On Emotional Neutralism (and our new house)

        When we finally bought a house, I expected to feel elated, overwhelmed, eager, and perhaps a bit terrified.  Now that it's actually happened, I certainly feel eager to move in, overwhelmed by the work we must accomplish before we may do so, and if not terrified, at least mildly concerned about our future finances and home maintenance issues.  Elation has yet to come.  Satisfaction, yes.  Pleasure, definitely.  Gratitude, of course.  Euphoria... not so much.  It's as though all the searching and preparation and inspections and waiting boiled that high emotion down to "Okay, that's finally done.  What's next on the agenda?"

our new house

        I don't think my lack of enthusiasm reflects the house's suitability.  The work to be done could understandably have dampened it a bit, but a part of me wonders if something's wrong with me not to have taken just a moment when we received the keys to jump up and down like a little girl presented with her very own pony--performed in some private corner of my mind if not for all the world to see.  But then I ask myself, is there any particular way a person "should" feel in such a circumstance?  I don't feel depressed or disappointed by any means.  Why should I be dissatisfied with neutral emotions?

        This leads me to consider my--and indeed, our culture's--fixation on happiness.  Consider the inclusion of "happiness" in Jefferson's list of Man's inalienable rights, our culture's fixation on the importance of the individual on par with--or sometimes above that of family or community, and the Sixties' attitude of "if it feels good, do it."  These and more have unquestionably trickled down to the latest generations as a sense of entitlement for instant gratification and constant happiness.  An insidious voice within us whispers, "If I'm not happy, life is unfair; something's wrong with me; I must need a change."  The consequences of such thoughts need not be enumerated; we see them all around us, perhaps even in our own lives.
        Attitudes at the other extreme are similarly erroneous--"embrace and seek out pain; it builds character," "if you're happy, you're being selfish," or "it's wrong and worldly to enjoy material pleasures."  Did not God give us the material world to provide for our needs and give us cause to glorify God?  Did not God equip us with emotions?  Did not Solomon write, "There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God, for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment?" (Ecclesiastes 2:24-25 ESV).  Does not the Law boil down into the two great commandments to love God and love our neighbor?  And true love is never begrudging or fully unhappy.  
        I must conclude, then, that happiness is neither evil nor the ultimate Good toward which a person can aspire.  If a person is happy, enjoy it.  If a person is unhappy, this too shall pass.  And if a person is emotionally neutral, why frown because of it?  One need not feel an emotional high to praise God sincerely--whether for the blessings of a comfortable house, nourishment, work, family and friends, one's mental and physical faculties, or God's goodness, all of which He deserves.
        Emotional neutrality strikes me as producing the most sensible, steady, and satisfying enjoyment of life, as well as enabling a person to be the most useful to God and neighbors without the extremes of depression and rejection of God, or of hyper-emotionalism and off-putting behaviors.  So if I feel neutral about this ginormous milestone in our adult life, so what?  I'll take it.

On the Lure of Paper

            What is it about the smell and feel and look of paper that appeals so strong to my sense of aesthetics and my materialistic desires?  I can scarcely pass the office supply sections of a store without lingering and admiring their stock.  I have more than enough notebooks, plenty of cheap mechanical pencils, a range of lovely colored pencils, an array of patterned paper, a set of calligraphy pens and ink—yet I must always resist the impulse to buy more. 

            Is it their pristine newness?  Is my subconscious nostalgic about the pleasure of new materials at the start of a school year?  Is it the therapeutic sensation of writing that I look forward to? 

My affection (or affectation?) does not only extend to fresh, unblemished paper.  I hold antique paper in a kind of awe, whether displays of the ancient Dead Sea Scrolls or music books a mere century old.  And on paper of any age, I admire both the swirl of an elegant hand and the crisp type of a printer or typewriter.  I would wince at their loss, but I confess I feel no such attachment to abused papers--those that have been poorly treated, creased and covered in eraser marks and poor handwriting.  Destroying once-beautiful papers seems tantamount to a crime, but after the initial sorrow, practicality sets in; assuming the content of the text has no value, I can generally toss them without a second thought.

