1989 – the wall didn’t fall. They tore it down.
Last Sunday marked 25 years since the Berlin wall fell. But in reality, it didn’t just fall. That’s passive. It was torn down. With bare hands. It was pulled to the ground. And for the first time since before Hitlers rule, Germany was again a united nation. Nov. 9, 1989.
I remember hearing someone mentioning this when I was 14 and I wrote it down as being a good speech topic for graduation. (I had my eye on being one of the top students of my class even then so that I could give a speech. And I’m a nerd who writes ideas like that down 3 years before I need it.)
When I was 17 I was preparing to end the school year and I had to write the speech I had worked so hard to have the honor to give. I was wrestling with becoming aware of all the social injustices in the world — things like lack of clean water, lack of food and sanitation, AIDS, the ways the world had managed to take the African continent, the richest continent in resources, and keep it the poorest continent overall. I was struggling with these things, paired with the overwhelming joy and fear about traveling to Malawi, Africa a mere 9 hours after graduation to see these injustices for myself for the first time. And I remembered I had written something down about a speech idea years before. I found the paper, and it simply said — “The Berlin Wall fell in 1989, same year we were born.”
And so at 17 I gave a graduation speech about that being symbolic about out potential to tear down falls. To have a world that is free. To be a generation that can be the ones who use our bare hands to tear down the boundaries that keep people at bay, that keep them afraid, that keep them in the dark or in poverty or in oppression.
But it wasn’t until this past summer that I actually got to visit the wall (SEE PHOTOS BELOW). I had just turned 25. The wall had been torn down for almost 25 years. And it was more emotional of an experience for me than I would have thought. It’s been a lot of years since that graduation speech. And I’ve learned much more about the history of the world, and the wall, since then. But I’ve also learned more about pain. About oppression. About being trapped in.
And it surprised me to see that there are still several significant chunks of the wall left standing. I thought all had been torn down except at checkpoint charlie, but they haven’t. And even where the wall does not remain, you can trace it’s course from bricks left in the pavement that go wherever it did. They serve as a marker, as a memory of both the pain, and the triumph of tearing it down.
I respect that about Berlin. I think most cities would like to just bury it. To give it no air time. But united Berlin, urban Berlin, busting metropolis Berlin still bears the scars of a torn Berlin, bears the scars of so many years. And I think that’s honest. Because sometimes, I feel like I wish I could bury my scars under pavements, but I want to make the intentional decision to let the brick path stand — not as an obstacle, just as a reminder that says: “We bore life for a long time with the wall, but we have torn it down now. Both are parts of our story.”
I’m celebrating with Germany this week.
Below is an excerpt from an article on MSN.com yesterday:
With her customary decorum, Chancellor Angela Merkel led her country in celebrations flavored with the only-in–Germany mix of triumph and tragedy.
In a 20-minute speech at a new memorial to the tragedies wrought by the wall, Ms. Merkel noted the special meaning of Nov. 9 in German history. It was on that day, in 1918, that Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicated, “after four terrible years” of World War I. In 1923, it was the date of Hitler’s failed march on the Munich Festhalle. In 1938, she said, it was when the Nazis set fire to synagogues, plundered Jewish homes and businesses and detained and killed thousands of Jews — “the start of the killing of millions” in the catastrophe of the Holocaust.
Only in 1989, after Europeans across the Soviet bloc were rising up against Communism, did Nov. 9 become a date of joy with the wall falling. Now, Ms. Merkel and many other speakers this weekend noted, it is up to Germans to nurture the memory, preserve democracy and intervene to prevent injustice.
*Disclaimer, I’m not well-trained nor well-skilled in poetry. I don’t know how to stick to rhyme or meter. So maybe these aren’t really poems, but I’m calling it one. I have it as one of my goals for my 26 before I turn 26 list to write 12 more poems, and I thought this was a fitting topic.
The Wall by Joanna O’Hanlon
That wall so high, so thick so sick
it makes my wiley gut churn.
Our city is two, is blue is doom
but one side is red as our blood runs.
It’s been here far too long now,
runs round the SS HQ —
it’s 1989,
where’s the SS for you?
The east and west, forever at odds,
one side captive, another in awe.
Pull hard pull fast
let’s pull the wall down.
It’s time.
Time for a united town.
Our children will know a different world,
a united Berlin, non-blood stained ground.
They will feel the rough concrete,
see the barbed wire,
and they will feel no fear.
A relic to remember,
a symbol to our pain,
they won’t hear bullets as they draw near.
The wall will not be mended,
the long cold will be ended.
What was once our scorn
will be a tourist place, graffiti adorned.
And our hearts will slow,
our breathing will steady,
our Berlin is here,
we are ready.
Let
the
wall
fall.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
Polite lies — about getting hit on in a thrift store.
Here’s a throwback from the archives! Story takes place October 2012. First published in the Enterprise Record.
It was a Friday afternoon and my friend Stephanie and I were shopping in The Salvation Army, looking for fun and funky dresses for a photo project. As it goes in second-hand shopping, our options were slim (and by slim, I don’t mean there weren’t a plethora of plus-sized options, because believe me, there were). But, two wedding dresses caught our eye. I picked the more modern, princess-esque one, and Stephanie picked up the Laura-Ingles-got-married-in-
It turned out that there wasn’t a dressing room. There was, however, a few full-length mirrors for sale in the back of the store, so we proceeded to do something that should be embarrassing, but because it was in Oroville, wasn’t even given a judgmental glance: We began trying on dresses over our clothes for all to see.
We were having fun trying on the ridiculous get-ups, and laughing at each new choice. People walking by noticed us, but didn’t give us a second thought until it came to trying on my full-skirted, strapless bridal gown with a hot-pink corset.
“Oh my gooooodness.” A woman at the costume rack 15 feet away was gawking at me. “That looks so amazing on you!” she said boldly.
“Me? Oh, um. Yeah, thanks,” I offered kindly, a little taken-aback.
“Are you getting married? You must be. Oh, you need to get that dress, you’re so pretty in it, isn’t she pretty in it?” she asked, bringing her under-20-year-old son into the conversation.
