Category: Marian

I Have Faith In What I See

posted 30th December 2010    Written by: Marian    CATEGORY: All Posts, Life Lesson, Marian, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 3, Spirituality, What I've Learned

One of the issues with being a blogger is that your minister might read that sex post your wrote. Or your mom might see that picture of last Spring’s night in Cancun. You know, the usual difficulties of a life led online.

In this case, what I’d really like to talk to you about is actually inappropriate given the medium in which I write. My struggles with religion and my inability to have faith in anything other than what’s in front of me are deep-rooted and have been part of my quarterlife crisis even before I reached my quarter life.

So instead of causing a rift with folks I don’t want to rift with, let me boil down the basics for you: As I get older I see more and more bad things happening in the world because of religion. War and prejudice. More negativity than support. More judgment than forgiveness. It’s both this and the way I’m wired – for me, faith just isn’t enough.

I have faith believe the sun will come up in the morning. Because I’ve seen it every day for over 23 years.

I have faith believe I will wake up and Sam will be there. Because he always is.

I have faith believe my friends will always support me. Because they’ve never let me down.

I have faith believe my parents will always love me. Because they put up with my crap and are nothing but supportive.

What do you have faith in no matter what? What do you believe because there is always proof?

[photo credit: David Gallagher]

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So *This* Is Christmas?

posted 23rd December 2010    Written by: Marian    CATEGORY: All Posts, Family, Inspiration, Life Lesson, Marian, Season 3, Travel

I don’t think there’s any possible way to talk about Christmas other than remember what it was like as a child. As long as I can remember my family celebrated the holidays in the exact same way:

The night before Christmas was spent at church. The church I grew up with was always filled with children and every Christmas Eve they held a holiday pageant, where kids and adults alike would dress up and walk down the huge aisle to a relevant song in the Christmas story. My favorite bit was when the three male singers in the congregation dressed up as the three kings and each one would walk down the aisle singing – wait for it – We Three Kings. The service went on like this for 30 minutes or so, then we’d end it by having each member get a candle lit and we’d all sing Christmas carols like Angels We Have Heard on High and Silent Night.

Then, the family would head back home and open up stockings. I never believed in Santa -  my mom thought it took away from the meaning of Christmas. Yes, I was that annoying kid who ruined it for everyone. Because of this, stockings were slowly filled in the weeks before and we ripped them open on Christmas Eve.

Afterward, my three brothers and I would trudge up to bed only to stereotypically wake up hours before our parents and either jump on their bed at 6am or wait tentatively by the tree for them to get up. There’d usually be a few rips in the wrapping paper from us trying to take a peek at our loot. We’d then be forced to eat breakfast and watch our parents drink coffee, but then it was PRESENTS TIME (so much for that “meaning of Christmas” bull shit).

I love the way my family opened presents. Each person took one turn to open one gift, which had to be opened with everyone watching to appreciate. There are six of us in my family so it took ages, but it meant that each present got it’s recognition and there was always 10 minutes of suspense in between each one.

During all this the whole family would be in their pajamas (except for my dad, who always wears the same Christmas sweater) and some form of the Hallelujah chorus or George Winston’s December would be playing in the background.

We’d usually finish up around 1pm, and get ready for my Grandma’s house, where we’d open more presents, eat food and listen to good ole Frank Sinatra crooning carols. Basically, nothing special, but classic music, amazing Italian food, lots of presents, twinkly lights and a big family who always got along on Christmas day.

Fast forward a decade…

Christmas in New Zealand

Two weeks ago I arrived in New Zealand, with the most beautiful scenery and nicest people I’ve ever met.

I also arrived to witness the weirdest flop of Christmas tradition, unsettling my idea of this holiday.

Supermarkets play carols, yes, but they are the corniest, 80s renditions and I’m listening to them while folks walk around in flip flops and board shorts. Christmas lights are strung around palm tress. Apparently you don’t get a cozy meal around the fire, but a barbecue.

This can’t be Christmas!

But instead of getting upset (which I was expecting), I just feel like Christmas isn’t happening this year. Or that I’m experiencing a different holiday altogether. I warned my boyfriend before coming that I’d most likely decorate his house with fairy lights, whip up some eggnog, bake some wintry pies, turn on the old-school Christmas tunes, just so I’d feel a little less homesick. I haven’t done any of that this year because it just doesn’t feel right. Plus, I was reading a local magazine the other day and they were talking about how strawberries and other seasonal fruits “make great Christmas pies!”

Umm… no. Pumpkin and apple and pecans make great Christmas pies! It’s like they’re trying to confuse my brain.

In all seriousness though, being here is incredible and beautiful and fun, but it’s the first time in my life I’ve just hoped for the Christmas season to be over. Gone is the magic and tradition and in it’s place I’ve found a completely different holiday with a family I barely know, across the world from my home.

But who knows? I could be making a new tradition.