Certainly from an environmental standpoint, paper is inefficient and unnecessarily consumes natural resources.  Why not convert entirely to electronic documents that we can edit and delete without waste, and that we may view and share without cutting down trees?  Well, I do value and use electronic forms of writing.  Indeed, the smooth feel of a keyboard and the rhythmic clack of keys as words appear like magic on the screen before me has an allure of its own.  That doesn’t stop me from admiring a tidy sheaf of paper or a classic, leather-bound notebook.  Simply put, electronic books will never capture the smell and feel of paper--the tactile experience and joy of writing and reading.

 
            Am I bonkers, or have you felt this, as well?  Add your thoughts about paper in the comments below.

On a Pickle Jar: An Allegory

“Nnnngh!  Errgh!”  

Mia relaxed her grip on the dill pickle jar, panting.  Why did the canning process have to make food nearly inaccessible?  She sighed and flipped long brown hair out of her eyes and back over her shoulder.  As she began again to fruitlessly twist at the lid of the jar, her husband Henry came into the kitchen.  Spying her efforts, he aborted his walk toward the coffeemaker.  

“Hey, hon--you shoulda asked me t’ help.”  He stretched out his hands toward the jar, but Mia pulled it back.  

“I’ve got this,” she insisted with a polite but pointed glance.

“Um, alright,” Henry said doubtfully, dropping his hands and watching his wife renew her attack on the lid.  “But you know that brand’s always a bit too tight for you.  I could get it off in a couple seconds.”

“Maybe.”

After several more seconds of Mia grunting and Henry watching, he stepped aside to rummage in a drawer.  A moment later, he produced a round rubber jar opener and held it out.  

Mia relaxed her death grip on the metal lid, exhaled an annoyed breath of air, and considered the tool for a moment.  “Thanks, but I’ll get this soon.”  

“Come on--your hands have gotta be sore.  Use it.  It could help.”

She didn’t respond, but gritted her teeth and tried again to wrest the lid from its jar.  Henry sighed and set the jar opener on the blue laminate countertop.  When next she took a breather, she grimaced and swiped the rubber tool.  She tried again with the padded, grippy layer now between her hand and its quarry.  Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.  It was as though some genius had used superglue on the lid.

“How about you let me…”

“No.  There’s something else I can try first.”

As Mia fetched a butter knife from the silverware drawer one-handed, Henry said, “I get that you want to be independent, but there’s nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it.  It doesn’t mean you’re incapable or incompetent.”

“Look, thanks, but I’m fine.”  Without looking at her husband, she set the jar on the counter and held the knife by the blade and whacked the heavy handle onto the lid, a few centimeters apart all the way around.  Henry shook his head and poured himself some coffee, trying to ignore the banging.  Then he leaned his backside against the countertop to wait and see if Mia would need to borrow his muscles.  She twisted her arm and hunched almost in half in her efforts to loosen the lid.  

Henry bit his lips so he wouldn’t laugh.  When she paused, he cleared his throat.  

“Why don’t you let me try before you starve, huh?”

“I wouldn’t starve,” Mia said, rolling her eyes.  “I could eat something else.”

“Yeah, but you love pickles.  Come on--give it here.”

“Ahhhhhh,” she exhaled.  “Fine.”  She thrust the jar out at Henry.  He set his coffee mug behind him on the counter and took the recalcitrant jar.  With a relatively minimal amount of effort, he twisted, and a sucking pop heralded his success.

“Great, I got it!” Mia said, immediately taking the jar back and cheerfully exchanging the lid for the fork the she had laid out on the counter.  

“You mean I got it,” Henry corrected her.  

“Pff.  It’s not like you did much when I was having trouble.  I did the work to loosen it.  I’d’ve gotten it, myself, in a minute.”

“You don’t know that.  Come on, how about a ‘thank you’?”

Mia fluttered her eyes at Henry.  “Thanks, dearie.”  Then she ignored him and speared a pickle.

Henry sighed.  “You’re welcome.”  He took the remainder of his coffee back to his office and left Mia to her crunchy, vinegary bliss.

Are you ever like Mia?  How often is God like Henry here--in “the wings,” waiting for us to ask Him for help?  Do we ignore Him, or discount His ability to help?  How often do we refuse to submit what we can’t handle to Him--and when He helps, how often do we claim the credit?  Consider this story the next time you feel overwhelmed and wonder why you haven’t yet been able to handle it yourself.