“You do look very pretty in that dress,” he said, tipping his cowboy hat up so I could see his face.
“Thank you,” I said again, trying to convey politeness, yet curtness. Apparently the curtness didn’t translate.
“So you are getting married?” the woman persisted.
Now, I don’t commonly lie except to strange men in foreign lands – to them I always have a large boyfriend who is meeting me at any moment. But for this woman, my split decision to try to end the conversation and continue the day with my friend led to the following lie slipping out: “Yeah,” I said, vaguely. Not so polite. Curt.
“Oh! When are you getting married?” Her excitement had gone up four notches.
“Dangit,” my mind said. “Probably next year,” my mouth said.
And then, it seemed the curtness worked, and she mumbled some sort of “That’s nice,” as she turned back to the costume rack. Stephanie and I continued our shopping, giving up on the dresses. But then, with no warning, the woman was there by my side again.
“Are you engaged?” she asked, putting her face almost down to my waist level to get a good look at my hand before I could hide it.
“Not yet,” I said. That was true. “But probably soon.” Lie.
“Oh good! I hope you get that dress,” she said. “You know you can save it in the closet. It’d be worth it!” Her son sauntered by us again, lingering awkwardly.
Finally he offered, “I really do fancy that dress.”
“Thank you,” I said, still genuinely, still politely, still curtly. Again, Stephanie and I went on with our trip, stopping by the book section quickly.
But before we made it to the check-out line, the woman approached us once more. Before she even spoke, my desire to be honest or kind were battling it out.
“Just real quick before you go,” she begins, “so, you do have a boyfriend then?”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
“Oh, darn,” she breathed dejectedly, yet still fishing, “because my son over there, he really thinks you’re pretty.”
“Oh,” I said, “well, thanks. But yeah, I’ve got a boyfriend.”
It was one of those moments where I felt like this white lie was more polite than the true, “There’s no way I’m going out with a boy whose mother asked me out after they saw me in a wedding dress in a thrift store, and I lied to them saying I was taken, but thanks anyway.”
As we left though, I decided maybe being honest and semi-rude from the start was better than being dishonest and semi-polite. That’s why when I ran into the same mother-son duo at Walmart three days later, I looked him in the eye and blatantly turned around and walked away.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
Fear doesn’t have to call the shots
photo credit: stuant63 via photopincc
I don’t know if somehow I knew the story of Tom Sawyer attending his own funeral, or if my little mind just found a loophole in how dreams are supposed to go, but as a toddler I had a recurring dream where I died and then the dream still continued. A recurring nightmare, actually.
This was the dream: I was walking along Washington Ave. in my hometown by myself (yes, I was a little kid, but a very independent one so this never seemed strange to me). I was walking to the elementary school that we went to a couple times a week for my siblings’ PE and Science classes, when at the corner where I would turn to the school, I’d see an archer. He was always dressed somewhat like Robin Hood, which is weird and misleading for what was about to take place, seeing as how I was not rich, and he was not a robber.
The archer would see me, smile this evil grimacing smile similar to the bad guy’s smile in Dennis the Menace, and then he would stand up from his crouching position in the bushes at the corner and begin to walk toward me, his gait slow but steady. In a panic, I would remember that my dad’s office was somewhere kind of downtown close to there. So I’d turn around and race the opposite direction down Washington Ave., and I’d make it all the way to corner of Washington and Mitchell. The archer would be catching up and I’d be looking down the street, knowing that that road led by the grocery store, and being pretty sure It led to my dad’s work, or maybe it led to another road that led to another road that led to my dad’s work. I would hesitate for a moment at that corner, trying to figure out how to get to the Forest Service office so that I could get help, and with that slight hesitation, the archer would catch up to me. And instead of killing me with his bow and arrow, he always, always pulled out a large hunting knife and stabbed me through my heart and I screamed. Sometimes I would make it across the intersection and almost to the grocery store before he caught me, and sometimes he’d catch me before I even crossed the street. Sometimes I’d be sure my dad’s office was one way, and sometimes convinced I’d need to take another road. But the rest was always the same.
Morbid, I know. But this is where it gets interesting. The dream would continue. I never woke up after he’d killed me. I always saw him take his knife out of me, and leave me on the side of the sidewalk, almost in the bushes. Then the dream would skip forward to my family finding me and crying. I’d see my funeral. I’d see my older sister alone in our room, looking at the bottom bunk of our bunk beds — my bunk — and sitting on it and crying. I’d see people tell stories about me in a movie montage kind of way. Then I’d see my siblings continue to go back to that school for PE and Science classes, and I’d see my brother looking over his shoulder. I never knew if he was looking for the archer, or for me.
Then as the montage would fade as their lives would continue without me, I’d eventually wake up, the terror of the chase having lessened.
I had this dream for a couple of years on a recurring basis. It’s the only recurring dream I’ve ever had. But I remember it vividly. I had it until I finally told my mom about it one day, and I don’t know how she taught me to do it, but somehow she suggested that I take control of my dream the next time I have it and I tell the archer that he has to go away.
I had the dream a few more times after that, and I practiced. The first time it didn’t work, but I didn’t see as much of the after-death part as before, which was almost worse because I woke up with the terror more fresh.
The second time I think it was, I ran away from him like normal, but when I finally got to the far corner and had my moment of hesitation, he caught up to me like normal, and he pulled out his huge hunting knife like normal, and I somewhere in my subconscious I was able to remember that I could say stop. “STOP.” I yelled at him. And he froze for a moment. And then he smiled that evil dirty smile at me and I stood firm. “This is my dream. You can’t kill me. I won’t let you.”
He stayed silent, not moving toward me, but not leaving. So I finally said, “You have to leave. Go away.”
And he turned, and walked the down Mitchell Ave the opposite direction I always tried to run.
The third or so time I had the dream, when I saw him for the first time at the corner of Washington Ave., before he even took a step, he smiled at me, and I told him I wouldn’t run from him. It was my dream, I was in charge, and he couldn’t hurt me. And instead of walking away, he stayed in the bushes and I walked right past him and up to the school and saw my friends and my siblings.
