chasing the sun

Sometimes I start things and never finish them. And sometimes when faced with something uncomfortable, harsh or difficult, I run away. I am trying to be more resolved, more faithful, less distracted and self-conscious, but I’m not really sure how to do that; so, I started going to counseling again.

I like counseling because I feel like the person sitting in the over-stuffed chair across from me, asking me probing questions about myself is a trained professional who should and will have all the answers.

I also like to think about things. In fact, I think that thinking is probably what I do more of than any other thing. The problem, though, with being a thinker is a tendency to get lost in what I think and forget to act, forget to speak, forget to engage in reality.

So, in an effort to combat my tendencies toward quitting, hard-stuff avoidance and over-thinking, I’m trying something new.

This September will mark the 30th anniversary of my birth.

I’m dreading 30. My friends claim 30 is the new 20 and that 30 is great, magical, wonderful, liberating. Blah! Blah! Blah! To me it is a reminder that I am old, single, and without an actual career, but that is for another blog…

Anyway, the other night I went to a bookstore with my friend and while we were wading through the isles of books looking for nothing in particular, we passed by a copy of Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. I casually mentioned to my friend that I’d never read it and she says it was pretty typical of Russian Literature.

I repeated, “typical of Russian literature,” in my best snobbish, intellectually elitist mock. Then, realizing that this might make her feel unappreciated, I added, with a slight incredulous smile, “Do you read a lot of Russian literature?”

What followed was a humiliating conversation I’d hoped never to have with my friend who is a teacher and a great reader. It basically consisted of her pointing to various titles of classic pieces of literature and asking me if I’d read it. 9 times out of 10, the answer was no.

“Wuthering Heights?”
“No.”
“Of Mice and Men?”
“No.”
“Crime and Punishment?”
“No.”
“How did you graduate from high school?”
“Bah!”

Since we had that conversation, I’ve been thinking (of course) about my aversion to fiction. I love to read theology books and cheesy DaVinci Code-esque fiction, but, in general, I avoid books that deal with typical people who go through various gut-wrenching emotions and come out of the experience changed, but not necessarily for the better.

I think the realness of most works of fiction is what hinders me the most. I don’t like books like The Great Gatsby (which I’ve actually read) because the characters are so obviously flawed and I prefer my characters to be perfect and have all the answers. But flaws and imperfections can’t be avoided in life any more than they can be in literature. And I don’t want to live in fear of imperfection or failure.

So, I’m taking a small step toward balance in my thoughts and understanding.

We devised a plan – it was mostly my idea, but whatever – that for my 30th birthday, she could make me a list of 30 books that I will commit to read in my 30th year of life. It seemed like a good idea. It’s definitely a thoughtful gift and something we’re both excited about.

Plus, then I can know what “typical of Russian literature” actually means.

Feel free to suggest your favorites!