The last gal in our group is a mom. She has several kids, the oldest of which is six. She laughed with us and said, “You know girls, it never goes away. You never get that feeling that you know what you are doing.”

She the went on to tell us that a few weeks ago, she wasn’t sure how to discipline her six year old for something he’d done. Feeling frustrated, she grabbed her head and said to him, “I don’t know what to do with a six year old!” Calmly, her son looked back at her and said, “It’s ok Mommy, can’t we look on the internet? We can just Google it.”

If Only It Were That Simple

After laughing at how cute, honest and innocent six year olds can be, I couldn’t help but agree with him. Why can’t life be that simple? You cannot even imagine the sense of relief I might have right now if I could simply type into my computer “How to do really great at my job, have my boss and my coworkers all like me, and not screw it up in the process.” And because the whole world knows that Google’s secret algorithm is like a magic spell that brings all correct and relevant information to the top 10 links on my results page, I would simply have to click around and Voila! I would know how to do the rest of my life.

The interesting thing about Google is that I use it for more than answers. I use it as my spell check – that little link asking “Did You mean…?” keeps me from all sorts of wrongs (in fact I just used it for voila, because I almost wrote viola, which is a kind of a violin, thanks Google!) I use it to find dates on the calendar when I can’t find my phone. I use it to help me explain things, like last week when my roommate didn’t know what caprese salad was. Thank you Google Images.  I use it for maps, phone numbers, email…the list goes on. But I am assuming you know all of this because if you’re around my age, your probably just as addicted as I am.

Now the question for me is, how is it that a six year old’s knee jerk reaction to life’s questions is simply to Google it? He grew up with Google ingrained in his worldview as “The answer to all of life’s questions.” At least I was in college or something before Google really came barreling into the market. In some semblance, I did know life before Google. But this kid, he has no clue. In his mind, that’s what we do for all of life’s question, simply run to the computer and look them up.

I suppose his mom doesn’t really have to sit him down and explain life to him. Eventually over time all of the kids who grew up on Google will have to sort the tough stuff out for themselves just like the rest of us. And in the mean time, it seems cruel to say to a six year old, “Honey life is hard, and sometimes there aren’t any good answers. Even Google can’t solve them.“I can tell you this though, I really wish he was right. Life would be a whole lot easier if we could just “Google It.”

There is a part at the end of the book that really has stuck with me. He’s talking about a sculptor and her love hate relationship with her art. How it’s tumultuous, painful, and agonizing. Yet she is so emotionally connected to her work, it is like its a part of her soul.

And when it is all finished, it is the pain that gives it meaning. It is the struggle for the art to come out of the clay that makes it beautiful. That the parts of the art that are tarnished and ruined are the very parts that make it valid and valuable.

It is then that Bell poses the question, “Was this sculptor really talking about art? Or is this life?”

Right in the Middle

This season has been interesting in that it has been painful. Or maybe I need to knock the words “this season” from my vocabulary, because maybe that’s just life. It’s painful. It asks a lot from us. Good lives do anyway. They’re scary. Art is scary. Doing something worthwhile is terrifying.

But I think Im in a moment where Im on the fence between beautiful and painful. I see both. I feel both. And this is one of the few moments in my life where I wouldn’t change the painful hard parts. They are so integral from this view. Taking them out of the picture would render the whole thing meaningless. The beauty has validity because it was painful.

The View from Here

Being here in the space between beautiful and painful, this is what I know.

Art is important. Create it if it kills you. Foster it, take care of it. Go to museums, paint, shut your self in your room and create beautiful music, stay up late and go to Indie shows, and support your local film director. Make friends with people who love it too, do it together and create it for the community.

Adventure is important. We weren’t meant for freeways and concrete jungles. Go to the mountains, the forests, the beaches or the deserts. Carve out a time in those meeting notices to make it important. Feed your soul with fresh air, great hikes, and camping under open skies. Remind yourself that you are just a part of something bigger than yourself by standing at the foot of something natural and majestic.

Love is important. Make a place in your heart to love people who are hard to love. It makes you a better person. Loving those who love you is easy. That doesn’t require vulnerability, just reciprocation. But go first, love first, extend your heart to those who might break it. Remain soft. Don’t let the word jaded enter your vocabulary. Carve out a space in your life for good friends who know your heart well and love them. Make space for memories and wine. Don’t get swept in the dailiness of live, create breathing room to love and be loved.

Risk is important. Do the things that scare you. That’s what life is for. Sure, it’s painful, but as I said before pain is what gives life depth and meaning, so if you’re not in pain your doing something wrong. Make a list, find what scares you, and start checking things off. You’ll be more alive than you were yesterday.