That was the last time I had that dream as a child.
And I think I carried that attitude with me as a child into my conscious life. I lived pretty fearlessly. Home alone was my first favorite movie, and I was kind of hoping someone would try to break in when I was home one day because I felt like I knew exactly how to handle the situation.
I climbed trees to their highest point.
I played with bugs.
I would catch daddy long legs and hold them by one leg watching them flail and curiously taking in the way they moved so whispily.
I would jump off the swings and climb onto rooftops.
I didn’t need a night light. I was not afraid of the dark.
I would talk to every stranger. Though I was not trusting (I wouldn’t have gotten in the car with anyone or eaten anything from a stranger), I was also not afraid.
As a toddler I took authority over my own dreams and life. As an adult, I’ve not done as good of a job at that, and I’ve had to re-learn that priceless skill. In my dream as a toddler, I’d never just lay down and die, I always tried to get away, but I was always terrified. When I learned how to act calmly and with authority in spite of fear, the fear itself subsided, too, eventually. And that’s what I’m learning now again. Fear does not have to own you. And while it may not work in real life to tell a murderer that they have to go away, I think walking in that air of authority truly does change our fear-filled experiences in life, whether the danger is real or perceived.
Whether danger is real or not is not up to you, but whether you will be crippled by fear in life can be. You get to have authority over your own life. You can decide that fear doesn’t get to call the shots anymore, you do.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
Not the way it should be: Why everything doesn’t happen for a reason
Tackling myths & cliches: Everything Happens for a Reason
“She’s not going to die,” she said to me, her eyes wide, her hands on both of my upper arms, desperation and edge in her voice.
“What are you going to say to me when she does?” I wondered silently.
My sister passed away the next day.
That was just the first of the misguided things people said to me in the wake of her death. But my absolute least favorite thing that anyone could ever say in the wake of death or disaster is this: Everything happens for a reason.
The reasons are that pain and sickness and sin and death exist in our world. Not because it was part of God’s plan. Not because God needed another angel. Not because this was something that me or my family had to go through for us to where we ended up. Not that our story needed this plot-twist.
When my older sister died, I was 14 and I was devastated, but I remember daring God on the day she died, thinking he wouldn’t be able to come through: “If you can, show me one good thing that comes from this.”
That was my deal, my plea to God. One good thing. I didn’t believe that even one good thing could come from such tragedy.
I realize now how naive I was, because God is big, and good, and the way the world works, redemption can come forth, and when you press into pain it changes you and reveals you in ways that would’ve taken years otherwise.
I don’t even know who I’d be today if my sister hadn’t died. I can see how much things changed because of her death, and I can see all kinds of growth and beauty that has come forth in my life as a result of walking through that valley of grief and loss.
photo credit: Jimmy_Joe via photopin cc
So why do I still want to give people nose bleeds when they say everything happens for a reason? Because it’s too easy. It’s too easy to minimize the devastation of tragedy if we choose to believe that it was somehow some part of a divine or cosmic plan. The puppet master at work again, killing off characters for character development of another player. No.
There is a very real aspect to tragedy that demands the admittance that this was never supposed to be this way. That is what our souls cry out, and that is what we silence when we do not let that truth breathe, but try to console ourselves with cheap consolation of the cliche’s “it’s Ok. It’s in God’s plan. It’s supposed to be this way for some unknown reason.”
No. I know a God who cries out the same thing. IT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE THIS
WAY. I know a God who weeps with me over the loss of life, over the breaking of hearts, over the destruction of what was good, over the abuse of the innocent.
And while my naive dare to God was really a “F— you, God” challenge, He was faithful. He has shown me how much good he can bring forth from the things that were never supposed to be this way. He has proven faithful to bring beauty of our ruins. But I don’t for a moment believe that it had to go this way. He could’ve developed me another way. I could’ve had other paths in life that were different, perhaps better than this one. There were other ways. I don’t believe my sister’s death had to happen for a reason.
I don’t believe that death, divorce, abuse, disaster, devastation happen for a reason other that this world is not always good. But I have come to trust that God is good when the world isn’t. God weeps with me while trying to make beauty rise out of the ruins. That’s what people confuse — they think that everything has to burn so beauty can come from the ashes. Which is as nonsensical as saying that fires happen so that firefighters can be heroes. We see the result and we call it the reason.
I am heavily shaped by my experience with grief. I grew up much sooner, and knew grief much deeper than I would wish on any teenager. And the good is that it has deepened my spirituality, my emotional capacity, and my maturity in mounds, I am positive.
But I would give all of that to have my sister back. To have my family whole again. To know what it’s like to experience 9th and 10th grade without the devastation of pain and depression. To not know that gut-wrenching acid of grief in the back of my throat, to not know the loss that weights you like lead in your bones.
This is not how it was supposed to be. It didn’t happen for a reason. There have been some beautiful results that have come of it. But at the end of the day, I am accepting of the way life has been, not accepting that it’s the way it had to go.
This is not how it should be, but this is how it is, and once I grieve that I can begin to see the ways that life can be beautiful again.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
I don’t trust the Church (but I wish I did)
This is hard for me to write, even though I’ve been saying it with my actions and body language for more than a year now.
I don’t trust the Church.
And that breaks my heart.
Like the admission, “I don’t trust my husband,” or “I don’t trust my father,” it hurts to admit because one, it’s true, and two, I wish it weren’t.
I have always loved the Church — my home church and the greater Church. I grew up in the church. The rough brick hallways and the green and purple faded carpets have known my touch, my presence since they were erected in the first couple years of my life. I have spent a massive percentage of my life within those walls.
My home church looks kind of like a prison from the outside. All gray cement blocks and massiveness in the middle of a large parking lot between two barren and vast fields of dead grass. It is lonely and unwelcoming in presence and stature. But it was home.
