Kirk. He has truly been God's greatest gift to me, next to Jesus.

I gave thanks. 

And then I reached the final turn toward the middle. This is the place in my journey where I currently am: walking directly into the heart of Christ with every bit of intention and wholehearted love I can muster. 

I reached the center, knelt down, and bowed to him. 

An altar of rocks was there, and I knelt looking at it. My life, an offering to you, I told him.

And I gave thanks.

Living from the Ground of My Being

Some major shifts happened in our life at home this year.

Kirk and I found ourselves falling in love with and giving our hearts to a new faith community, which completely took us by surprise.

I can't tell you -- still -- how meaningful this discovery has been to me personally. We visit there a couple times per week, and I love that I continue to feel regularly connected to the life of the church and the presence of Christ there continually.

It also helps that the utter cuteness of the church and its proximity to our brick-lined street makes traveling there feel a bit like participating in the life of an English village every time. (And in case you didn't know, Kirk and I entertain dreams of living in an English village someday!)

Another big change this year is that I started channeling my inner Martha Stewart. I never expected this, either, but I discovered cooking and baking as a wholly new love affair in my life. Whereas it used to be such a hassle for me to think about dinner, much less get it prepped and on the table each night, somehow I've found the planning and making of meals seamlessly integrated into our daily life now.

This has been totally surprising and totally awesome. 

We invested some modest time and funds into our home this year -- a couch, some lamps, a rug, and a TV and DVD set -- and we've discovered a shift in where we spend most of our time at home. Our living area is now the central hub of our home life, and we've both loved discovering this development. 

Also, I found myself channeling my inner Martha Stewart in yet another surprising way with the approach of this Christmas season. In the course of some daily blog reading, I became energized and inspired by some handmade gift ideas I found, and I set to work creating them. I've never been one for making handmade gifts before, but I'm super-pumped about these and can't wait to share the details and pictures with you once all the gifts are distributed! (Sneak preview on one of those gifts below.)

In all, it feels like our home and our kitties and our church life and our life together in general have become a very strong foundation in our life. And while that has always been true for us, something feels very different about it this year. We seem more rooted. Happy. At peace. Content.

It's strange to say this because, again, it's pretty much always been the case that we've been happy and at peace and that our home and kitties and faith life and togetherness have been our central focus.

I don't quite know how to put into words what is different, but I think it has something to do with our life becoming more local. We make and enjoy most of our meals at home, and from the labor of our own hands. We attend a modest church just around the corner from our home. We enjoy time connecting on our couch and playing with the kitties each night before bed. 

All of this matters right now as we prepare to leave for California tomorrow to spend the Christmas holiday with my family, and here's how:

I've been noticing that I want to take this feeling of rootedness with us to California.

When I travel home to California (where I'm originally from), it can be so easy to get swept into the activity and accelerated pace of seeing many people and doing many things. Sometimes it can feel like quite a whirlwind experience when I travel there, as it is so easy to get caught up in commitments and a fast pace to meet them all.

I find myself assuming this is how it has to be.

But this year, as I find myself living from the true and deep ground of my being in life with Kirk each day, I want to see what it's like to remain connected to that deep ground of my being when we travel there together -- even as we travel in the thick of a holiday season and to a place that carries such an opportunity for overcommitment on my end.

I can easily lose myself and my sense of centeredness in that kind of scenario. It becomes so easy to try to do and be everything for everybody, isntead of relishing and sinking in deep to what is most important and right in front of me.

And so this year, as we travel, I choose my rootedness with Kirk. I look forward to seeing what a difference that makes as we go.

Favorite Blogs I Discovered in 2011

This is one of my favorite pictures of Solomon.

It was taken right before he pretty much demolished that box. 

Hello there!

I've been a busy little bee these days, and I must say that the activity (mostly) agrees with me. A lot of the activity resembles nesting: cooking, baking, decorating, organizing, and doing my usual work from home.

Also, in the midst of this ongoing activity, I had the chance to throw a lovely shower for Kirsten (this was also my very first baby shower, ever!), and now I'm diligently getting ready for our upcoming holiday trip to California. This means, for instance, that I spent a couple hours this evening generating quite a few lists along the lines of which gifts to purchase for who from where and which gifts I'm going to try my hand at hand-making this year. 

I've got a number of thoughts to share on this nesting, homemaking, crafting sort of life I seem to lead more and more these days, which I plan to share with you soon. 

But for now, I thought it would be fun to share some of the wonderful blogs I discovered and fell in love with this year, since I noticed quite a few new ones are among my current favorites.

Are you looking for some new blog inspiration? I heartily recommend these lovelies!