As predicted, today that shift shouts gently in the background. To me it seems almost as if there is a light crispness in the air. I’m still searching for the right words to describe it, but I think it has something to do with the fact that we have officially left Summer and have entered the Fall.

Autumn has always been my favorite season, and every year my mind spins to try to capture why. I’m not sure if it’s the gorgeous reds, yellows, and oranges. I don’t know if it’s the pacifying feeling of pulling pea coats out of the closet, or if it’s the aroma of sweet and spiced coffees in the brisk mornings. It could be the contented excitement that washes over me when I think about how many meals need to be prepared in the next few months. There are spiced loaves, turkey dinners, prime rib Christmases, holiday drinks and parties to be had.

I don’t claim to be a Betty Crocker, but I have been so excited for Fall cooking that I have already started looking up recipes. I’ve been telling HNB for a few weeks now that I’m excited to cook Thanksgiving dinner and to host our friends for an evening of relaxation and eatery.

But the feeling in the air is bigger than excitement to cook. It’s a feeling of change. Maybe even good change. It’s a feeling that laughter is on its way. It’s a feeling that there are memories to be made, friendships to be strengthened, wine bottles to be opened, and champagne bottles to be popped. There are engagements to be had, weddings to go to, and Christmas parties to attend. There are scarves to be worn, fall boots to be purchased, and coats to be wrapped in.

And even more than this, there are thanks to be had. Thanks that the fall is here and the world is about to be stunningly beautiful in crisp colors and scents. Thanks to be given that the darkest parts of the economic crash might be behind us, and that our nation is forging forward. Thanks that in the trying parts of this last year we were able to hold to what was important, to grow with our families, to spend our money on things that mattered, and give our time to things that were noble.

There are stories to be written this fall. There are beautiful stories begging to leap off of the pages and into action within our days. There are daring stores, sacrificial stories, and epic stories. And for me, in my mind, these grand stories and adventures are embodied in the leaves that fall, crisp and brown, reminding us that change has come. Autumn is here.

It’s interesting that I spend half my time writing about how God is absent, how He doesn’t provide, and how I’m questioning if He really is who he says He is. Then, I’m proved wrong. He shows up, changes things more quickly than I’m ready for, and I’m frantic, just now it’s about what I’m supposed to do, instead of who God is.

This weekend I cannot help but feel like the gauntlet was thrown. Like the year that stretched out behind me was leading to decisions, and suddenly someone walked into my somewhat suspended life and said, “Jenni, it’s time.”

As in time for me to get up off the chair and start doing what I have been crying to do all year. And you know what my response is? Is it joy, and thanks, and relief? Wouldn’t that make me a nice person? Nope. I’m not nice. Instead, I cling to my chair and stammer, “But wait, this is all happening so fast! I don’t know if I’m ready! I don’t know what this is going to look like! Can’t I have more time?”

Don Miller Packs A Punch

As many of you might know, Miller’s new book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years comes out this week, and he is in the midst of his book tour. I’m a  fanatic, so I went to two of their shows. HNB, playing his role as the amazing boyfriend, got me a signed copy of his book. Which, I did start reading last night, and I can tell you it’s going to surpass all of our Miller expectations. And if I can enter one advertisement, if Miller and  Susan Isaacs ( I did a book review of her book, Angry Conversations with God: A Snarky but Authentic Spiritual Memoir) if they are coming to your city, please go. They do not disappoint.

At one moment in Miller’s presentation, he is talking about the makings of a good story. When we make movies, there are certain principals that have to be there. One of them is plot line. And he said this phrase that has been stuck in my head since Friday.

He said, “In any movie there is a moment, when the hero looks toward the horizon, and decides that he wants something. He has a goal. And there has to be conflict to get there. He’s going to have to fight for it. It has to be a goal worth the fight.”

Why do those words haunt me? Because for the last year I have been fighting and grappling for my plot line. There have been seasons in my life where the plot and the goal was obvious: I went to college and got two degrees in four years and walked out with honors. Good job Jenni. I recklessly bought a ticket to New Zealand and spent 6 months overseas after college without a blink of an eye. It changed the trajectory of my life.

But this season, dang I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been floating. I’ve been wrestling for a year. And not just the professionalism part. Not just for a job to make money. For a direction, for a story, for a plot that is worth the fight.

So why is it then, that when I get a good hard look at that beautiful horizon line that I simply want to run back to my arm chair? I don’t want to speak the words out? That deciding to pick up the script and have a beautiful role in this story just seems too grandiose? That there is a real possibility of failure and hurt?

