*Asterisk*

I think it's time I told you something. Something that still makes me childishly giddy with happiness, something that makes me feel mysterious and unexpected, even five and a half months later. But first, some background.

I don't like female main characters*.
* Except Wonder Woman, whom I love.

I love Bojangles*.
* Though sometimes Bojangles makes me sick.

I hate Chinese food*.
* But PF Chang's is one of my favorite restaurants.

I love cats*.
* But unfortunately I'm allergic to them.

I hate flowers*.
* But I actually love orchids.

I hate gray area*.
* Although I do rely on and often seek out gray areas.

I'm terrible at directions*.
* Except inexplicably in Italy. I never get lost in Italy, and can even create efficient shortcuts.

I am not girly*.
* But I do love dresses, skirts, and makeup.

I'm a writer*.
* I don't actually write very often anymore.

I'm not a touchy-feely person*.
* But I like snuggling with Gabe in bed.

I'm a huge cheapskate*.
* Except for when it comes to books. There is always money for books.

I need alone time to recharge*.
* But I get bored and lonely really easily.

I'm terrible at tedious, detailed things*.
* But I'm an editor.

I am a dead, failed creature*.
* But through Jesus, I'm made alive and perfect.

I would never get a tattoo without my best friend Cassidy there*.
* Unless it was only my honeymoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An asterisk. A piece of punctuation. A reminder to pay attention, an indication of exception. Sometimes we love them; sometimes we hate them. They're a part of language; they're a part of humanity. They're certainly a huge part of me (and sometimes I love it, sometimes I hate it).

It's tiny. It's subtle. It's hidden. But never doubt, every time you look at me, there's an asterisk behind my left ear.

~Stephanie

~Identity~

I changed my name.

I'd been practicing my new signature for weeks, anticipating my new title as eagerly as I await summertime every year. Meter. Stephanie Meter. No longer Stephanie Bailey. I was excited, and excitement is as deep as my thoughts on the matter went.

Then I got married. It was the perfect wedding. I wouldn't change a single thing. I even remember most of it, despite being assured that it would all be just a blur. And the honeymoon was amazing. And I am completely in love with my husband; I fall in love with him more every day.

Then Gabe (Gem) and I went to another wedding, and I saw my place card at the reception: Stephanie Meter. I felt that happy thrill of excitement. But then a little snaky stream of resentment followed.

Wait, what? Resentment? How?!

That surprised me. It made me very uncomfortable. I was wholly delighted to be a Meter. I could not be happier. So what was this?!

It continued to bug me. I changed my name on Facebook, and every time I saw "Stephanie Meter" appear, I felt that ambivalent rush of joy/resentment. She wasn't ME. That name belonged to someone else. I didn't know a "Stephanie Meter." How could I BE her? How could I not know who I was?

Stephanie Bailey is a writer, a dancer, a bibliophile, a logophile, a best friend, a classmate, an occasional emotional wreck. I know who she is. I've been her for twenty-two years. And now, just because I joined with another person, I'm expected to change my name? My identity?

Maybe it's just because words are so important to me. Names are important to everyone, but ESPECIALLY to me. Words are treasures whose values run deep, all the way to the core of the universe. Whether you say "cat" or "gato" or "Katze," you speak, in much the same way God spoke when he created reality. In changing my name, I am changing my reality, my identity. It's symbolic (and not required), but it's huge.

I suddenly found myself more attached to "Bailey" than ever before. Before marriage, I'd debated whether I would keep "Bailey" or my middle name to go with my new last name when I officially made the switch. Now there was zero question. I was keeping Bailey; it was a part of who I am.

I changed my Social Security Card. I changed my license. I changed my company email. For about an hour, my company email was "smeter@classicalconversations.com." But then I sent an email and asked to change it to "sbmeter." I love Meter. But I love Bailey too. I love who I was.

But I am loving who I am too. And I'm finally, finally starting to get it, starting to get why it's so important and symbolic to change your name.

I am NOT Stephanie Bailey anymore. I gave her up when I got married. Whether or not I ever changed my SS card is irrelevant. When you get married, you cease being your old self. (Hear me out.)

Marriage is about identity. No, I am not changing who I am to fit Gabe; he is not changing who he is to fit me. We are BOTH changing who we are to fit Married Stephanie and Married Gabe. According to God, we are now one person. We act as a unit. We absolutely retain who we are (I love clubbing; Gabe is never ever going to love clubbing), but we change who we are a little bit too. I can no longer be the girl who doesn't rinse her dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Gabe can no longer be the man who doesn't put the toilet seat down. We're changing.

I was right in my initial hesitation about Facebook's "Stephanie Meter." I DON'T know who she is--I've never been her before--but I get to decide. I'm not Stephanie Bailey anymore; I'm Stephanie Bailey Meter. I am changing because I'm growing, and I'm growing differently than I've ever grown before.

I need not feel any resentment toward Stephanie Meter. She's still me, or at least she will be. I was much too young to decide who I was when I got my first last name; Stephanie Bailey just sort of happened. But this time, I get to be intentional. Who is Stephanie Meter? Is she kind? Is she fun? Does she love Jesus with all her heart? Is she a writer? Is she a dancer? Does she cook?