People said that, about it looking like a prison, and I could see what the meant, but I had personally never seen it like that. It was the place that held all of my dearest people in the world. People who had known me since I was born. People who had seen our family through some of the most trying times, including my mom’s severe illness with Lyme disease, and the sudden death of my 21-year-old sister. These were the people who had been there through it all. Not just at the church — in our homes, in our backyards, in camping trips and missions trips, in the schools, at softball games — but in the church, too. That was our common home, and I was there more than most.
Now when I drive up — which I don’t do often — I see what they mean. It looks like a prison. A prison full of beautiful people who know how to extend grace and how to love one another, mostly. But a prison none the less.
photo credit: .brioso. via photopin cc
When I enter, I feel like I’m entering the prison. I walk through the foyer, down the aisles, and into rows of seats and I get stared at (or intentionally ignored) the whole way, like a prisoner walking down the cell block, being eyed — plotted against, sized up, respected, scared of — but being eyed none-the-less.
I take my seat and rely on the word of the warden-pastor that I am welcome there, of course. And though I know he wants it to be true, it’s not. I am not welcome. I am tolerated by most, judged and unwelcome by some, and greeted by a few (who really mean it).
The stares, glares, looks of, “Oh shit, how do I respond?” are palpable and, I am certain, mostly unconscious and involuntary.
I have a few friends who make conscious and great efforts to welcome me — to show that they won’t just tolerate my presence there, but align themselves with my presence there. They seek me out to hug me and chat, or even greater, they come and sit next to me. That’s how it was nine months ago at least. That’s the last time I could bring myself to attend a full church service there. I went one time since then, just for the worship portion, when the lights were down, and I wept and had to leave before the rest of the service continued. I wept because I so wish I could trust the church. I so wish it was still my home. I still love those people who bristle at my presence — and I love them dearly — but I know that I am not a part of them any longer. I wish I could be, but the welcoming hands and eyes of maybe 20 in a crowd of 500 is not enough. I can’t belong to a home where I am tolerated at best by the masses. It is better to be unknown.
But this is the thing, yes, that’s just one church. But that was my church. And I know those people — they are good people. Real people. People who have been through the mire of life with me. And they stiffen when I walk in, unsure if they should even look at me. Because they are human.
And the thing is, the reason why the stiffen, why they bristle, why they stare, is because they’ve been hurt by something that involved me. The reality is though — I was hurt by something that involved them.
And as I think about joining a new church, trying to find a new body of people to belong to — I have met many groups of people who are full of grace and acceptance. But I am still distrusting because while they welcome me now, I have been welcomed before. I have been known before. I have been carried through the trials of sickness and death and grief before. But then there came something that was too much, and everyone stepped away. And I was left. Unwelcome where I was once loved. Tolerated where I was once celebrated. A threat where I was once a servant.
Not just by a few. Not just by casual church attenders. But by pastors, board members, and life long friends who I called family.
It’s not that they’re just bad people. They’re not. I know them. They’re hurt people. And hurt people hurt people.
So I’m distrusting of churches. All churches. Because they’re all made of people who have the ability to be hurt, and then to hurt.
I’m distrusting of pastors more than of churches. So the pastors that are big on grace, I’m suspicious of because it makes me think they KNOW they need grace, because they know of their depravity, and it scares me to think of the people they have hurt, or do hurt with that grace-needing depravity.
And the pastors that tote punishment, I’m wary of because, truly, I believe in grace.
And the pastors that talk of prosperity and hope, I don’t feel that they can understand the depths of the brokenness that I have drowned in.
The only ones I trust are the ones who talk honestly and openly about pain and brokenness and the God that is with us in that. But actually, in real life churches, I have yet to find those pastors.
The reason I don’t trust churches is because I don’t trust people. It just breaks my heart that it was church people who taught me to be distrusting. And it breaks my heart that I’ve taught others to be distrusting, too.
So this is me saying I’m fledgling right now. I’ve been drowning for a long time and am trying to find my way to the surface again. If you’ve got your head above the water, if you trust people and belong to the church and feel welcomed, don’t follow me.
But if you’re drowning too, if you’re distrusting and hurting and it breaks your heart, I’m trying to find a way up, and you’re welcome to come along. I can’t promise that I’ll find the most direct route, but I’m searching, and I’m trying to be honest about the journey.
And if you’re distrusting and it doesn’t break your heart, I hope it will some day. I’ve lived on both sides of this line now, and while this side feels wiser and more enlightened, the other side is more fulfilling indeed. It is a beautiful thing to trust people, and to have them be trustworthy in return.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
Cliff bars in O.B. — lessons in giving
“You can get whatever you want, but it needs to be under $3.”
I was familiar with these words as my mom and dad would say them to us three kids every time we got the treat of eating out as a family at McDonalds, or even better, at Burger King. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was sure special.
We lived simply. More accurately, we lived cheaply. But I remember those 3 dollars would buy me a plain whopper and fries at BK, or 6 chicken nuggets at McDonalds (not in a happy meal… those only came with 4 nuggets, which wasn’t enough food for me, and the meal was above the $3 limit). It was always a treat.
I don’t know how old I was the first time I noticed it, but at some point I became aware of the fact that like the words of the $3 rule being spoken so faithfully to us, my mom would faithfully speak another line of words to any homeless person or person asking for change that we encountered: “I don’t give out money, but are you hungry? I’ll get you whatever you want.”
But the $3 limit was never mentioned. And she bought them food when we didn’t get to eat out, because that was still a rare treat for us. She would go in with them to the grocery store or the fast food place or the gas station and she would get them meal deals that we were never afforded the chance to try. The fact that they were superseding the $3 family rule was never mentioned to them, which I thought was odd.
Because even as a child, I was taught compassion, I was taught to care for people and to see everyone as human beings that have the same value to their lives as I do. But, while I never said anything about it, I was confused about why our family’s budget didn’t apply to others when my parents bought them food.
As an adult I look back and I see that the lesson my mom’s actions taught me was that it is good to give, even when we give more than we would normally afford ourselves. People matter more than dollars. All people.
