Oprah really is a cultural phenomenon of our time. I mean really... her patterns of weight loss and weight gain alone are followed by millions worldwide. During high school Emma Pye and I would leave school during our lunch break, grab some drive-through KFC, and watch Oprah. Sometimes these KFC/Oprah sessions would spill over into our math lessons, but that's ok. These were wonderful times of bonding for us. Criticising Oprah and the myriad of guests who appeared on her show provided us with a common ground. Anyway... these days, being the mature adult that I am, I have a much lower tolerance for Oprah. Yesterday at 1pm I relented and turned Oprah on. I watched the episode for about 10 minutes and nearly burst my foofoo valve from annoyance. Let me explain.
Yesterday the feature of Oprah's program was over-weight teenagers. Not just a bunch of kids who had eaten one too many Oreos, but clinically obese children. The interviews with some of these kids were really heart breaking. The teenage years are a difficult time; this is just compounded if you are noticeably different. Oprah called in some of her trusted counselors and the team of enthusiastic Americans endeavored to get to the bottom of what these kids were REALLY hungry for. Because, as many of us know, food addiction is rarely just the result of an unbalanced love of food. I'm sure that sometimes it is, but often food is just a convenient outlet, or area of control, or source of pleasure, or whatever. The kids screamed and cried and shared their pain, their struggles and their anger. After a number of intense documented sessions, Oprah gathered the group of teens in her studio and asked them each individually what they were REALLY hungry for. With smiling glowing facing, each child gave Oprah an answer. "I'm really hungry for a strong constant male figure in my life". "I'm really hungry for acceptance". "I'm really hungry to be seen for who I am inside, not what I look like". Oprah's conclusion was that all of these children are looking for the same thing. They are looking to find who they are, and they want to be seen for who they are. They want to be known. Deeply known. Through Oprah's carefully orchestrated counseling sessions, these children were able to identify the holes that exist in their lives (e.g. constant male figure), and effectively attribute blame to explain and rationalise the emptiness that they experience every day. From here, they can begin to discover who they are, apart from the circumstances that seem to have left gaping holes in their hearts.
Now. I understand that the teenage years are a tumultuous time of confusion and self discovery. I understand how detrimental a lot of difficult circumstances, such as inadequate parent figures, bullying, etc, can be on young lives. I understand that every kid wants to be known for who they are and what is written on their heart, not for how much weight they carry. I understand all of this. However I can't help but wonder how much longer we as a society are going to keep telling our children that the emptiness in their lives can be filled by happy circumstances and by being actively validated by somebody else. Sure, every one loves happy circumstances and being accepted, but these aren't the core issues. These aren't the cause of the deep and penetrating emptiness that they feel inside. Being "known" by somebody else isn't going to take away that pain. Being able to tell the world who you are won't solve your problems. Sorry Oprah, but it won't.
Our Bible study at the moment is reading through 1 Corinthians. This week I spent the whole session lying down on the couch with my eyes closed because I was exhausted (re: viral meningitis), however I was still able to listen to what was being said. 1 Corinthians 8:3 says that "the man who loves God is known by God". Just let that sink in for a moment. Not only are we created by God and loved by our Father, but we are known by God. We are deeply, intricately, eternally, passionately and profoundly KNOWN by God. Healing doesn't come from the world knowing who we are, but from the realisation that we are already known. We are known and loved, even as we are sinners. There are plenty of teenagers with perfect bodies and wonderful fathers who experience the same emptiness that the over-weight girl on Oprah's show described. They are known by lots of people. But this isn't enough. I can't help but disagree with Oprah's plight for young people to "be known" by others and therefore "experience healing". We are already known. If only she knew how wonderful it is to be known by our God!
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Under the weather....
One of the worst things that you could ever do to me is drain all of my energy, lock me in a house, and tell me that I can't do anything except watch TV, movies and sleep for days on end. I know that for some people this is probably the closest that they will ever get to experiencing heaven on earth, but I hate it. There is nothing worse than sitting on the couch listening to an old and expressionless ABC weather man suggest that society should invoke a fifth season called Sprummer to accommodate the warmer half of spring, when you could be out doing something useful. There is only so long that I can maintain the already loose grip that I have on my sanity under these conditions. Surely a mental break down of sorts is forthcoming... although I don't think that I have the energy for a mental break down...
Just to back-track a little, I've been unwell for the past 5 or so days. I am in desperate need of human interaction. Whenever I am visited by family or friends I have so little energy that the most significant form of communication I have is falling asleep on top of them. I'm sure that they know I appreciate their presence. However in a dramatic turn of events, today I've been up and about for nearly 2 and a half hours now, so I thought that I would celebrate by blogging.