On the Sidewalk

        It lays alone on the sidewalk, forgotten or unwanted as the cold wind blows unfeelingly around it.  Its yellow form shows conspicuously against the grey concrete and brittle, brown grass.  Still, people walk by, ignorant or ignoring it.  A foot comes perilous close to treading on it, which would likely have broken its fragile body.  Its kind are cheaply bought and sold, even given away for free.  Would any have mourned its destruction?
        In defense of the passersby, it is a wee little thing, slender and scarcely the length of one's hand.  Still, can't they see that it's not ready to be relegated to a dump?  It could yet serve a purpose—exist in some useful capacity.  But too much time in the harsh elements would certainly destroy its chances. 
        Seeing it so forlorn, I pick up the pencil and tuck it into my warm coat pocket, determined to give the poor, neglected thing a home and employment.

On Winter Warmth

        Feeling warm in January is a rarity for me--a luxury, really.  A person with my heat-challenged body type--especially who has a radiator for a husband and both of whom want low utility bills--can only achieve real warmth with swaths of blankets and/or layers upon bulky layers of clothing.  At home during this season, I keep a heating pad, lap blanket, and a crocheted shawl and hand-warmies ready beside my chair at all times to supplement my layers, and as I read or work on my computer, I must still sometimes alternate sitting on each hand or placing them one at a time under my blanket to keep them comfortable as I go about my activities.
        Unfortunately, I cannot employ such heat methods at work; it doesn't look very professional when a receptionist/tutor sits on her hands, shivering (though I've had no choice but to do that on more than one occasion).  The building thermostat seems set to 62 year-round (Fahrenheit), and the automatic bathroom faucets seem determined to deter proper hand-washing with their nigh-freezing water.  I also have the necessary misfortune of a desk near a set of doors where I feel every draft that comes through the foyer.  I've taken to wearing Cuddl Duds beneath my pants and sweater as a matter of course, sometimes with an additional camisole, and I keep a cardigan and tea supplies ready in the building to bolster my internal temperature.  Alas--on the coldest days, that's still insufficient.

         I'm told I could generate more natural body heat through regular exercise, but there's something about the cold that makes me sedentary, eager to conserve energy and seek shelter under blankets, either in bed or within the warm grip of my armchair.  Thus, my primal need for heat trumps my reason's demand for healthy physical exertion.  Besides, I've found that exercise is only ever a short-term solution to the cold; my sweat or subsequent shower cool me quickly, and within a half hour, the cold drives me to don all those restrictive layers again.  During the warmer months, my primary source of exercise is walking to and from work, which is simply out of the question when the windchill remains below zero in the mornings--and sometimes through the rest of the day.  Who wants to arrive at work with painfully cold thighs and crazy, face-mask hair?  (Not that I own a face-mask.  Since a fashionable scarf isn't sufficient to keep my nose from numbing, perhaps I should invest in one--but I would hate to be mistaken for a robber, and again, there's the problem of the state my hair would be in afterward.)

        But today!  Ah, today has developed into one of those rare winter days that reaches the upper 50s, and the house's central heater has outdone itself with the help of our kitchen space heater.  Thus, here I sit in my armchair wearing a single layer (albeit covering me from wrists to toes), lap warmed by only a single blanket (a habit I sustain even on hot summer days).  My hands still radiate the warmth they soaked up while I washed dishes a short time ago, and the tea at my side warms whatever holdouts of chilliness still exist inside me.  I feel utterly content!
        A (traitorous) part of me wonders if I would know this pleasure without the cold to help me appreciate it.  "Here is evidence that not all discomfort is evil!" it argues.  (--though it wouldn't be so generous as to call 50 degrees "invigorating" as some do.  You know who you are.)  Perforce, I must (mock-grudgingly) acknowledge that the cold serves that (one!) beneficial purpose of "building character." Regrettably, though I've developed strategies to help me survive winter, I admit my character would probably be stronger if I ceased to complain about the cold.  But where's the fun in that?  Without our mock-arguments about temperature, I would have to find other ways to flirt with my husband.  Furthermore, without my grumble-prone perspective on winter warmth, I would have to find other topics to write about in my blog!