Among the Reeds
With Moses and a Tiger.
Questions of Self and Existence
Flow from the Reflective Spaces
Of People Watching — and Faith.
By Jennifer McGee
Saturday, December 2, 2000.
DATELINE: Fayetteville, Arkansas.
Special to corndancer.com
It has become a ritual in my secret place.
I pause to sit, becoming a small Moses, hidden among the reeds. Then I become like a tiger, gazing lazily and inconspicuously out of the dense jungle growth and devouring at my leisure the fresh, recently ensnared prey: a corporeal ham and cheese melt with curly fries, dripping blood-red with ketchup.
As usual, I have 15 minutes between incessant rings of the cash register and the sonorous roarings of the customers, barely enough time to take time for a bit of nourishment for body, soul, and mind. I flee from the department store to my usual perch — a small, Arthurian round table and a quaint chair with the back made like a pitchfork, nestled in the food court and separated from the main crowded corridor of the mall by only an aesthetically pleasant water pond and a row of leafy greens in clay pots. The usual thoughts begin to roll like billowing, frantic waves across my mind.
Right now could be the time.
To Be Whisked Away....
At this moment Moses could be plucked from the reeds and placed on his path to greatness. Now I could be whisked away from the bras and pajamas, away from the routine of work and school, away from the jumbled, current state of my mind to a place of prince charmings and shining knights on gallant steeds, a place where dreams, once made known, come true.
Now is never the time, so I push away the compressing thoughts of history and eternity. In their place I foster comforting ideas of less challenging weight and significance.
I watch people, an interesting pastime I've long enjoyed while eating, whether at the school cafeteria or in the mall's food court. I can step out of myself for a moment and step into the lives of others.
A Mother, Two Lovers, Lonely Affluence.
There, at a table near the hamburger place. A young mother, about twenty-two I'd guess, with long, mousy brown hair, so long it almost touches her blue-jeaned knees, sits with her small, blond boy, maybe two. The boy is dancing blissfully on the table while his older sister, near five, watches a bit enviously until she, taking matters into her own hands, joins his escapade. I think about my young nephews. I wonder: How long has she been married, how long has it taken her to grow hair so long, longer by far than even mine.
The young lady with her boyfriend, standing in line for Chinese. She grabs his hand and smiles, flirtatiously. He gently pushes her blond curls away from her ear and whispers something soft and sweet therein. Roses bloom on her fair cheeks as they advance to the counter, their arms intertwined. How long have they been together? Do they really love one another? I see him look at her the same way I've been looked upon too few times in my short experience. My heart aches thinking about its absence.
Just across from me at a similar round table sits a middle-aged lady with permed, graying hair. Her fashionable dress-suit and smart shoes hint at a comfortable lifestyle; probably a nice car, a large home in the suburbs, and a country club membership. Looks can be deceiving, though; one might doubt her affluence by the lonely, unfulfilled look in her eye. It is a little odd to realize that I know what she carries in her department store bag; not twenty minutes ago, I helped her pick out some new "unmentionables" from the store. That's my job; that's what I get paid for; that's why I'm alone in the mall food court, gulping ravenously on fast food.
See, even when I think about others, I can't help but see myself staring back.
It seems I pride myself in being different from others, but aren't we all, as much as some of us hate to admit it, so very much alike?
No, no…. Not another one of these billowing thoughts. They pound my sense of identity like turbulent surf on a lonely seacoast. I have been struggling lately with questions of self and existence. They never fall silent for too very long. The waves roll again and again.
The Starving Artist versus the Real Job.
I fall into the reasoned distance of the third-person.
It is late autumn, 2000: three months into her freshman year at University. Let's look back about six years. She is a young teenager in seventh grade. The whole world appears to be in front of her. She picks up the violin for the first time. She loves it; it is ideal voice for a quiet girl, an instrument for the expression of her feelings to the world. Through its strings, she learns to speak more eloquently than she might through her own, hushed throat.
The highest of aspiration begins to rise within her. She wants to be like John Williams, to make film scores, to conduct famous symphony orchestras, to teach at her alma mater of the Julliard School of Music in New York City. She seizes the dream and holds it close to her heart for years. Then some ill-defined moment in high school brings a realization. Even though she was passionate about her music, there was still something to be said for that prize her elders called "real job."
Of course, she could do anything she wanted, but she had doubts about living the life of the starving artist, fighting tooth and nail for bread on the table. She reevaluated her goals, weighed them, and found them wanting. College loomed boldly on her horizon and she felt pressured to make decisions she wasn't ready to make just yet; she did what she could with what she knew.
The Fires of Heaven and a Wild Fire.