When I was in high school, I started to buy boxes of granola bars and keep them in my car so that any time I saw someone in need, I had something to offer them. I actually intentionally bought peanut-flavored ones so that I wouldn’t be tempted to empty my own stash. (I have a peanut allergy.) But after I graduated high school, it was rarely as I was driving by that I encountered people in need. I instead met them on the streets of downtowns as I walked around with friends. Or at the beach. Or at the grocery store. And my granola bar stash wasn’t doing much good sitting in my car, so I got out of the habit.
Because I’m a hungry person, a prepared person, and I spent more than a decade babysitting regularly, I got used to always having a snack with me in my purse or back pack or pocket. (I know, that’s kind of weird, but it’s true.) What I started to find was that as I would meet people who were asking for food or money, if they were hungry I’d offer them whatever snack I had on hand. I’ve given away leftovers, a soda cup from In n Out, cliff bars, animal crackers, crackers, almonds, fruit, jerky, and baked goods.
The first time I had an opportunity to do so though, I hesitated. I was in San Francisco by myself, exploring downtown for the day. I was working in an unpaid internship and didn’t have extra money, so I had brought a lunch and a snack with me. When faced with the choice, I gave the snack away first. But then I came upon another hungry man asking for help, and I said no, and walked away, justifying that I would be hungry for the day if I gave away this, the last of my food for the whole day. As I justified it, I remembered my mom, spending more than we spent on ourselves, offering food when we couldn’t afford to eat out. And I realized what a stupid justification being hungry for the day was.
I went back and found the man and handed him my lunch and sat down with him while he ate it.
I remember that day clearly, because it was the first time I gave until I felt it. I walked around hungry that day. And it’s been a reminder to me of the power of C.S. Lewis’ challenging words: “We ought to give until it hurts.” I didn’t hurt that day, but I felt what I had given, and that was a step in the right direction for me.
The last time I was in San Diego, I was walking with two of my friends up Newport Ave in Ocean Beach looking at shops as we meandered away from the beach. I saw them then, on the other side of the street, but kept walking, window shopping, chatting with my friends.
But as we made our way back down the other side of the street, the two women were still there. I said hi briefly as we passed. They weren’t asking for anything, they didn’t have a sign, they just lived in the OB area as manly homeless folks do. My friends were up ahead chatting and walking on. I asked the women if they were hungry, and they were, so I offered them the cliff bar I’d been storing in my back pocket for a snack as we walked around the beach. “I’m sorry, this is all I have, and it’s just one. But do you want it?” I asked them. “Oh yeah! These are the BEST!” They both looked at each other and with a silent exchange one reached out for it, and then handed it to the other. “I ate earlier today. She can have it,” she said, handing it to her friend. The friend looked hesitant, and then took it and smiled.
My friends had turned and realized I had lagged behind and waited patiently as I finished chatting with the ladies. When I re-joined them we began walking again, and they know not to make a big deal of stuff like that. But my friend Lizz, who is always willing to credit me with being more intentional than I am, asked me, “I saw you grab that when we left the car. Is that why? So you could give it away?”
“No.” I said simply. Resisting the urge to take credit for something better than the truth. “I brought it because I thought I’d be hungry. I wanted a snack.”
Because people are more important than dollars. And more important than my temporarily filled belly.
I hope one day I’ll learn enough courage and discipline to give until it hurts. But for now, I’m grateful for my mom’s example of giving until we’re a little hungry. Giving, not when we have extra, but when it means someone else getting something that we wanted for ourselves. Giving until we feel it, even if it’s just a little bit.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
Strength & Whatever Doesn’t Kill You
Tackling Myths & Cliches: Whatever Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger
50 MPH speed limit. That seems fast for this road. But OK. I’ll go 50.
Shoot this hill is long. I hear my dad’s mantra: “Don’t ride your breaks. They’ll burn out.” Ok, I’ll keep it near 50. 53. 54. 55. 54. 53. 54.
Green lights all the way.
Intersection.
Large truck turning into our path. Going fast. Too fast. We’re going fast.
Break. Break! BREAK! My foot can’t move that fast.
This is it. We’re going to die.
I see the panic on the blond girl’s face through the passenger side window of the truck.
My world goes black as I hear the deafening sound of metal colliding.
Silence. I am gone.
I come to in a car filled with airbag dust. I look, horrified at the passenger seat. What will I find there?
I see Kate. Her eyes like deer in headlights. Staring at me. Alive. Conscious. In shock.
I see smoke starting to fill the car. More and more. I’m still looking into Kate’s wide eyes. She does not blink.
I look around at the smoke, and back to her. “GET OUT! GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!” I order her. Movie scenes of cars exploding in flame race through my mind. No.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!” I say again.
Our doors open. I step out of the car and struggle to stand. Something is wrong with my foot. I hobble to the median of the broad intersection. It is at Kate’s side of the car. She is there already.
I slump down. People flood to our sides. Are we OK?
What’s my name?
Who can we call?
I don’t know. We don’t live here.
Where are my shoes? I get up to walk. Can’t. You, fireman. Can you find my shoes? Where is my phone? Can you find my phone?
Ambulance. Kate and I laugh lots of shocky laughs that make us cry out from the pain of moving. Emergency Room. Exams. Long, painful night.
Two years ago I was in a head on collision at around 50 MPH. I broke my foot, and suffered what we later learned to be a concussion which began giving me daily migraines.
My foot healed within 8 weeks. My migraines, though I have made MUCH progress, still punctuate my life several times a month.
It is one of only two times that I was certain that was it, that I was going to die.
But we didn’t.
__________________________________________________________
Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Right?
No. I don’t accept that. That’s BS.
After my sister died, after my car accident, after my life imploded, after I moved because of a bad living situation — people told me I was so strong. And I’m starting to see that they were right. But I thought that they were saying these things were making me strong (some did say that). And deep down I knew that wasn’t true. These things, they were testing me, sometimes they threatened to destroy me. They weren’t making me strong. I was strong through them, not because of them. Those life obstacles were revealing to me the depth of strength that I had to find to survive those times, but they were devastating me in the process.
Pain doesn’t make you strong. It reveals your strength. You don’t actually need the painful things of life to be strong. But sometimes you don’t realize how strong you are without them. It’s the revealing that has value.