• Christine Chitnis
• Marisa at Creative Thursday
• Megg at Creating Wings
• Mystic Vixen
• Posie Gets Cozy
• Shannon Leith

Would love to hear who makes your list of newly discovered + favorite blogs this year!

xoxo,

Christianne 

Falling in Love with the Eucharist

Do you want to know something that's really surprised me? How much I've come to crave -- and actually depend -- on the eucharist of late.

I've never felt this way about communion before.

In fact, a couple months ago, we had dinner with some friends, and the husband was telling us that the eucharist is the central focus of the liturgy. It's the ultimate reason we gather together, he said. Everything in the service is in service to that moment when the bread and wine are consecrated and each baptized Christian is presented with the body and blood of Christ -- the bread of heaven, the blood shed for you and for me. 

Our friend drew my attention to the fact that the other elements of the liturgy -- the readings, the sermon, the hymns, even the celebrant -- may change, but the blessing of the bread and wine remains the same. The offering of Christ's body to take, eat, and receive into ourselves remains the same always. 

At the time of the conversation, I didn't really relate to what our friend had said. At the time, I was caught up in my enjoyment and delight in certain other elements of the service, none of which had much to do with the eucharist at all. I enjoyed the teaching of our rector, Father Rob. I loved the slow pace and reverent tenor of the contemplative eucharist service we faithfully attend on Sunday nights -- the low lights and candles lit, the sights and smells, the sacred chant and extended silences.

But in the last few months, I've noticed a shift.

Now it is the eucharist I crave. Now it is the bread and wine -- the taking of Jesus into myself over and over again -- that I need more of. Now it is the Christ that I worship and adore that I want inside of me, more and more, forever and ever, amen.

This Post Brought to You by Christmas

Friends, 

I want to thank you so much for your kind words on my last post.

I've been feeling the sadness of letting go of that particular dream in little hints and snatches the last couple weeks, but it wasn't until this week, when I met with my spiritual director and was able to process it in greater depth, that its connection to all that I've been meditating upon in the John 21 passage of late became so clear. 

So, thank you for reading and for sharing your sweet words with me. 

***

And now for something I've been looking forward to sharing with you for several days: our house, made over by Christmas! Won't you please accompany me on a photo tour of our home, holiday style?

Soon to be hung on the wall.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Twinkle lights strung around the wide doorframe.

A tree gets added, and the room begins to glow.

Glow x 2. 

Don't forget the red and gold Christmas baubles!

Love that shimmer.

Cranberry ribbon wound around the tree, then tied with a bow on top.

Don't forget to sit and enjoy the tree. 

And when you walk in the house, savor the sight that greets you.

Letting Go of a Particular Dream

For the last couple weeks, I've been sitting with the conversation Peter and Jesus shared on the beach at the very end of John's gospel, in chapter 21.

It's been a long while since I've sat with a passage for such an extended period of time, but I can't seem to move away from it just yet. And the amazing thing is that it just keeps presenting more and more things for me to notice and talk about with Jesus.

Jesus is using this passage to form so much in my life with him right now. 

I shared in a previous post that through this passage, Jesus has been speaking to me specific words: What is that to you? You -- follow me. Do you love me more than these?

I have felt such an identification with Peter in this passage.

I have identified with his distraction -- the way he's having a very personal conversation with Jesus about so many intimate things, such as his love for Jesus, his calling in life, and even the way he will end his days, only to look around and notice John is standing there. "What about him, Jesus?" Peter wants to know. "What about him?" 

And Jesus says, "Peter, don't worry about him. You -- follow me." 

I can relate to that right now. Jesus is asking me to train my eyes on him and him alone, to let go of any other concern, to simply learn to listen and watch and follow Jesus, only Jesus.

I can also relate to the conversation Peter and Jesus share about Peter's calling to be a shepherd. Jesus says to Peter three different times, "Feed my lambs. Shepherd my sheep. Feed my sheep." 

We learn earlier in John's gospel (in John 10) that Jesus is the Good Shepherd. He has a flock that he knows by name, and he cares for them diligently. His sheep know his voice, and they follow him where he leads them. 

In this passage in John 21, Jesus is charging Peter with a similar role.

I can relate to that, too, as I've had a growing sense for some time now that Jesus has been forming a pastor's heart in me. I don't fully understand what that means just now, but it has led to a shift in where I direct the greatest energy in my daily life.

My mornings, for instance, are my most treasured time with Jesus. I try to guard my mornings from other commitments as much as possible, as that is the time I most desire to spend in the quiet with Jesus. With my tumbler full of coffee, the Scriptures open before me, and Diva usually prowling around or perched nearby, I speak to and learn from Jesus during that time.