Suddenly in the summer, soon after the tenth grade was over and done with, the fires of heaven, blazing with awe and glory, fell upon her countenance with a fury. A small spark ignited her mind, and the thoughts grew like a wild fire in parched forest. Suddenly another seed sprouted, but this one took time to germinate and bloom fully.
A year passed, another summer arrived. She began to write, and by the time her senior year began, she had completed her first outline for a screenplay. Others followed. She felt alive with the blooms of creation. She would write cinema-funny, moving, satiric, expressionistic. All styles of Art sprang forth; all were new outlets for her creativity, all were a way to show others what she saw.
She knew she could do this, that, anything; passion after passion sprang up inside her like wells in the Canaan wilderness. Then, the doubts intervened. The artist stepped lightly, knowing that being Steven Spielberg wouldn't be any easier than being John Williams.
A Clash of Ambition and Expectation.
Starker realities intervened to douse the raging inferno. What to do about university, how to deal with the expectations of others? For most of her life she knew that she was expected to go to the hometown university. It had been good enough for her older siblings. She knew her mother held certain ambitions for her. Yes, practical; yes, sensible. Yes, they would not fulfill her!
One day in December, in the gutsiest move in her life, she told her parents she was going to a university two and a half hours away, light years from home, despite their admonitions and pleadings. In the end, they consented, trusting her enough to make wise decisions while living in a den of adders. Ever so reluctantly, they let go. For this they earned even more of her admiration.
Now she was away from them, removed from their hearth. Now she follows a track of her making. Is it the right track?
I haven't a clue.
A Search for Illumination on the Horizon.
I wait for God.
Every day I pray that he will send some answers, a sign, some direction to me so that I may know where to turn.
I have interests. I have strengths. I am one semester deep into the journey — with no idea where to go beyond what is required of me.
Eventually I will run out of time. Eventually I will have to choose. How do I know God's path for me?
A dense fog surrounds me with only the Lamp to light my path; tonight, it shines its stingy rays only far enough ahead to illuminate one step at a time. My life becomes a daze of school, work, homework, practice — and barely enough free time to rejuvenate. I attempt to step outside of myself to see what exactly I am doing, attempt to counter the momentum of the automatic pilot that drives me here and there. This is no way to be! God, I pray, where are your smoke signals on my horizon?
Something Is Missing, Always Missing.
Through my dormitory room window I gaze at the sunset most every night. (I think I've picked the most beautiful spot in the state to further my education.) I have a grand view of rolling hills and trees, aflame with fall; the old, heroic buildings of the campus; parking lots; a giant television screen, electronic paean to the power of football; and a sprawling monolith of a football stadium. As I look at the sunset, I realize something is missing, always missing. The smoke signals aren't there.
I know He is there; I know He guides events, and I am willing to watch and wait for His time to set things in their proper order. He may have created the world in six days, but my future seems to be taking a little longer to unfold.
I come back to another part of myself. Where am I? Yes. Moses and the tiger. My curly fries are mere crumbs now, and my Dr. Pepper is watery with melted ice. My fifteen-minute break is up for the evening, so I must return to the lingerie department. I must earn my six dollars an hour.
Peering once more through the reedy embankment to the mall beyond, I sigh. One day. One day He will pluck me from these reeds and set me on my Life's journey. I will lead my people out of their shackles and imprisonment of mind and spirit; as God's emissary, I will use his rod and staff to break their bonds and set them free from the Pharaoh, the false ruler and Prince of this world.
I will, by His power, set them and myself free. These people are so like myself. We are all alike, all one in Christ. If there is one thing I know, it is the end product, the final goal. Now, God: Send the smoke signals from the burning bushes in the Ozark hills. Illuminate the next step for me.
Jennifer
McGee
A
Personal
Note
Written
at
CornDancer's
Request.
It feels kind of strange to be nineteen, knowing that in less than a year I will have officially left my teens behind. But it's a part of growing up, and I take the changes greedily and readily as they come to me.
I am a freshman at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville where I am majoring in nothing particular at the moment. Hey, I still have lots of time to decide! This is the first time I have lived away from my home of Conway, Arkansas, where I was born in October of 1981, and though it has lots of challenges, it is a beneficial and exciting experience.
I miss my family, though: my parents Bill and Darlene; my darling and spoiled weenie dog Ellie; my sister Regina and my brother Larry (who are respectively 15 and 11 years older than me; yes, I am very much the baby of the family!); and my precious nephews Alex, Stewart, and Seth (and a brand-spanking new one due to arrive in April).
I consider my life a blessing from God that He gives me daily to live as productively, honorably, and worthily as I can. In all I do, I try give back to Him all he gives me, though I can never fully repay the debt. He is the ultimate reason for all I do.
