Wanting what I can’t have

I want things I can’t have. It’s a problematic part of my nature, and this past Sunday I was acutely aware of it - to the point of feeling convicted for not keeping my eyes on Jesus. I do make a concerted effort to “seek His Kingdom first” but I also frequently pester Him about the “and all these things shall be added unto you” bit (Bible reference: Matthew 6:33). Most of the time I’m dissatisfied with my life, not because I dislike the elements that fill it, but because I want more - always. 

I covet a lifestyle I can’t afford. I want fine dining on a weekly basis and trips with five star accommodations. I like expensive clothes and I dream about living in an out-of-my-price-range flat downtown with high ceilings, big windows and at least one brick wall. I want the unique furniture that costs an arm and a leg to ship home but is so totally worth it because each piece has a story. I want the man I can’t have. I want to be ‘soccer mom’ who writes freelance from home AND I want the high-powered career that sends me all over the world to put out fires and influence global decisions. I want SO MUCH. Sometimes I feel like Bob: “Gimme gimme gimme, I need I need.” (If you’ve never watched the film What about Bob?, stop reading this and go do that.)

This past Sunday the phrase “wanting what I can’t have” was going like a loop machine in my head - to the point that I had to ask the Lord for forgiveness for being so distracted by all the things I wanted but couldn’t have. What was wrong with me?!?! A virtual battle was in full swing in my mind: Am I wanting too much?!? At what point does all this wanting and dreaming turn from being a visionary attitude called faith into being a sin called covetousness??

I’m not that materialistic - sure, I like nice things and I desire to live expansively and generously - but I’m not really that attached to things. I am however attached to ideas of what I want my life to encompass. Wanting what I can’t have is a legit struggle for me. I don’t like settling for less than what I like, and on principle I don’t think that I should. I don’t subscribe to the ‘prosperity gospel’ but I do believe that God delights in surprising me with things I would never have thought within my grasp. Things that are impossible for me are not impossible for Him, so quite frankly I don’t believe I should stop wanting what is beyond my reach (and I’m not just talking about physical objects here). I take the liberty of dreaming big because I serve a big God. But the question is then at what point does ‘believing for big things’ turn into coveting? Where do contentment and resignation diverge? At what point should I stop wishing for things because they distract me from “seeking first the Kingdom”? It’s hard not to be ‘helpful’ in composing the “all else to be added” list, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t confess that on more than one occasion what I’ve wanted has not been what’s best - and I’m SO thankful in these instances that God knows more than I do and isn’t afraid to be the boring parent.

So how do I fix this? I can’t give up wanting things. I refuse to resign myself to a small existence. But as yet, what I see happening in my mind doesn’t match what’s happening outside of it, and it’s making me miserable. Am I merely Joseph the dreamer or will I ever get to be Joseph the governor? (Bible reference: Genesis 37-50) He had a hell of a time getting to that point (which, I suppose, puts my pity party into rather harsh perspective) but I’m sure he didn’t stop dreaming and wanting things. Now there is one man I’d like to have a long fireside chat with….

I've figured out why the world is the way it is.

You can stop wondering. I’ve figured out why the world is the way it is: The people who make decisions about policy and world order never left high school. I know this because of what happened today.

The elective course I’m currently in combines students from three programs – European Studies, Global Studies, and my program, International Administration and Global Governance (IAGG for short). Today our professor asked us to divide ourselves into study groups during the break. So that’s what we did – “we” being me and my fellow IAGGers. We’re the kind of people who like to leave the classroom and hang out in the hallway during our breaks, and while we were out there getting the job done, the GS and ES students stayed in the classroom and thought up another plan. 

Their idea was to have mixed groups of ES, GS and IAGG students so that we could all “benefit from each other’s various backgrounds,” and "couldn’t the 30 or so of us reach an agreement together?" Now, this was a perfectly swell suggestion, but for the IAGGers who had already formed two groups to the satisfaction of all involved, the new plan wasn’t so appealing. This resulted in our staying after class for 20 minutes arguing back and forth as to how to divvy up the groups. Some didn’t see why we should rearrange the groups that were already formed; others grew frustrated at the apparent unwillingness of IAGGers to work with people outside their program; some tried to corral the group toward a consensus, only to be undermined by others who weren’t having it; and on and on it went. I, being the good Swede, remained neutral throughout the negotiations, all the while feeling distinctly uncomfortable about how complicated and awkward we were making it. I could tell certain ones in the class were getting offended, and it wasn't the IAGGers.