And through that daily time together, Jesus is showing me, step by step, how to feed his lambs, how to shepherd his sheep, and how to feed his sheep. 

As in tune with that vocation as I have been of late, and as willingly as I have embraced and sought to be obedient to it, I have more recently begun to realize that accepting that calling means letting go of a different dream.

It is the dream of being a writer -- or, rather, a particular kind of writer. 

For many, many years in my young adult life, I wanted to be a literary kind of writer. I shaped much of my life around that dream. I took classes, wrote stories and poems, and attempted novels. I read every word I could find by Anne Lamott and endured several years of the gratuitous artistic angst as I began to exercise my voice for the very first time.

Eventually, blogging became a way for me to further embody this writerly life. For the first few years that I blogged, I viewed each post as an opportunity to practice and hone my craft. I sharpened and chiseled each post, seeking to craft them into the just-right form for telling the stories of life that I had to tell. I took the utmost care with every single post and applied all that I knew of great writing to each one.

This was what "being a writer" looked like for me. 

But I don't do that anymore. My life as a writer no longer looks like that.

I write a lot. Writing is -- and will be, for a very long time, I suspect -- a significant part of my vocational life. Written words are, in fact, the medium for so much of the pastoral work that God is giving me to do. 

But the way I write has changed significantly.

No longer do I take great pains with every single word. No longer do I search for the just-right metaphor or analogy. No longer do I sharpen every post to its most pristine perfection. 

Sure, I take care with what I say. I seek to articulate the truth of my heart, and I seek to say that truth in the way my heart is saying it. 

But no longer do I labor over each and every word, the way I used to do. 

There is a new level of freedom in my writing this way, but there is also -- I've recently come to see -- quite a bit of sadness. 

When I come upon other people's words that are fashioned into a thing of beauty, for instance, my heart aches and hurts in an almost physical way. I can remember what was like to write that way. And I can admire their craft for what it is -- admire it immensely, actually -- because their kind of writing is the kind I most enjoy reading. 

But it's also the kind of writing I thought I would one day write myself, and that's where the ache is felt.

I've only recently noticed the sadness and the ache. I think this is because I've become more and more in tune with my vocation and calling to be a shepherd. The more I move in that direction, the more I have noticed the ache when encountering a particular kind of beauty found in other people's written words.

And this is where the encounter with Peter and Jesus on the beach in John 21 has presented yet another gift.

Just this morning, I noticed that Peter announced he was going fishing. "I'm going fishing," he told the other disciples. "We're going with you!" they chorused back. And so off they went. 

Fishing was what Peter did before he encountered Jesus. It was his livelihood, the thing he knew best how to do. 

But once he met Jesus, he left the fishery business behind, following the promise Jesus made that he would learn to become a fisher of men. 

Then Jesus died, and Peter's whole world turned upside-down. He had denied the one he said he loved, and he no longer knew what to do with reality. So he went fishing. 

I find it interesting that Peter and his friends caught nothing while they were out in their boats. It was only once Jesus told them to throw their nets to the other side of the boat that they caught any fish. And once they came ashore, they found that Jesus had already prepared some fish -- fish they hadn't caught themselves. 

And then Jesus took Peter aside and said, "Peter, do you love me more than these?" 

When I first read that question, I thought Jesus was asking Peter if he loved Jesus more than the other disciples. But this morning, when I noticed Peter's determination to go fishing, I began to think Jesus was asking Peter if he loved Jesus more than the fish. 

Did he love Jesus more than the thing he had learned how to do so well, before he ever met Jesus? Would he be willing to learn a new vocation? This was a vocation of feeding and tending sheep. What on earth did Peter know about doing that?!

But Peter said yes. And so do I. 

I will feed and shepherd your sheep, Jesus, even if it means leaving a particular kind of work -- a particular way of writing -- behind.

What I Wanted to Tell Her

Kirk's beloved aunt Diana passed away last night at 8:32 p.m.

***

If I had been brave enough to call in those few last days, I would have told her this: 

Diana,

I love you.

And I want you to know that the conversation we shared on the hike to Huckleberry Point that one day is one of the most cherished conversations of my life. I still look back on that day and remember how we walked and talked with such ease, and I find that so amazing. I don't do that easily with very many people, and I think my ability to do that with you has so much to do with the gift of your openness and presence. 

I hold the memory of that day very close to my heart, and I know that I always will. Thank you for that conversation. Thank you for sharing your life with me. 

I will miss you.