I've realised recently that there are lots of amusing things about being sick. I've found the number of illnesses/diseases that I have been diagnosed with over the past 5 days very amusing. They have ranged from a cold, the flu, swine flu (of course), a financial investments seminar-induced headache (my initial self-diagnosis prior to ending up in the ED. No seminar is that bad), to meningococcal (my Grandma tends to panic a little) and viral meningitis. The range of 'suggested' treatments have included wet washers, hot water bottles, funny shaped pillows for my neck and a pharmacy worth of various drugs. I'd really just like a good cup of coffee. I think that my sister provided me with the most helpful treatment yesterday when she brought me some chocolate during her lunch break. You learn very quickly to sift through the legitimate suggestions and graciously ignore the rest. However, all of this has made me realise how cared for I am. I love that a ridiculous diagnosis here and there is a wonderful indication of genuine love and concern. God has blessed me with a wonderful family and friends, and I have so much to be thankful for!
Anywho.. energy is waning, so I will wrap it up here. Feel free to leave a comment, if for no other reason than indulge me with some form of human interaction :)
Just to back-track a little, I've been unwell for the past 5 or so days. I am in desperate need of human interaction. Whenever I am visited by family or friends I have so little energy that the most significant form of communication I have is falling asleep on top of them. I'm sure that they know I appreciate their presence. However in a dramatic turn of events, today I've been up and about for nearly 2 and a half hours now, so I thought that I would celebrate by blogging.
I've realised recently that there are lots of amusing things about being sick. I've found the number of illnesses/diseases that I have been diagnosed with over the past 5 days very amusing. They have ranged from a cold, the flu, swine flu (of course), a financial investments seminar-induced headache (my initial self-diagnosis prior to ending up in the ED. No seminar is that bad), to meningococcal (my Grandma tends to panic a little) and viral meningitis. The range of 'suggested' treatments have included wet washers, hot water bottles, funny shaped pillows for my neck and a pharmacy worth of various drugs. I'd really just like a good cup of coffee. I think that my sister provided me with the most helpful treatment yesterday when she brought me some chocolate during her lunch break. You learn very quickly to sift through the legitimate suggestions and graciously ignore the rest. However, all of this has made me realise how cared for I am. I love that a ridiculous diagnosis here and there is a wonderful indication of genuine love and concern. God has blessed me with a wonderful family and friends, and I have so much to be thankful for!
Anywho.. energy is waning, so I will wrap it up here. Feel free to leave a comment, if for no other reason than indulge me with some form of human interaction :)
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
No butts about it...
I have a sad story to share with you all. Before I continue, I might just add a disclaimer: This blog will serve no purpose other than to indulge my self pity.
Right. That's out of the way. Back to my sad story...
I have a broken butt.
Well.. not technically. Or at least not that I know of. I haven't been to see a doctor. Apparently "broken butt" isn't the correct medical terminology anyway. According to the PG version of a medical print out that Mark gave me, pain in the coccyx is called Coccydynia. I think that broken butt is a much more direct diagnosis, so I'm going to stick with that. If you have been following this blog, you will remember that I mentioned falling down the stairs on the yacht during our sailing trip. That was six weeks ago, and my butt is still holding a grudge against my lack of coordination. When I sit on a chair I need a pillow, otherwise I can't stay seated for long stretches of time. When I sit down to study or go to Uni I need to take pain killers first. The only reason that I haven't gone to a doctor is because, from what I can gather, the only treatment is carrying around a donut cushion. Mark suggested that I stitch a donut cushion into my clothing for convenience. I suggested that he was a terrible boyfriend.
Anywho.. the pain isn't unbearable, so hopefully this means that my butt (coccyx, whatever) isn't actually broken. I think it's just angry at me and spiteful and wanting to take revenge for making it fall down stairs. Please learn from my mistakes. Don't fall down stairs. Really. Nobody wants to be the girl with a donut cushion sewn into her jeans.
Right. That's out of the way. Back to my sad story...
I have a broken butt.
Well.. not technically. Or at least not that I know of. I haven't been to see a doctor. Apparently "broken butt" isn't the correct medical terminology anyway. According to the PG version of a medical print out that Mark gave me, pain in the coccyx is called Coccydynia. I think that broken butt is a much more direct diagnosis, so I'm going to stick with that. If you have been following this blog, you will remember that I mentioned falling down the stairs on the yacht during our sailing trip. That was six weeks ago, and my butt is still holding a grudge against my lack of coordination. When I sit on a chair I need a pillow, otherwise I can't stay seated for long stretches of time. When I sit down to study or go to Uni I need to take pain killers first. The only reason that I haven't gone to a doctor is because, from what I can gather, the only treatment is carrying around a donut cushion. Mark suggested that I stitch a donut cushion into my clothing for convenience. I suggested that he was a terrible boyfriend.
Anywho.. the pain isn't unbearable, so hopefully this means that my butt (coccyx, whatever) isn't actually broken. I think it's just angry at me and spiteful and wanting to take revenge for making it fall down stairs. Please learn from my mistakes. Don't fall down stairs. Really. Nobody wants to be the girl with a donut cushion sewn into her jeans.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Student mode....