In short, we ended up agreeing on a day and time for everyone to show up, but did we reach a decision regarding who would be in what group? Of course we didn’t. Because we’re all still in high school. In reality, what took place today was just a dress rehearsal for future summits on international policy and law that no one will agree upon. The one thing that will be agreed upon is the time and place of the next summit in which negotiations will continue and no agreements will be reached. 

Now, if one were to take a step back to surmise the situation, one could make an interesting observation: We see that Global Studies students – the future activists and NGO workers of the world – just wanted everyone to come together to share experiences and lend one another their different perspectives on the issues we are studying. Lyrics like “Come on people now/smile on your brother/everybody get together/let’s try to love one another right now” come to mind. We also see that the IAGG students – the pragmatists and future governing elite – felt perfectly satisfied to work with the people they already know and trust. They did what the professor had asked the class to do, they just did it out in the hall rather than in the classroom. Which, let’s face it, is how important political decisions are made – within closed groups in the corridors, not in the general assembly in great conference halls. 

So. Be at peace and anxious for nothing. The future activists and governing elites of the world do have plans for leading the masses into a prosperous 21^st century. The plans just happen to differ and the two groups just happen to not get along. There is absolutely nothing to worry about.

Empty Inside - a diagnosis

The title makes it sound like I’ve been diagnosed with existential anxiety, but after two days of prepping for a colonoscopy, I was, quite literally, empty inside. Preparations included a strictly liquid diet and strong laxatives – I’ll spare you the details. Needless to say, it was pretty unsexy. I spent two and a half days cursing the day I was born (not really) and trying not to burn too many calories (which was easily remedied by marathon-watching The Good Wife).

The actual colonoscopy procedure was undramatic. However, there is this thing with my body not responding well to strong pain killers or muscle relaxers that I’ve only come to realize since I started having trouble in October. And being half Italian, there of course needed to be drama at some point. Right before the procedure began, the nurse gave me a muscle relaxer, but instead of relaxing me it had the direct opposite effect. Halfway through the procedure, I noticed my hands growing stiff and curling in at the wrist. I couldn’t move them and I started hyperventilating. Once the doctor pulled the camera/tube thing out, the nurse moved me into a different room to calm me down. I remember my body turning completely rigid from the feet up, along with my arms, hands and mouth. I couldn’t talk normally and had no idea what was going on. I don’t think the nurse did either, because at this point she was pretty frenzied, trying to get me to calm down and breathe normally. Eventually I did calm down and she could straighten out my hands and things returned to normal.

It’s rare, but apparently some people react differently than expected to muscle relaxers and can even grow violent. The nurse had not seen my particular reaction before though. Not my finest moment to be sure, but it does make for a good story.   

Anyways, the verdict is that I have neither diverticulitis nor constipation issues as the previous two hospital visits had assessed. I have IBS (irritable bowel syndrome). This diagnosis does better at explaining the pain and symptoms I’ve experienced on several occasions since October (at times severe, at other times less so). There’s no cure for it and there’s no particular diet that will lessen the symptoms since the food triggers vary from person to person. It’s just something I’m going to have to live with and hope the pain won’t be too frequent.

I don’t really know what to take away from all this. I don’t know how or why I’ve developed IBS, but this is a thorn in my side I’m simply going to have to accept. I suppose that if the apostle Paul wasn’t exempt, I’m not either. God is still good to me. I just pray I won’t have to give up chocolate. 

Woes of a grad student, part 4: Academic language

I went to Journalism School for my undergrad. There I was taught how to write really well. Now I’m in grad school where writing really well is suddenly a skill I need to shed in order to be taken seriously by the academic community. In J-school we are taught - GRILLED - in clean, concise, smart writing. The goal is to say as much as you can in as few words as you can. You achieve this by editing until you cannot possibly omit one more word.

I like this kind of writing. I know this kind of writing. I understand this kind of writing. 

However, in grad school we are assigned verbose, often pretentious academic articles in which the authors attempt to convey as little as possible with as many words as possible. In fact, if you can add syllables onto words that already exist in order to create new words that mean exactly the same thing, you are truly accomplished.