Love always,

Christianne 

***

You can learn more about the memorable hike and conversation I shared with Diana in this post that I wrote after we visited her in New York in 2008.

Apprenticed to Following Jesus

My current meditation.

Earlier today, I was telling Jesus that I scarcely know how to talk about what he has come to mean to me. Thirteen years ago, I asked God to teach me what Jesus has to do with me, and that prayer started me on a very intentional, though often difficult and painful journey into the life and faith I currently hold: one that is awestruck, dumbstruck, and lovestruck by Jesus and utterly helpless without him.

I don't quite know how to articulate this in all its fullness without writing out the complete story in its entirety, which would literally take hundreds of pages.

Since that is not possible here, I'm left feeling quite inadequate in all my articulation. I feel a bit like Zechariah, gesticulating wildly to a reality so utterly beyond all comprehension and all speech, looking in the end like a fool to those trying to understand his gesticulations (although I hope my wild gesticulations and paltry articulations are not to do with any lack of faith on my part, which was the case with Zechariah!).

So my prayer this morning was that Jesus would help me to simply see and hear and follow him.

If he wants me to speak or write about him, my prayer is that he will give me the words. If he wants me to teach about him, my prayer is that he will help me to compose a structured experience that is fitting for the students and is worthy of him. If he wants me to step out in some new way, my prayer is that I will step only in the direction he leads.

I am learning in a very new, intent way right now what it means to follow Jesus. 

For instance, he's been asking me questions like, "Do you love me more than these?" Or when I point in this or that direction, he then asks me, "What is that to you?" And then he says again and again, "You -- follow me." 

In this, I'm reminded of what happened to Peter, James, and John when Jesus took them into the mountains on the day of his Transfiguration. There, they saw Jesus enfoldeded in a great light and talking with Moses and Elijah. They hardly knew what to make of it, and Peter, overwhelmed and confused by all of it, began suggesting things to do, like building monuments to the three of them.

But then a great cloud overshadowed them all, and they heard a voice from heaven calling Jesus the beloved son. The next moment, they looked around and saw "nothing but Jesus, only Jesus." 

I want only to see Jesus, too. I want only to follow him where he may lead. And it is my prayer that he gives me the eyes to see and the ears to hear him when he tells me what to do and where to go. May he teach me to "take not a single step without him, and to follow with a brave heart wherever he leads."

How Instagram Teaches Me About Spiritual Direction

I spend a lot of time pondering the question, "What part of the body of Christ am I?" 

Sometimes, the ear wins the day. Other times, the eye does. 

Truthfully, I'm not sure which one -- the ear or the eye -- is more truly a reflection of the person God made me to be and how he made me to serve in the world.

And then sometimes I wonder: can we be more than one part of the body? 

When the ear wins the day, it's because listening is like second nature to me. Like a fish in water, it's just what I do. It has always been this way, even from my youngest years.

I first noticed the nudges toward a vocation in the ministry of spiritual direction, for example, when people in my life began asking for time set aside to process something out loud with me. Listening ... noticing ... drawing distinctions ... asking questions: these are what I do best.

I am an ear, someone who listens and helps other people listen.

But sometimes I feel like an eye because I notice what nobody else seems to see.

I notice the woman who walks into the crowded room and looks around uncertainly, a heavy burden of grief tipping her shoulders to the side. I notice the laughter and too-bright smile of the grocery checker who hints at a long day and too-short weekends, how she seems to be barely holding on but is fighting hard to get through the day with a smile. 

I notice. I see. I am an eye.

There is something so utterly sacred about seeing -- really seeing -- another person, isn't there? 

I think this is why the Instagram app on my iPhone has become one of my most-prized discoveries of 2011. It has given me the ongoing experience of my eyes. It reminds me on a daily basis, by the things I choose to stop and capture with my phone's camera lens, that I see and value seeing.

It reminds me that I find beauty and deep value in doing this. 

Photography has come to feel a bit like tending the holy in my life, and it is so much like spiritual direction in that way. 

In fact, a new friend and I were sharing a conversation recently about this exact parallel. She's a real photographer, you see -- a bona fide and beautiful one -- and she shared with me that she has often thought spiritual directors are the exact sort of people who would get the real heartbeat of an exciting new project she recently unveiled. 

My response to her was: 

I do think there is a connection that spiritual directors and photographers have. It's all about the seeing -- really seeing. You know? 

So there you have it. I'm an ear, but I'm also an eye, and somehow both of these truths have made me fall in love with Instagram this year. Sure, it's a fake form of photography -- the poor woman's version of the real thing, I guess you could say -- but despite that, I do know this:

Instagram changed my life this year, and I am so much the happier and enriched for it.