I can't wait to find out.

~Stephanie Meter

Because of Pablo Neruda

"Oh no. Is this happening?! Awww, this is happening. Are you serious?!" - Me when I get Inspired at midnight when I'm actually trying to go to bed. I don't even know what this is supposed to be about yet, but I suspect it will involve significant and uncharacteristic sappiness.

Today Gabe needed to study for his most qualitatively elusive exam, so I offered to leave him alone and occasionally text him inspirational/interesting/sappy quotes. He took me up on the offer. In the mix was (one of, if not) my favorite "love" quote of all time:

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."

~ Pablo Neruda

It's sappy; it's dramatic. And yet, it is what it feels like to love Gabe.

Love for Gabe didn't sprout up one day and then grow; I just noticed one day that it existed, like looking into the sky after dusk and wondering when exactly all the stars appeared.

Loving Gabe has been the clearest, most natural and uncomplicated thing I have ever done. I love him with my strange and fractured soul, but somehow still Simply. He has never made it difficult or dangerous to love him. He has never Lied to me; he has never Hurt me; he has never Manipulated me. The commitment of his love and the depth of his transparency allow me to love him simply.

It is not a Problem to love him. My love never causes me to compromise my faith, marginalize my family, or sacrifice my freedom. Loving him never gets in the way, but rather opens new ways for me to succeed. I like who I am with Gabe. I suffer no identity crises, but feel radically confirmed and affirmed in myself through him.

I don't have to guard my heart from him:  he guards my heart from all its adversaries--even from myself. And I let him.

For the first time in my life, Pride is no barrier. My arrogance (my aggressive self-sufficiency, my marriage to mockery) has no place in our relationship. It was never banished; it never dramatically lost a battle; it just...never came into play, never really fit into our dynamic, and I never missed it. Pride--the stilted, destructive, derisive kind--feels obsolete between us.

I think this goes back to the unguarded heart thing. Pride, no matter what it tries to tell you, is a defensive strategy. It isn't really something you can use to move forward, rather it's something you throw up to avoid losing ground. Gabe has never pushed me in order to conquer me. He pushes me as I push him:  as an exercise in strength, awareness, resolution...sport :)

The only part of Neruda's quote that does not apply is the unawareness of other ways to love. I think I do know other ways to love. I have loved in a exhaustingly complicated, relentlessly problematic, bitterly prideful way--and that is no competition for this.

Gabe's and my love isn't always perfect or exciting, but in a way, it actually is. It's always perfect in that it always feels Right, and it's always exciting in that every day is different. The tiny differences in every day--the weather, the traffic, our breakfasts, our dreams--branch into different thoughts, feelings, revelations, passions, questions, desires, and goals. Every day isn't "driving to Boston" or "meeting Gaston" or "seeing KoRn," but every day is Something, and it's never quite the same.

I think I could go my whole life living with the unconventional perfection, the mundane excitements. I could go my whole life with the refreshing simplicity and radical wholesomeness and joyful dignity. I could go my whole life falling asleep with the close of his eyes.

~Stephanie

I Dare You

This is one of those moment where I feel in myself the potential to write something profound, but I'm not sure if it will come out that way.

In church last week, we had to write on a sheet something we were thankful for. Easiest task in a long time: I wrote "words."

This week at church, we had a time of prayer where everyone was supposed to call to God by one of his names. I didn't say anything out loud, but the same thing leapt to my mind. My tongue silently traced the word inside my mouth: "The Word. You are the Word."

I know I've written about this before, about how in the beginning there were only God's words, and from them came...well, absolutely everything. I know God--though unchanging--is many different things to many different people; I know that he meets us all where we are, and maybe I am just constantly in the words, but it just seems to me that Words are the single most important thing in the entire world.

I know that Love is important, and Compassion and Peace and Forgiveness, but what would those things be without words? What would Love be if we couldn't say "I love you," or "I miss you," or "You look beautiful"? What would Compassion be if we couldn't say "I am so sorry for your loss," or "Would you like to talk about it?" or "Please help me"? What would Peace be without hearing "Everything will be okay," or "Yes, I agree to those terms," or "I'm here now"? What would Forgiveness be without "I'm sorry," "I forgive you," "I understand now"?

Sure, actions speak louder than words, but we know actions by their words. The difference between "hugging" and "restraining" someone is not so much in the action, but in its name, in the intent behind the gesture, a meaning we dictate and understand through language. Tears come from happiness and sadness both, but happy tears stream through a smile, and a smile signifies happiness only because we know the word "happiness."

Everything has a name, which is what gives it meaning. We name our towns, our pets, our children. We name our body parts, our moods, our possessions. We agree to things by saying Yes; we object to things by saying No. We explain ourselves in letters, essays, text messages, songs.

We express things in art and music as well, but they have "messages." They communicate Words to us, through colors or sound. We say a piece of music "speaks" to us; it makes us feel empowered or sad or pensive or inspired or exhilarated. The piece might be too complicated for words, but we try, because otherwise the meaning evaporates. There is nothing so frustrating as hearing something too beautiful to translate into language. We have to try, or we can't quite share it--with others or even with ourselves.