Why use equality when one can use equitability? They mean the same thing, but adding two more syllables makes it sound so much more grandiloquent. Why be content with using three syllables - condition - when one can say it in six: conditionality? Why choose the word cause when one can say causation, or even causality? Communication becomes so much more clear when it’s circumlocutorily nuanced, right? 

Come on people. I get feeling the need to create a verb, adjective or adverb from a noun (I do that too), but creating two more noun forms from a noun that’s already a noun is just plain unnecessary.

You know what else is plain unnecessary? Sentences like these: “In this form, the ‘lexicographic maximin’ rule has been axiomatically derived in different ways…There is no necessity to interpret these axioms in terms of utilities only, and in fact the analytical results derived in this part of the social-choice literature can be easily applied without the ‘welfarist’ structure of identifying individual advantage with the respective utilities.”

Just stop. 

Woes of a grad student, part 3: Acronyms ad nauseum.

Contrary to what I might have expected, the most challenging aspect of grad school is not so much having to write literature reviews or learn to interpret statistics (though that part really sucks too, I promise you). It’s having to learn the millions of acronyms that stand for the different development organizations, programs and transnational coalitions.

I’ll show you what I mean: We have for example the IMF, the WB and the PRGF that all have to write PRSPs and CASs in accordance with the CDF, OD, and OP in order to seek qualification from the Enhanced HIPC, monitored through annual PERs and FIMS, all in cooperation with the WHO, ILO, UNICEF, UNDP, UNHCR, FAO, AfDB, DfID and USAID, organizations that are financed by OECD, EU, NATO and WTO members.

Sheesh, with all of this helpfulness it’s a mystery we still have conflict and poverty in the world. I mean, my goodness.

Here’s my master’s thesis proposal in 9 words: Cut the crap. Stop being important. Start being useful. Not scientific and analytical enough for you? IDGARA. Figure that one out. 

The roaring 20s

I turn 30 tomorrow. (Cue a sharp intake of breath.) I can be calm this year because I had my freak out session last year when I turned 29. Still, this birthday feels momentous in some way. 

Let’s summarize my situation: I am unemployed, I live on student loans, I was closer to getting married at 19 than I am now, I’ve still not figured out where home is and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up (I thought I did, but then I got confused when I started grad school).  

In short, I shouldn’t be turning 30. It’s irresponsible of me. However, I do have this to say for myself: I may look like I graduated from high school last spring, but I’ve had time to run around the proverbial block a few times. Here are six important life lessons my “roaring twenties” taught me:

1. I am a late bloomer. I’ve needed time to figure out what I think about things. I’ve needed time to figure out what I want. I’ve needed time to fight what I know is inevitable. Basically, I’ve needed time to figure out that everything my mother has ever said is annoyingly true. 

2. Life will never turn out the way I expect it to. Duh, right? But as with most obvious lessons, it’s taken me many years to learn this. Detours can be anxiety inducing. They can also be incredibly life giving. I choose which attitude to adopt. Also, a thankful attitude is really really helpful when you don’t know what the hell is going on.

3. It’s okay to be particular. I apply this principle in growing measure to every aspect of my life: boys, friends, jobs, food, hobbies, purchases, you fill in the blank. And I’m happier and more satisfied because of it. My theory is that when you are particular, you are less prone to make wasteful mistakes. 

4. Relationships are incredibly important. Another duh. But when I say they are important, don’t assume I mean all relationships. It’s easy to indiscriminately invest time in people who are only going to drain you. The older I get, the better I get at differentiating between those who will improve my life and those who won’t. I won’t ignore people, but I will not partake in their drama. You may call it antipathy; I call it relational triage. 

5. Do not grow weary in doing good. This is harder than it sounds. I don’t always like the world I live in, and when I say this I’m not referring to the big world crises that keep journalists buzzed. I mean the subtle attitudes and habits of people - our disgusting degree of consumerism, our quest for happiness in all the wrong places, our conformity to political correctness, our indecently corrupt political and financial systems, our entitled attitudes. The good guy rarely wins. The bottom line steers pretty much everything. I don’t wish to sound cynical, but the romantic idealist in me is feeling slightly deprived of oxygen. Despite this, the truth remains the same: It is always right to do the right thing. Good does win at the end of the story, but we haven’t gotten to the end yet. 