Today is the first day of semester two. I'm finding that I'm still very much in teacher mode, and therefore making the transition back into student mode is a little difficult. That said, love my kids as I do, it is a nice change to not have to watch 27 six year olds simultaneously. It really is very exhausting. Anywho, like many things in life, some of which I have previously written about in this blog, I am realising that I also have a routine that I follow on the first day of Uni.
Typically, I spend the morning of the first day finding the room codes that my classes will be held in and locating the rooms on a map of JCU. I really struggle with the JCU interactive map because you can't turn it upside down; and as every woman knows, this is the only way that a map can be read. Ideally I would have done this task on the weekend, however it often is left until Monday morning as the weekend is spent recovering from placement. After this I drive to my first class. I'm usually late, but only a little bit late, and it's the stupid interactive map's fault anyway. I walk into the room and take a seat towards the front, because I am far too easily distracted to sit at the back. I then turn to the person seated next to me and ask the same question that I ask at the beginning of every semester; "What class is this?". It takes every ounce of my organisational ability to sit myself down in the right room at roughly the right time... remembering the name of the class is asking too much. I then sit for 50 minutes, focusing all of my energy on listening to what is being said, before performing this sequence of events all over again in the next lecture.
While I was enduring today's SOSE lecture, I stumbled across a new breed of annoying student. I was probably already feeling a little bit annoyed and over-critical because my SOSE lecturer says soze instead of sose. For some reason that bothers me. ANYWAY. We're all familiar with out-spoken mature age students who insist on adding their two cents whenever the lecturer so much as pauses to take a breath. In primary/early childhood circles, these students are usually women. However. Today I discovered the male outspoken mature age student. There is a distinct difference between male and female mature age students in primary/early childhood classes. The female mature age students are usually Mums, and therefore at least have a basic understanding of how young children are wired. Male mature age students, on the other hand, do not. During today's SOSE lecture we were discussing various issues that arise from social and environmental studies that might interest young children. Our friend, the male mature age student in the front row (who by this stage had already spent his two cents as far as I was concerned), raised his hand and said "Six year olds are too busy trying to think about tying their shoes to think about anything else". Now, perhaps I am overly sensitive about comments like this after spending three weeks teaching grade one, however I happily joined the chorus of "tsk tsk tsk's" that erupted from the Mums in the front row. I'm not really sure how you could make it through two and a half years of primary or early childhood education and still have such a poor understanding of children. Now, before you call me a bra-burning tofu-inhaling feminist, I'm sure that not all men have such a naive understanding of children. I have many male friends who seem to understand children quite well. I'm sure that I still have a lot to learn about how children work. But really, at this stage in our degree, we should at least know that kids love to actively explore and question their environment.
End rant. I'm off to another lecture.
Typically, I spend the morning of the first day finding the room codes that my classes will be held in and locating the rooms on a map of JCU. I really struggle with the JCU interactive map because you can't turn it upside down; and as every woman knows, this is the only way that a map can be read. Ideally I would have done this task on the weekend, however it often is left until Monday morning as the weekend is spent recovering from placement. After this I drive to my first class. I'm usually late, but only a little bit late, and it's the stupid interactive map's fault anyway. I walk into the room and take a seat towards the front, because I am far too easily distracted to sit at the back. I then turn to the person seated next to me and ask the same question that I ask at the beginning of every semester; "What class is this?". It takes every ounce of my organisational ability to sit myself down in the right room at roughly the right time... remembering the name of the class is asking too much. I then sit for 50 minutes, focusing all of my energy on listening to what is being said, before performing this sequence of events all over again in the next lecture.
While I was enduring today's SOSE lecture, I stumbled across a new breed of annoying student. I was probably already feeling a little bit annoyed and over-critical because my SOSE lecturer says soze instead of sose. For some reason that bothers me. ANYWAY. We're all familiar with out-spoken mature age students who insist on adding their two cents whenever the lecturer so much as pauses to take a breath. In primary/early childhood circles, these students are usually women. However. Today I discovered the male outspoken mature age student. There is a distinct difference between male and female mature age students in primary/early childhood classes. The female mature age students are usually Mums, and therefore at least have a basic understanding of how young children are wired. Male mature age students, on the other hand, do not. During today's SOSE lecture we were discussing various issues that arise from social and environmental studies that might interest young children. Our friend, the male mature age student in the front row (who by this stage had already spent his two cents as far as I was concerned), raised his hand and said "Six year olds are too busy trying to think about tying their shoes to think about anything else". Now, perhaps I am overly sensitive about comments like this after spending three weeks teaching grade one, however I happily joined the chorus of "tsk tsk tsk's" that erupted from the Mums in the front row. I'm not really sure how you could make it through two and a half years of primary or early childhood education and still have such a poor understanding of children. Now, before you call me a bra-burning tofu-inhaling feminist, I'm sure that not all men have such a naive understanding of children. I have many male friends who seem to understand children quite well. I'm sure that I still have a lot to learn about how children work. But really, at this stage in our degree, we should at least know that kids love to actively explore and question their environment.
End rant. I'm off to another lecture.
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