We should be honest that pain sucks. Bad things suck. That there are things that we wish we never had to live through.
It’s not about the positive spin. It’s about the true revealing of who we are so that we can go forward as the person we want to be or become.
But whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger is false.
The first person to ever run the distance of a marathon was actually running to the city of Marathon from the battle field to tell that the battle had been won. He ran the whole way, and the myth says that he died immediately after delivering the message.
Many strong people run marathons all the time now, but marathons don’t make you strong. Actually they temporarily damage your body, having pushed it so far. But they reveal the strength you’ve built up in training.
In the wake of the things that are destroying you, it is OK to not feel strong.
Sometimes, the strength that is revealed doesn’t feel like strength, it feels like taking one ragged breathe, one faltering step at a time, one after the other. And we slowly move forward. We slowly discover how much strength there is in us. And undoubtedly, we all have times where we feel too weak to carry on, and we have to sit down and take a break, or sometimes collapse and weep. But then we discover that we might have another morsel of strength. So we continue.
That is the true strength that is revealed when we think we might just die.
Marathon runners make it to the finish line, and their body takes a toll.
Broken bones, when re-healed, still ache sometimes, even years later. Strong people walk through the ache. But when they walked without ache, they were just as strong.
Our lives would be better without conflict. But the conflict reveals us to ourselves. And when we live as revealed people, we use the strength we’ve always had more fully.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
When the leaves fall – The consistency of change
Today is the first day of fall. The start of a new season. Which is appropriate because my life has had many seasons of its own in the past couple years. Before now my life seasons were longer than the year seasons, but it doesn’t seem like that’s the case anymore.
photo credit: douglas.earl via photopin cc
I have moved twice since last fall. Once just across town, once part way across the country.
I have made many friends since last fall. I was really just at this time barely beginning to get to know some people in Rocklin, Calif., and wasn’t super ready to open myself up again.
I have gone on many first dates, some good, some bad, some embarrassing.
I’ve had lots of hard conversations. And seen many people step into my life after them, and seen some step out of my life after them.
I’ve seen many new places, and many old friends.
I’ve started to create art. Lots of art. Lots of styles of art.
I won’t list it all, but a lot has changed. I look back on myself and my life at the beginning of last fall, and really I was just starting a new season then, as well. I recognize that last-fall girl with familiarity and affection, but I don’t feel that I am that same girl this fall day. A lot of the changes are for the better, but change is never easy, though it is often good.
But this past month, as I’ve been traveling around the world and moving across the country, I’ve been reminded of the things that are the same. And the biggest thing that is the same is this: there are people in my life who have chosen to love me, whose presence and friendship is a constant. And as I have moved now yet again, and as I have an overwhelming feeling that I don’t really have a home, these people, their comforting presence reminds me of what home feels like.
While I was traveling in Europe, I was staying each place with some of my friends from such a beautiful season of life when I studied abroad. To be with each of them was to be with old, good friends and to feel like no time had passed. We picked up where we left off, and it felt so natural, so normal to be with them again. I was camping a few weeks ago and the people I was with there, they feel like home. They’re the people who hear about when I feel sick, and what I’m wrestling with, and they know the random facts about me like the fact that I don’t like pancakes unless they’re made from bisquick. I was with good friends in Oroville and Chico who have been a part of my life for over a decade, some for over two.
In a rare gift, this season I get to again live with one of my best friends and my college roommate, for the third time in life. I can’t believe it’s already been 7 years since I met her in that Klassen 1st north dorm room on our first days of college. But she has been a consistent friend since that very beginning.
Just today, I said goodbye to a friend who had stayed with me as she passed through Denver. “How do you know her?” My roommate asked. “She’s from Oroville. I’ve known her her whole life.” There’s not much more of an explanation available than that.
And as I stood on my front porch with my family, about to make the drive to Denver, my mom said, “I think we should take a front-porch selfie before you go.” So we four squeezed together and my brother with his long arms held out my mom’s phone for our family selfie. And I hugged them and got in my car and unexpectedly cried as I drove away, waving to them.
I don’t feel like I have “a home” anymore, but I have people who feel like home to me. I’ve come to see that these people, who have been family, whose friendship and love and support has been constant despite the ways that my life and I change, they are the constants in the seasons of life.
In my ever-changing life and my ever-growing self, it’s comforting that the earth and time still remains constant. The acorns still fall. The leaves still change color. And there are still people who know me and love me. People who feel like home. And the rest — well, the rest will change with the seasons.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
Post office friends — on meeting people, being new in town, and being open.
I was at the post office. It was 4:40 and I needed to mail a stack of about 7 envelopes all registered mail (meaning, apparently, that I have to fill out a form for each of the already-addressed envelopes with to-from info as well as estimated value included inside, and then they have to be specially sealed, then stamped all around that seal, then addressed again and sealed with an additional sticker of authenticity, and then weighed and posted). I’m tired just writing that.
So I filled out my portion of the form for each of my 7 envelopes hurriedly while I was in line, letting several people go in front of me. By the time I reached the counter it was about 4:50, 10 minutes until the closing. A tall, thin man in his 50s or 60s waived me up to his empty station at the far end of the counter. His name tag told me his name was Ike.
I came up and told him, apologetically, that I needed these 7 envelopes sent by registered mail and the rest sent regular post. He turned and walked away without saying anything. I wasn’t sure if he was getting something or heard me or just decided that enough was enough and it was close enough to closing.
I hung in the balance for a good 45 seconds, not knowing, until he turned around the corner with a roll of brown sealing paper in his hand. As he re-joined me at the counter, he set to work slowly, but not dawdling, just taking his precise time, still not saying anything. His face was kind, though, so I started: “How’s your day been today?”
“It was pretty good, then you showed up,” he said dryly, looking up at me with a glint of humor in his brown eyes. A beat. Then he smirked, softly.
We began chatting, slowly at first, with long pauses between conversation topics. But the process to complete my request was long and I was with him for literally 30 minutes, and we chatted about his work, his life, where he’s lived, that I just moved to Colorado…
“When did you move?” he asked, still looking down, busy with his work.