6. The advantages of handing over the reins of my life to my Creator cannot be overstated. The longer I live, the less I understand. The less I understand, the more I have to trust. Trust is not easy, but it is incredibly freeing. Every life plan I’ve ever made has veered into a pit stop and resulted in a change in direction. I’ve had to eat my “nevers.” But what I’ve gotten instead is an inner peace, a grateful heart, and a certainty that the best of life is still ahead of me. I don’t have to know everything. 

Back from Bosnia - Part 4

Put the Sarajevo Jazz Fest on your bucket list. Their slogan is “The best music is where you least expect it” and it proved truthful in every way.

I have been to Sarajevo five times now, the first four for work (see previous Back from Bosnia posts). I feel that with this fifth time I’ve finally put it to rest. The city is depressed and I would never want to live there (as Lina said at one point, this is the first time she’s not heard me say “Ooo I want to live there!” as I point to an apartment building in whatever city we’re visiting), but it is dear to my heart nonetheless. My love for this city goes far beyond strolling the streets and enjoying the sights. It’s tied up in the history of the place and the people I’ve met who call it home.

The point of this trip was to attend the Jazz Fest (which has been happening every November for 18 years). My friend Eldar is the stage manager (that feels awesome to say!) and he arranged for my friend Lina and I to stay at a friend’s mother’s friends’ empty apartment. We even got picked up from the airport in the VIP car that is used to shuttle the festival’s artists around. Incidentally, we arrived on the same flight as Håkon Kornstad, one of the artists we heard (we didn’t know this until we saw him on stage and realized we’d seen him in the passport line). I wonder what car he was picked up in….

Anyways, we’d bought tickets for three nights and each concert was better than the last. I can’t really transmit through words the tremendous music experience that it was. Suffice to say, if you love music it is well worth the trip at some point in your life. Friday night was Dianne Reeves. The woman has an incomprehensible range and vocal elasticity. There is nothing she can’t do. The concert was brilliant. You can get a taste of it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6G7K1nIPxE

Saturday night was Håkon Kornstad, a Norwegian saxophone player turned opera tenor (no joke!) who also plays the flute with a clarinet mouthpiece (who knew?). With his trusty old loop machine, he became a one man band. Lina and I even got serenaded in Swedish when he sang a beautiful old folk tune Ack Värmland du sköna. And he was just the opener! The main attraction was Avishai Cohen Trio, three guys from Israel who play jazz like nobody’s business. The pianist was insane, the drummer (who shouldn’t even be called a drummer because it sounds so unsophisticated compared to what this guy did) was brilliant, and Avishai, the contrabassist, was genius. With all of the amazing stuff they did together, the highlight for me was when he sang an old Argentine ballad in Spanish and an old Hebrew song written by a young poet from Odessa in the late 1940s. His voice and expression were so sublimely melancholy. It profoundly touched me.

Sunday’s concert was Ibrahim Maalouf, a trumpet player from Lebanon/France. I’d never heard of the guy, but apparently he is pretty popular in Bosnia because the crowd cheered at the mention of certain songs. This guy is the whole package: a versatile and humorous musician, a charismatic showman, a strong band leader, and a seemingly unpretentious guy. Even though the music itself wasn't my favorite kind (although the bagpiper rocking out to a Led Zepplin tribute was pretty awesome), the full experience was one I am so glad to have witnessed. It was more than music. He comes from a war-torn Beirut and he played in a war-torn Sarajevo. The full significance of the feelings transmitted through his playing is something I may never be able to fully grasp, but the audience around me did. It sounds so cliché, but music like that transcends time, history, conflict and pain. It’s all there in the notes, notes that don’t need words to be understood. In fact, words would just ruin it.

Ibrahim Maalouf

The drummer was an ongoing party

Of course we did more than just attend concerts. We slept till noon, ate our breakfasts on a “park” bench, strolled through the city, befriended a Bosnian tea shopkeeper named Hussein who spoke no English but did speak perfect Italian. He was a colorful character with his wavy long white-gray hair and ankle length black tunic. We ate some good food, saw a gallery exhibition with photographs from the genocide in Srebrenica and most importantly, spent some quality time at my favorite café of all time, The Goldfish.

The Goldfish café keeps bringing me back to Sarajevo. 

Reunited with my friend Eldar and made a new friend in Alfred (far left).

This may very well have been my last trip to Sarajevo. Or it may not have been. I don’t know. But I am certain that I’ve taken the very best of it with me.