[photo credit:  hodgers]

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Making “Giving Back” Personal

posted 16th December 2010    Written by: Marian    CATEGORY: All Posts, Job/Career/Work, Life Lesson, Marian, Season 3, What I've Learned

When I was a kid my mom took me to serve at our local soup kitchen every month. We’d cook for a few hours and then serve food to a mass of homeless men living in the area. Every month my mom would lecture me about giving back and talk about how good it felt to serve the community. And every month I hated it.

I love to cook. Love love love it. But cutting loaves upon loaves of bread and onions and mashing potatoes for hours was not the ideal Saturday afternoon for a 12-year-old. I hated the smell of the shelter and the awkwardness I felt around the men who just had so much less than me.

Last week I wrote about how depressingly lucky I feel sometimes and this week I want to talk about how traditional “service” just doesn’t do it for me. And that’s okay. Trust me.

Maybe I haven’t done the right things.

I don’t really stress about Fairtrade or buy things because I know the company will donate 10% to charity. To be perfectly honest, I could care less. I don’t donate to charities because I don’t trust where the money goes. I’ve heard so many horror stories about massive charities not actually helping or spending money on lavish fundraisers or lining the pockets of the board. I don’t run for autism or pancreatic cancer or diabetes because I honestly don’t understand how “walking for the cure” works. Isn’t it just easier – more lucrative – to just donate the damn money? (Before you bite me, I am clear on how it raises awareness.)

Yes, I know. I’m a horrible person.

I put off writing this post because I didn’t want you guys to know how horrible I am. But do you know what I’ve learned through the past few months of writing for Stratejoy? That I’m probably not alone.

Now, I don’t think we should just not give back. In looking at my life and how I contribute, I may not teach blind children how to dance or organize fundraisers, but there are ways I service my community.

I’m a vegetarian, and have been for years and years. I don’t actually do it to save the fluffy animals (I do it because I think meat is gross), but I like that I contribute to the health of our planet in my own little way.

I always give money to good buskers.

I occasionally donate to that kid with cancer who wants to die at home with his family or that old lady who’s house burned down or that guy who’s wife teaches children with mental disabilities. Honestly, I tend to get them mixed up, but if I “know” my money goes directly to the person who needs it then I’m more than happy to give what I can.

(That said, I really wish those folks with send out thank you emails or cards or whatever. I guess I like to know that my contribution is appreciated and I like to actually see it put to use.)

I give strangers directions and always take photos of tourists when I see them trying to do that awkward arm thing with the camera. I hold doors and am ridiculously nice to staff at stores. I tip 20% and stack my plates at restaurants. I take my glasses up to the bar.

Do I donate to the Red Cross? Nope.  Do I march for breast cancer? No again.

That doesn’t mean these causes or issues or organizations don’t need help and attention, but I feel that helping everyone on a more personal level and try to live every day as a “good” person is the best way for me to give back to my community. This doesn’t make me cheap or lazy or uncaring. In writing this I’ve found I help best when I see my efforts directly effect people. I like the personal aspect of giving back. I’m much more likely to donate money to that violinist on the subway than to a faceless charity.

I’ve always wanted to be a foster parent and there are probably a couple dozen chickens who are alive due to my eating habits.

And that’s something, right?

[Note: Rereading this a week after I wrote it, I sound crassyand horribly selfish. This was not my intention, but I'm also not going to rewrite it. There are so many people who need our help and we've all lucked out in being able to give that help. But I guess the point in writing this was to illustrate that sometimes "giving back" can feel like an activity to put on our resume and not something we do because we actually feel like we're making a difference. So while sometimes I get this nagging guilt I should be doing more, I also know I helped that bagpiper when I gave him $20. And, at the end of the day, I feel like it's the little things we do that help our communities the most. Just food for though, y'all. Don't hate me.]

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How Did We Get So Lucky?

posted 9th December 2010    Written by: Marian    CATEGORY: All Posts, Life Lesson, Marian, Season 3, Spirituality, What I've Learned

On Thanksgiving day I wrote a post about the things I was thankful for. The post – and list – was neither unique nor exciting. It included my family, dog, boyfriend, job, friends. Blah blah blah. Obviously not in that order. Of course. My dog always comes first.

But the point is, I’m an incredibly lucky person. And I wish I didn’t forget that all the damn time.

It may not be Thanksgiving, but maybe that’s even more of a reason to remind myself that despite my lack of money, desire to lose a few pounds and frustration at my own mood swings, I have it pretty damn good.

I grew up in an obscenely wealthy neighborhood. My boyfriend does the dishes without complaint. He offers to do the dishes. I’m in good health. I’ve never been subject to extreme race or sexism. I’ve never been abused. I’ve never been hungry. I always have clothes. In fact, I have too many clothes. I have a walk-in closet. I’ve traveled the world. I’m in love with with the coolest person ON EARTH.