If I want to show you my new house, I might point at the building, but your mind processes and organizes the sight with words:  "It's a house. It has windows and doors and a wrap-around porch. I love what they've done with the yard. And look at those barn wood shutters!" Without words, what would you think? How would you even know what you were seeing? Without names for the impressions of the world, we would live in blind chaos, not even able to articulate our confusion and longing for order.

We have national anthems to promote patriotism.
We have names to call each other.
The Berlin Wall fell with words:  "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall."
Rosa Parks expressed her freedom with a word:  "No."
We detest liars; we crave truth.
Famous dictators and famous prophets alike make speeches to win followers.
Words are the most powerful--and arguably the only--tools of persuasion.
Companies use mottoes; politicians use slogans.
We use words to exchange marriage vows and write treaties.
We give our word in promises.
We ask "how do you feel?" and then expect a verbal explanation.
In court, we convict and acquit with words:  "Guilty." "Innocent."

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Of all the things in all the world, God chose Words as the first synonym for himself. The powers to convict or acquit, commune or deny, praise or scorn, love or dismiss, all lie within in God himself; all lie within Words. In giving us the power of language, God has given us a part of his very self. Who knows what God looks like, but we were made in His image because we were made from Words, and we exist on them daily just as God lives on Words, lives on Himself.

If Words are not the absolute foundation of existence, the most beautiful and precious and powerful thing on earth, then what is? I dare you to find it and convince me without them.

~Stephanie

I've Been Reading

Since school ended, I've been able to start reading for fun again.

"Read," is the advice always given to budding writers. Actual practice helps your writing improve too, but reading... It seems to train your mind to Hear and See the world with capital Hs and Ss.

When your car rushes through a rain puddle, the sound registers as "a lush hiss" instead of not registering at all. A dance recital audience reaction becomes "an appreciative rumble of laughter" instead of just "chuckling." You have conversations and naturally detect things like others' "clunky giddiness"or "apologetic authority."

To me, words give the world more substance. When I read a lot, I start to sense the depth in the molecules around me. It's not like the world is brighter; it's like I start to see new colors. Everything isn't more beautiful, but everything is more intentional, specific. I'm not sitting on my couch; I'm sitting on My Couch, where I had a kiss that tasted like ramen, where I first fell asleep on Gabe, where I once cried a tear stain into the cushion.

When I immerse myself in words, everything feels more real. It's like tapping a secret source of energy.

I guess this makes sense, seeing as the entire world is Words. "In the beginning...the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep... And God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light."

This entire world is literally words. There was nothing, and then God spoke, and from His words came the existence that I now try to describe with my own words, like "lush hiss" and "appreciative rumble." Is that redundant? To use words in an attempt to express/describe/create a reality that is already so perfectly linguistically expressed that it is actually tangible?

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning."

Jesus is--maybe literally, maybe figuratively, maybe spiritually (which is probably some inexpressible middle ground there)--Words. God is Words. He made our world of words with His words. We are in this world, made in the image of God. We are spoken. We are words. The light is words; the water is words; the land is words; the day and night are words.

So yes, it makes sense that everything gets more beautiful and more real when I connect with words. Don't you understand the ocean better when you jump in?

Words are fun and powerful and persuasive and enduring and endearing and funny and piercing and beautiful and satisfying and frightening and dangerous. I like words, on principle, because I am a writer and a reader and I like to reason and persuade. But even deeper than that, I like words because I think they are cosmically important. When it all comes down to it, the world is just atoms and energy and space.

But when atoms and energy and space come down to it, they are all words.

~Stephanie

From Breath to Life

I just hit the "Publish" button on the post called "Aspirations." I clicked "View Blog" to proofread it again, and was struck by that word:

Aspiration.

Out of nowhere, its Latin roots assaulted me unbidden:  a meaning "of, from, by, since" and spirare meaning "to breathe."

Aspirations:  Something from which we breathe.

Our aspirations--our goals, our dreams, our desires--are not only what we strive to, but what we breathe from. They aren't just in our futures, they are in us now, motivating us. When we breathe, we breathe because we're working toward something, working to be something.

I got up this morning because I aspire to be an English major. To be an English major, I must get up and read things and write things and study things and drink a lot of coffee (it's in the major requirement. Don't check; it's there)--and breathe. Because I aspire to be an English major.

I'm really starting to love the word "aspire." It is a light word. It's airy and crisp and invigorating--like a breath, I suppose, but a really good one. A breath of cool, sharp air that fills you with energy like electricity and makes you want to jump higher and run faster and smile brighter.

Aspire.

To what do I aspire? From what do I breathe?

I aspire to be a lover of words:  to speak them effectively, read them closely, write them artfully.
I aspire to be a champion of truth, valuing it in people, institutions, and ideas.
I aspire to travel:  to see places that amaze me and meet people who change me.
I aspire to know God and make him known.
I aspire to drink my coffee at a mature pace.

From what do you breathe?

~Stephanie