“Last week,” I said, a little too peppy.
He paused. Looked up. “Last week!?” he exclaimed drawing out the emphasis like Bill Cosby would when talking to his kids.
“Yessir,” I said, smiling, friendly.
“Man. Well, I think you’ll like it. It grew on me, but it’s home now. I think that you’ll find that people are kind here. And if you meet the few who have bad attitudes, just tell them to go smoke a bowl and chill out,” he sat flatly, then looking up at me with that same sly glimmer, he let his full grin slip and laughed.
“Just offer them some cheetos to compliment their necessary high?” I joked. He laughed and then coughed from laughing.
We parted ways and I told him my name and told him he may see more of me as I seem to mail things often these days. “I’ll run the other way next time,” he said, winking. And then he silently waived the next person in the still very long line up to his desk as I walked away, 20 minutes after closing time.
He’s been at his job with the USPS for 30 years now, and been in this particular post office for 20 years. Never had a mail route: “Heck no. I like to be indoors with the controlled temperatures. If I’d have had a mail route, I’d have made a liar out of their ‘through sleet hail and snow’ motto real fast.” And he was not just patient, but pleasant as I came in with my lengthy request at almost closing time.
“Sorry again that you had to do this,” I said. “I promise next time it’d just be a simple “Hey Ike, can ya ship this for me,” request.”
“Nah, nah, it’s alright Jo. It was mighty fine closing out the day getting to stand around and chat with you. Have a good one.”
I may have moved to a pretty big city, but so far, I feel like the connections I’m making are these small-town type connections. Getting to know my post office employees and the workers at my local Costco. I’ve become well acquainted with my maintenance guy now — he’s been to my apartment to fix and re-fix issues with the gas in my fireplace about 5 times now over the past week.
I went to church last night and was fortunate enough to have a friend let the pastor know I’d be coming, so I got to go to dinner afterward with the pastor, his wife, and several others from the church. And I found myself telling my story, and crying in a restaurant as I am so familiar with doing now in public places when I get real and share my past pain.
And I’ve been to two family dinners — one with a cousin of mine and one with my friend Kate’s Aunt and Uncle who live here. And I spent part of an afternoon giving a ride to Kate’s little sister who goes to college here now and doesn’t have a car.
Like I said, I may have moved to a big city, but these connections don’t feel like it. In a week I have had more honest and real interactions with people than I had in probably the first several months of my time in my previous town. Which doesn’t say as much about Denver versus Rocklin as it does about me now versus me a year ago.
I am opening up again. I’m coming alive again and being vulnerable again and it’s opening up some beautiful doors of connection. Even at the post office at closing time.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon
25 things: About setting goals and enjoying life
Last October, I had a realization that in less than a year I would be turning 25. I remembered that your pre-frontal cortex supposedly becomes fully developed by the time you are 25 years old. Meaning that it’s harder to learn new instruments, new languages, or new technical processes (I think).
“Crap!” I remember thinking. “There’s so much I had planned to do to develop my brain by then!” (Yes, I actually think things like this. I’m weird. Whatever.)
I quickly decided that I needed to create some sort of goal list to help keep me on track for what brain-developing things I wanted to do before my pre-frontal cortex said “yeah, we’re good enough. We’re done. Thanks.”
So I, somewhat panicking, started to write down some things like that. “Learn italian. Play more piano. Create more paintings…” I began. But then I had the thought, maybe I should make a list of 25 things to do before my 25th birthday. I firstly was thinking of those pre-frontal cortex related goals. But I realized that I may not be able to start learning Italian, become fluent in Spanish, Learn the cello, play more piano again, write a book, read ALL of the classical literature out there, and more items that I deep down wanted to do while it was still “easy”.
So I started a list of 25 things and I chose a few of the pre-frontal cortex developing options that I could fit within the year, and then I filled the other 25 slots with some times from my bucket list, and some from my “I really would like to accomplish this this year” unofficial list, and the last just from what sounded like fun things for the year.
This is what I came up with:
25 Things To Do Before I Turn 25:
1) write a book Started but have not finished. The book has changed shape and direction a lot in the past year, which is a good thing I believe. More on this below.
2) learn italian (took my first class at least)
3) play piano more (I said I wanted to learn at least 5 new songs well. I didn’t But I learned 3 new songs and re-learned 2 old songs)
4) climb a 14er Mt. Bierstadt, Colorado, Nov. 2, 2014 — hiked in halloween costumes with Kate. Completed despite being on a beta blocker that keeps your heart rate low at all times and makes exercising a light-headed affair.
5) go to the batting cages my friend Justin went with me to accomplish this.
6) take a dance class My roommate Brianne went with me to a line dancing class
7) be in some sort of acting production I met my friend Dan through this process. He filmed me in a promotional video for a luxury apartment complex. He posted on craigslist looking for actors. So I call him Craigslist Dan.
8 ) read Anna Karenina (Started it, should be finished within the next week. Though in the meantime I met actor Stephen Fry (ask me about this in person) and we talked about literature and I said I was reading Anna Karenina currently and his response: “Ahh, the greatest work of literature there is.” “Really? You think so?” I replied. I’ll have to see if I agree by the end.
9) read one more jane austen book Read Emma. It was pretty good, but more predictable than I would have liked. Pride and Prejudice will probably always be my favorite work like that.
10) publish an article in a magazine I got to write an article for my work and have it published in the Insurance Journal which is a national trade magazine. You can read it HERE
11) get fit Was in the best shape of my life this fall. I slacked a bit after that, but still feel in pretty fit. A couple days ago I moved all of my possessions from my packed car up 3 flights of stairs up to my 3rd story apartment in Colorado, and really, it was a lot of work, but I wasn’t even really huffing and puffing, and I’m not sore at all 2 days later. I’m impressed by this. PLUS, see #4.
