Smart-mouthed old guys

At ripe old age of 26, I am re-exlporing vocation and to where it is that I am supposed to be taking this pleasure cruise called life.  Don’t worry, I am not seriously expecting to find any answers.  Just trying to tame down the kurfuffle in my head.

In my intentional pondering of vacation, I mean vocation, I came upon two inspiring and challenging quotes from a couple of the oldest guys in the books.  Enjoy!

Where your talents and the needs of the world cross, there lies your vocation. ~ Aristotle

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt. ~ Shakespeare

Someone Stole My Woo

And I want it back.

I used to be a woo. According to
Gallup’s StrengthFinders evaluation, that’s what I was.

Woo stands for winning others over. You enjoy the challenge of meeting new people and getting them to like you. Strangers are rarely intimidating to you. On the contrary, strangers can be energizing. Some people shy away from starting up conversations because they worry about running out of things to say. You don’t. Not only are you rarely at a loss for words; you actually enjoy initiating with strangers because you derive satisfaction from breaking the ice and making a connection.

I was tagged a woo during my senior year of college. The description seemed to fit, so I did my best to wear that label proudly.The problem was, I was often ashamed of my woo-ness. Being a woo meant I was often the obvious one trying to entertain or persuade the masses, and as a result was too loud, talked too much and laughed too long. I didn’t want to be a woo. I wanted to be a good listener. I wanted to be the wise and steady-handed type others turned to in moments of chaos and struggle. At the very least, I wanted others to believe I was competent and responsible.

A wise man I have often referred to as the Vocational Guru urged me to cherish my woo. “Never let anyone force that out of you,” he would tell me.

So I took my woo and all the rest of my stuff and moved to
Bosnia.

When I had to move back to the States rather unexpectedly, I had to leave a lot of my stuff behind. And apparently I left my woo.

This past weekend, I had to retake Gallup’s strengths evaluation and this time I came up as strategic.

The Strategic theme enables you to sort through the clutter and find the best route. It is not a skill that can be taught. It is a distinct way of thinking, a special perspective on the world at large. This perspective allows you to see patterns where others simply see complexity. Mindful of these patterns, you play out alternative scenarios, always asking, “What if this happened? Okay, well what if this happened?” This recurring question helps you see around the next corner.

Sounds a little more like the responsible and competent I was going for. Even though it seems I’ve become more who I’ve always wanted to be, I can’t say that I’m entirely happy with that. A woo is fun, social and can sell ice to Eskimos. That part of me, I did like.

My friends have hinted for months that part of me was missing. Well, now
Gallup has proven it. It’s my woo. It’s gone. BUT WHERE DID IT GO????

Did adjusting to a new culture and then readjusting to an old one strip it away? Did learning a new language keep this blabber mouth shut? Is a tired and weary soul an inhospitable place for woo to reside? Could the biochemical lollapalooza in my body (and the meds we’re using to try to correct it) have sent that pivotal part of me into retreat? Was my woo polluted by my own foolish use of alcohol, chocolate, cheese and anything else I used as God knows what kind of crutch? Or maybe someone I loved and respected stole it from me while I let her routinely tell me that everything woo-ish inside of me was bad, even sinful.

Probably, it was a combination of all of the above. Some days, one reason will seem to weigh in more than the others. The next day it will be a different one that feels more at fault.

Recently I was berated by a woman who made great efforts to tell me I needed to grow up and move on, work a little harder at it and realize how easy I’ve had it the last several months. What this woman, and so many people have failed to understand is that I have moved on from what happened. I am now trying to deal with all the dust that hasn’t settled yet. And that’s pretty damn hard to do when you legitimately are not the same person you used to be.

Dealing with the shit that hits the fan is rough stuff some days. It is for everyone, no matter who you are. You deal with some heavy junk at least once in your life. I used to know how to deal with my junk. I was a woo and that was my foundational weapon for every scenario life had offer. It was my go-to.

And now my go-to is gone.

It makes me incredibly thankful for my friends who’ve been dealing patiently and lovingly with this woo-no-more. While others have expected me to come around, the old woo me to stroll around the corner any day now, my friends (and surprisingly even my parents) have understood that the me that shows up is all the me they’re going to get. They miss some of my woo and even worry when it seems to be completely gone. But they’ve been there to love me and help me figure out who me is. (God bless
Gallup for getting at least a little of it down on paper!)

Anyway…sappiness aside I think I want to have a funeral for my woo. I would love for anyone with memories of yours truly being her wooed out self to share. It would be a good reminder for me that my woo didn’t completely suck and that future attempts at woo-ness will not all be in vain.

Labor Pains and Whacko Dreams

My friend Joe has this strange tendency to dream about giving birth. Sometimes she experiences extreme stress in her dream state, other times it’s just plain bizarre. Sometimes it involves teddy bears. Whenever her sleep and joy (and probably chocolate) deprived id produces these midnight adventures, we analyze them. Do the dreams symbolize a new birth and new hope? Impending doom and pain? Or teddy bears? Do they just symbolize teddy bears and babies and all things nice?

Well, I had a completely insane giving birth dream last night, complete with labor pains that were so real they woke me up. An array of meaningful as well as obscure characters also made an appearance, deeming this dream one of my strangest ever. As if I can claim responsbility for what parades around in my head once my curly mop hits the pillow.

I don’t know what it meant or what kind of undealt with stress it could be pointing to, but I do know what I hope it means.

I hope it means that new birth is on the horizon for me. I’m afraid it may mean the pains are going to get worse before the new can be born. But if there is really is a promise of newness, maybe I could take the pain.

I’m in Michigan now. Not really settled in…the only piece of furniture I have right now is a bed, but it’s wonderful to sleep in your own bed after sleeping the last seven months on various borrowed ones. Anyway, I’m just days away from something new officially beginning in my life whether I want it to or not. I think it all gets going on Tuesday. Geez, I don’t even know. But it’s going to be new. I hope it’s not just something new to do, I hope it’s about me being new.

Lost at Sea

Haven’t shown my face around these parts much lately…sorry about that.  Since basketball camp ended I’ve been up to, well, stuff.  Not necessarily always physically busy, but emotionally and mentally busy.  Taking stock of life.  Making last minute, throw caution to the wind while simultaneously freaking out financial decisions.  Rocking out with old people to James Taylor.  Packing up all of my stuff yet again.  And getting on an airplane to fly away from it all.

I get back to the Midwest on Saturday and will head to Michigan to start my new life a week from today.  Following that, I’ll have several days alone before all the festivities of seminary begin, so surely I’ll be blogging by then.