Basically, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sometimes a bad thing happens: I was held for two days in detainment when trying to get into England. I was groped on the streets by a group of guys and I stood there and did nothing. I wasted seven years of my life with an emotionally abusive guy. I was on anti-depressants for years.

And still? My life is so damn good it baffles me.

How is it possible that millions upon millions of people are starving or murdered or raped? How can I sit writing this in the third floor of my Greenwich, CT house while someone, somewhere, is getting shot?

How are my brothers perfectly healthy – though troublesome – while my best friend’s brother just recently died?

Why do some people luck out and others are doomed before they even have a chance?

And do we all “get it” in the end? Will I crash on the way to New Zealand? Will my whole family die in some horrific crash? (I didn’t crash. I’m editing this while in my new bedroom. Photos to come!)

Wow. Depressing, Marian. Cut it out.

It’s funny, because I’m not a doom and gloom kind of girl. Sure, I took some happy drugs in college because I was going through a horrific break-up, but I’m pretty much fine. And horrific? Well, it sucked, but I’m alive.

Basically, I don’t really think about this stuff often. Sure, I lucked out, but I’ll donate the occasional $20 to some charity or serve at a soup kitchen and be done with it. I don’t often reflect on the fact that I’m in the top whatever percent in the world.

God, even the fact that I’m writing on a site about “strategies for joy” is ridiculous if you think about it. We’re all in this position where we’ve lucked out so hard that we don’t have to think about the fact that we ate this morning and instead can focus on what we want out of our lives. Spiritually. Romantically. Whatever.

Honestly, I am – we are – so fucking lucky. Think about it. For a second. Thank your God or your spirit tree or mom or whoever for the fact that you are on this blog right now and no matter what work you have to finish or drama going on with that friend of yours. You are so absurdly well off. Take advantage of it. Just don’t jump out of a plane or anything to test your luck because I am totally not responsible.

[photo credit: mtsofan]

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Where I’m From

posted 2nd December 2010    Written by: Marian    CATEGORY: All Posts, Family, Inspiration, Love/Relationships, Marian, Season 3, Travel, What I've Learned

The day this post goes live I’ll be 30,000 feet in the air en route to New Zealand.

Could someone please tell me how the hell that happened? Because I could have sworn I was just posting about my decision to move to England. Then there was 5 months in London, a 3 week pit-stop at the family home in Connecticut, and then New Zealand. Is it totally lame if I say something like, “Boy! Does time fly!” Seeing as, you know, it really really does.

For now though, I write this at home. I’m sitting in (one of) the local Starbucks, working away. Outside are fall leaves and Greenwich lives shopping for Thanksgiving dinner at the way-too-expensive grocery store. Everyone who walks into this Starbucks is wearing some variation of the jogging pants and pearls uniform of the Greenwich housewife (as I write this there’s a girl my age in this outfit. Perhaps she is a Mrs-in-training?).

This, my friends, is Greenwich, Connecticut.

I’ve always hated it here. Everyone is white, rich and a little pretentious. I hated my high school. Mostly because I was a hermit with an asshat boyfriend so people tended to not like me, but I also thought the people I went to school with cared about the wrong things. Alcohol and an ivy league education being the main two.

Yes, I have always hated this place, but during that last month in London I found myself missing it like nobody’s business.

Now that I’m back, I’m revealing in the colors of autumn and taking long walks at Tod’s Point, the local (and of course, private) beach. I’m playing with my dog and going on dates with my mom. I’m enjoying my childhood room with a huge wicker bed I painted myself the year I moved into my first apartment.

I’m taking full advantage of the huge kitchen, functional washer and dryer, heating, back yard and and full refrigerator.

I also forgot, after having lived in both Manhattan and London during this past year, that people are actually nice to each other here. Sure, it’s the cliche of a small town, and Old Greenwich is by no means the home of Southern Hospitality, but people do occasionally say hi to you on the street. And I do know the guys by name at various shops on our little Main Street (actually called Sound Beach Ave, but whatever).

My point is, I didn’t appreciate the community I grew up in until I really and truly left it. College didn’t count. I hated coming home during summers only to be under my parents thumb again, where none of my real friends were in the area.

This time though, it’s different. I’m here with my favorite person on earth, spending time with my family before I jet off for God knows how long. I get to visit with my closest friends and, because I’m here with a non-American, I can to treat home like a tourist. I take him to Tod’s Point (image above) and see it with new eyes. I get to show him the face my dog makes when you try to take her toy away from her. It’s hilarious. But also sad. Mostly hilarious.

Basically, being home for Thanksgiving is the perfect time because I realize how lucky I am to have had a childhood here. I am grateful for my family and my big ramshackle house and the woods in our back yard.

I’m from a small community outside of New York and of course the week I leave is the week I appreciate it the most.

[photo credit: Vin Crosbie]

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