I don’t think I could look at myself in the mirror if I stayed in the brown armchair. I know I need to get my cahones about me. But, wow, does that thought wreck me.

What is wrecking you? What does your horizon look like? Are you in the midst of a great story? What are you waiting for?

Now I’m sure you all know the premise of the film. But if you live under a rock, I can give you a recap: the film features a bunch of characters who are aspiring comedians and actors. Sandler is an established comedy actor, and finds out that he is dying with cancer. He connects with Rogan and they both go on a little journey learning about fame, fortune, life, disease, love and what is important in life. Horray bro-mance movies.

The reason I talking about this post today is because there is a turn in the story line that puts the audience in an interesting place. The main character is a famous comedy actor, George Simmons (Adam Sandler), and when he finds out he is dying he tries to re-connect with an old love, Laura (Leslie Mann). The thing is, Laura is married. But as the story is painted, you find out that Laur’s husband, Clark (Eric Banna), has been cheating on her for years. And not to mention that there are several scenes where Clark openly disrespects Laura condescendingly. In one scene, Laura teary eyed confesses to George that she loves him more than her husband and wishes that she never would have married Clark.

It’s from this point that the complication begins to weave itself in my mind. As a viewer, I felt incredibly guilty cheering for George in his pursuit of Laura. Part of me wanted him to get her, to love her and have them ride together into the sunset. But the other part of me looked at her beautiful children, her home, her family, and her life and just wanted to scream at George to stop. To leave Laura alone and let her figure out her own life. To not satisfy himself in his need for her, and not destroy her family in the process.

It was an interesting moral split. And the story doesn’t end there – there are 146 minutes of weaving the complicated web, and then leaving you with an adequate sense of closure.

But my question is this: Do you feel bad rooting for the douche bag husband to get cheated on by the beautiful wife? Or do you want the main character to loose so the less popular character wins?

Either way, kudos to the writer, Judd Apatow, for keeping me engaged and divided throughout the course of the film.

What do you think?

And while I pumped out all of my energy from the day, a memory resounded through my mind. A few years ago I was in the midst of another dark night lit by only the moon. I remember this moment very vividly – not only for the emotional significance, but for the astonishingly sharp visual that seemed to pair with it. It was the middle of the night when I was en route to New Zealand. In leaving LA, I was leaving behind a host of problems, my life was essentially in wreckage, and I was holding it all together with McGiver-style bubble gum and tape. Little did I know that when I landed in New Zealand I would promptly be deconstructed and begin the process of slowly piecing my life back  together. That moment on the plane was probably one of the darkest, more anxiety ridden nights of my life.

As I flew through the dark night, thousands of feet in the air, the darkness was piercing black. But the moon was soft white, illuminating the ocean as a blanket of sparking diamonds. The night was so clear that even from my height, I could make out the tiniest islands down there in the in the massive blue, and I could see the white caps of waves washing over beaches. It was honestly one of the most beautiful sites I have seen in my life. I remember specifically with tears in my eyes I whispered under my breath, “God I don’t know where you are, and I am scared sh*tless, but here I am.”

Running along the bay tonight, it was the first time I had recalled this memory in years. And yet, tonight was a night much like the one I had on Air New Zealand almost 3 years ago. The night was black. Purple. Blue. The bay was black, and yet the moon shone it’s warm light down on the water, making little diamonds sparkle down the current. And all of the homes and cars on the other side of the bay all shone like little cafe lights in a far off place.

I had to smile. I can’t help but feel like in life we always come full circle. Here I am again, lost and a mess. This time not in my identity, but rather in my career, passion and profession. I’ve just decided to pursue freelance writing, and I can’t lie; I feel like I have given up safety to chase ghosts. Here I am standing in the midst of the moon light whispering, “God I don’t know where you are, and I am scared sh*tless, but here I am.”

But here is the cool thing: I’m not scared the way I was before. The night can be a very terrifying place if you let it be. The first time in my walk through the dark night, I remember being gut wrentchingly anxious, scared, unsure and looking at all of the long shadows and unknown sounds like they were going to over take me. This time, I feel like I have have come to love the dark night. The air is cooler. The colors are astounding. the lights seem to sparkle in a way that captures my heart. And you know, moon shadows are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. The idea that we can play with our shadows in the darkness of night is a notion beyond my own mind.

This time around I realize I have learned to relax in the darkness, to enjoy the night. I know last time I saw this vision, it marked the beginning of the most adventurous, beautiful, terrible, growing, stretching, rewarding journey I had been on in my life. This time I have slowed the anxiety and I can see the signs for what they are. And I can only hope that I am standing on the brink of something half as great as the story I embarked on en route to New Zealand.