12) get off beta blocker This was one of those “I want to do this, but realistically it won’t happen” goals. And I did it. Through a lot of chiropractic work, and dieting in ways that helped my neck heal properly, I was able to get off this nasty drug that I needed to prevent my migraines after a bad car crash. When I started the drug I was having migraines literally every day. When I got on the drug, I started to have only about 8 per month. I am now off of it for a few months and have only about 4 or less migraines a month. Which I’m ecstatic about! I can also sleep normal amounts, I have energy, I can work out normally again without blacking out, and that is Fan-FREAKING-tastic in my book!
13) run a 5k I ran the Courage Run 5K in Granite Bay with my friend Theresa. Theresa had also done a similar goal project of 28 goals before she turns 28. We found out that we both had these lists, and we had this goal in common, so it was great to get to cross this one off together!
14) go to a standup comedy show My friend Justin’s little brother is a comedian and had a comedy show in Sac so it was awesome to go with a bunch of our friends to support him and to also get to cross this off my list. He and the others were really quite funny. It was a blast. I want to go to more of these.
15) watch casa blanca This has been on my life list since I was in high school and a teacher I very much respected and who wasn’t the artsy, literature-reading, romanticism, old-movie watching type told me is was his favorite movie. And you know what, for someone who has resisted watching old movies for my whole life, I loved it. I’d buy it.
16) watch The Office series I had seen couple episodes here and there, but never gotten into it. Many friends who had similar entertainment tastes to me loved it, though, and my friend Jessica in college had convinced me to try it. I had put it on my life list then. And I completely watched the series this year and it is SO GOOD. I love it. I want to own it. I already re-watch it sometimes. And as I watched through the seasons I would send my “Oh my goodness!! Jim kissed Pam! Jim kissed Pam!!!” comments to her. It was a lot of fun and almost felt like we were in college again watching something for the first time together.
17) watch breaking bad I have begun, but not completed this. I will be doing so this fall, though.
18) milk a cow Theresa also went with me to accomplish this. It took a lot of asking around trying to actually find a cow someone would let me milk. I hit a lot of dead ends in this search. BUT, at the state fair I met a farmer who told me there was an exhibit (mostly for children) where they demonstrate how to milk a cow or a goat every hour and then let you do it too. SO we totally waited in line and milked a cow, AND a goat at the state fair.
19) catch a fish This was another life list item that I was very intent on completing at some point. I’ve fished and tried to catch fish many times in life and had NEVER been successful. My brother Jason and our family friend Tim took me out on Tim’s boat though on the lake for a fishing day and I caught not one, but FIVE big mouth bass! Tim is a fishing pro, so that helped to have his guidance of how to cast and where to cast, etc. But FIVE Five freaking fish!!! I think this was the goal that I was most excited about completing. I couldn’t stop smiling and I would’ve felt like a parade to celebrate wouldn’t have been entirely over the top for my giddiness.
20) write a good fiction short story I struggled with this one and I knew I would, which is why I made it a goal. I don’t know how to write fiction. Never have. I asked friends for topics. Which I couldn’t turn into anything. But my brother-in-law Chris posted a story that he wrote on the spot for inspiration, and that did get my juices going. I ended up with THIS STORY which I’m actually pretty proud of.
21) Go to Georgetown falls (near auburn) This was awesome. They are natural water slides in the river. A large group of friends all went together, headed up by my friend Amy which was super helpful, because I didn’t know where they were. My friends Lizzy and Theresa drove and hiked there with me, which was a bit tedious because of getting lost, and traipsing through the forest, but we came out alright. =)
22) start writing a 2nd book Through the process of blogging every week since January, I have started to realize that I have some thoughts on grieving and death and my honest experiences with loss that I want to share. I’m compiling some of the blog posts as well as other not-yet-published material for a short book on Loss and Life, and how to hold both together at the same time.
23) paint at least 5 more pieces. This year kind of exploded art-wise for me. Since January, I have painted and drawn over 50 completed pieces and sold many of them. to be fair, when I made this goal, 5 new pieces in a year was way more than I’d ever done. Crazy how life changes.
24) stick to a budget Did this. It isn’t super fun. Never has been. But you know what, when I went to the Dentist last week and had my first cavity and needed to pay for the filling, I had the money to do so because I budget for stuff like that, sad as it is.
25) Try snowboarding I went snowboarding for the first time ever, on the last day of the season when there was not even snow covering the whole mountain. It was a LOT harder than most things that I try for the first time. But I had a lot of fun trying and I want to go again next year, and hopefully get to the point where it’s not QUITE so hard and so much work. This is actually how I got to know Brianne who ended up being my roommate my last few months in Rocklin. I had met her once before at church, and then saw her the night before and said, “hey! Do you want to go snowboarding on Saturday (two days away)?” I had decided that I had to go, whether I went alone or not, because I wanted to complete this goal. And she said “Yeah, that sounds like fun!” So it ended up that she, myself, and another girl, Lindsay, all drove up and snowboarded together, and my brother met us up there for the day too!
After my 9 months of goal-oriented living from late October, 2013 to early August, 2014, I’ve realized that it was so much more of a fulfilling project than I thought it would be. Those goals in red are the only ones I didn’t complete all the way, though I was satisfied with the fact that I started everything. And that I still intend to finish them all.
One of the things I’ve been learning about is to dream big and create and work toward big goals. I think this type of challenge brings me to life and helps me live more fully, even if I sometimes fall short of those goals.
One of the things I didn’t think about when I started this is how this list would help me to foster friendships and create camaraderie with those around me who got excited about the list for me and wanted to help me accomplish things. This is why I’ve listed who I completed these goals with. Because it became a pretty continual conversation topic that invited people not just to know about my life, but to participate in things that I wanted to do, and that they maybe wanted to do, too.
And the bottom line is that I ended up starting work on 25 goals, and completing 23 of them that otherwise might have been nice, “I want to do this sometime” thoughts that may not have happened for a long time, if ever. And that, friends, makes me happy.
Which is why I’m also deciding to do a goal list for this next year of life too. Check out my 26 before 26 list HERE. Look for posts about it on Facebook and Instagram as I start in on another year of living intentionally and fully.
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon