They told me to take a streetcar named Desire…

It turned out that this is an impossibility, however. It doesn’t exist. Probably a good thing since it didn’t end well for our friend Blanche.

New Orleans, on the other hand, exists. It more than exists; it yells. It sings. It resonates. And my word, does it feed you! A dear reverfriend of mine took me down to her homeland this past week, and amidst the madness of finishing up papers with a dying computer and a heart and mind all burnt out on theology, we had a grand old time.

I think probably the most appropriate way to sum up the experience is to list the things we consumed in our short stay down there. I worry that if I think too hard about it I might actually keel over; it was somewhat overwhelming and I don’t know that I can emotionally cope with it. However, here goes. I’ll tell you at least some of the items. New Orleans, a survey in Snacks:

1. Alligator Sausage. This was more delicious than anticipated in fact. Best not to think about the alligators themselves, which is somewhat simpler when someone has conveniently mushed them up and made them into a different shape. Incidentally we also went on an alligator-spotting mission but this was aborted because it was ‘cold’ (for cold, read not really very cold but we’re working with different standards.)

2. Red Beans and Rice. Perfection. Nicola requires to learn to cook such ambrosia. That’s all.

3. Po-Boys. Like Hoagies, but better. And I realise you homeland humans don’t actually know either of these words. I recommend you look them up.

4. Fried oysters. Twice. I’d never had an oyster before. But what doesn’t taste good fried? Here is a commonality between Scotia and Louisiana. Probably we should be friends.

5. Red Fish. At Galatoire’s, no less. Like I was Tennessee Williams himself. Brilliant. Love a good literary pilgrimage.

6. Beignets and Cafe au Lait. The kind of snack which you can actually FEEL clogging up your arteries as you consume them. Beignets, for the uninitiated, are like doughnutty deliciousness with a dangerous amount of powdered sugar on top. They are perilous, especially for a first-timer. All kinds of inhalation goes on. Chokey McChokerson. Also, in New Orleans they put chicory in their coffee. Weirdly delicious.

7. Crawfish. Not something I expected to like. But an essential Louisiana experience, apparently, and so clearly it was important that I attended a crawfish boil. Crawfish may or may not be code for crayfish. I think it is. They boil them up with all kinds of spicy deliciousness and corn and tatties (they don’t call them tatties) and then there is a huge ridiculous pile of them and then hopefully someone will teach you how to access the part that you eat. This is very complex and I heard many competing theories from real live southern people. I did not, as such, master the art. Messorama, but wonderful all the same.

8. Chicken Biscuits. Now. We all know about the great biscuit debate. It is not pretty and can threaten friendships. Here is my (I suspect contentious) interpretation of the situation: What I call a biscuit, they call a cookie. Unless I mean a biscuit-for-cheese in which case they say cracker. What I call a cookie, they also call a cookie. What they call a biscuit is vaguely related to a scone. Certainly, it seems to me, it is closer to a scone than what they call a scone, but that’s irrelevant. The actual point is, put chicken in a biscuit and you have a BREAKFAST SENSATION.

9. Snowballs. You can go to a shack thingy and from the shack thingy they dispense Ice. As in frozen water. People pay them for this. On top of the frozen water, they put syrup with flavours. And CONDENSED MILK. I do not know who thought of this. But, skeptical though I am about the value-for-money in this situation, once again it made my tastebuds happy. Especially since it turns out the world is HOT south of the Mason-Dixon line. Sometimes one just needs to eat some ice.

10. Shrimp, Crab, Cookies, Pecan Pie, a slightly out-of-place but amazing Thai meal, Gumbo, Key Lime Pie, Etouffee, Abita Beer (I think 11 varieties!?!), Mint Juleps, “Scones”, Grits and Sausage…. The list goes on. Suffice to say, Nicola LIKES the cuisine of Louisiana.

And the city is beautiful, and a great place just to wander and people-watch. And the weather was perfect. And the papers got done. And flight-based drama earned us $330 dollars each and the ridonkulous experience of flying Newark-Philly. And above all, it was beyond wonderful to spend time with my lovely friend Jenny and meet so many other super fun people. Coming alone to a foreign land has taught me a great deal about hospitality and generosity. I have, much like Blanche, always depended upon the kindness of strangers.

When I grow up…

A doctor. A doctor with a sign on her door stating ‘NO BLEED’.

A writer of children’s books.

A teacher whose love of literature would inspire kids and introduce them to worlds beyond their own.

A theologian.

A politician with integrity, changing the face of my wee nation.

A solicitor with a lovely wig and irrefutable arguments.

A minister.

A minister.

A minister.

What will I be when I grow up? People have been asking this question for as long as I can remember.   Wonderful, supportive, encouraging people- my teachers, church people, Guiders, friends, family.

‘You’re a great writer. You should think about journalism.’

‘No, you’re too mean for ministry. What about law?’

‘You’re a great writer. You should stick with theology.’

‘Your calling oozes out of your pores.’

‘What about the Civil Service? I can just see you in the Civil Service.’

‘You’re naturally pastoral- you listen well and you build genuine relationships so easily.’

‘It’s clear you’re not interested in pastoral care.’

‘You’re a great writer. Do you ever consider writing novels?’

As graduation approaches once again, I am all too aware of the looming nothingness that is life post-May. All graduates feel this way to a greater or lesser extent, I am sure.  We are, with great ceremony, suddenly propelled into a world of possibilities and barriers, of rent and bills and council tax, responsibilities,  and, for the lucky graduates of recent years, recession. There’s no guarantee of employment. Perhaps we’ll be yet another statistic, two-degrees-and-a-job-in-Starbucks, or worse, taking weekly trips to the Jobcentreplus to prove that we’re not just chancing our luck with the benefits system. We know we’re lucky to get any job.

All of this feels bleak. We’ve worked hard. We theologians have followed our hearts and our passions and sometimes it seems like that was the worst decision we could possibly have made. Practically speaking, it probably is. There’s no funding for a PhD. There are few obvious career choices. And we have the vocation-question to be dealing with. Yes friends. Not only are we fighting for employment of any form but we want more than anything to give our lives to the RIGHT thing. To be in our professional lives as well as our personal lives the very fullest expression of what we were created to be.

My question, then, is how on earth I’m supposed to find out what that right thing is. I thought I knew, but circumstances have suggested that perhaps I’m wrong. All I really want to do is to serve God in the Church- but I don’t know what that means. There are voices from all sides telling me what my gifts are and how best to use them. There are voices telling me what my gifts aren’t, and where I’d certainly hinder the mission of the Church. It’s hard not to give up and just send applications everywhere until someone offers me something, anything. It’s hard to believe I have a purpose.

And yet I’m still asking the vocation question. I’m still asking it every single day and that’s because I truly believe that we all have a purpose. All of us. Which means even I do. Even I do. Even I am gifted by grace and even I am called to use my gifts in service.

Sometimes this just feels like extra pressure. You know- get a job! Support yourself! Be responsible! Be competent! BUT NOT ONLY THIS! It’s also key that you’re doing the right thing, not wasting what God’s given you, building up the church, becoming more nearly who you really are!

This is a poor interpretation.

The truth is, I’m realising, that whilst I do indeed have gifts and a calling, the pressure exists mainly inside my head. This ‘vocation’ is not a horrible demand, it’s not a mandate to save the church and the world, we don’t have to get it right, to succeed, to be noteworthy. We don’t have to because God has already spoken. God is already for us, for the church and for the world. That doesn’t mean we don’t need to work to make things better, it doesn’t mean we don’t seek to be who we’re made to be. What it does mean, though, is that we can rest secure in the knowledge that in Christ we already are who we’re meant to be. We already are beloved. We already are God’s covenant-partners.

What is my vocation? I don’t know. I know what my heart says, but I’m so easily pushed from idea to idea, from fear to fear. I’m so easily convinced of my inability, my worthlessness, my hopeless-case status.

And yet- I do know. My vocation is to live the life of God’s beloved. For I am she. So I’ll continue on this road and attempt to live with the uncertainty of my immediate tomorrows, in the knowledge that all of my yesterdays, my today and every tomorrow I am a child of God.

 

 

 

Fried Pickles, World Peace, and Other Interesting (ish) Anecdotes.

First things first. Fried pickles. I went out for the dinner with some friends the other night, and one of the said friends was exceedingly excited to eat such things. I, needless to say, was Unconvinced. I am coming round to the pickley concept (which is a sure sign I’m becoming American, I think), but they are not immediately obvious as a candidate for frying, even to a Scot. I should have been wiser and remembered that a good deep-frying enhances most everything- THEY WERE DELICIOUS. Deeee-licious. So delicious in fact that they featured in my life again only last night, on a class ‘field trip’ to Triumph for dinner and beer.

Second things second. Sunday was Superbowl Sunday. I’ve never watched the Superbowl before; on account of not really caring about football and also on account of the time difference making it a Serious Commitment for such people as me, i.e., people who live in Scotia. Anyway as it turns out I still don’t really care about football, but despite this it was a fun evening with friends, and actually the MANY hours were made completely worth it by the end of Madonna’s half-time show. I don’t think I can do it justice with words, so I strongly suggest you watch it right this minute. Seriously. It’s quite special and will improve your life. Or render you hopelessly confused. Or INSPIRE you. Come back to me when you’re finished. Here it is:

So now you essentially know the answer to the strife and suffering in our world. Apparently, we were mistaken in thinking it was the Good Lord. In fact, all that will be required is: old wummin doing alarming moves. Man bouncing on wirey thing. Cee-Lo Green. Other celebrities (the Kids probably know their names….), marching bands and gospel choirs. WHY didn’t anyone think of this sooner?!

Some other things that have been occurring include:

1. Some very extremely bizarre weather. One day last week it was 19 degrees celsius. IN FEBRUARY?! How many days was the temperature that high in Edinburgh last summer? I think about 4?! Then also we have had some snow, some rain, some beautiful crisp sunny days… I pure cannae handle it. Apparently it will snow again tonight.

2.Classes. I am taking Schleiermacher, Barth (which is a Very Scary PhD seminar), and Paradigms and Progress in Theology. Apart from me, in all of these classes combined, there are four other women. Four. Sometimes (often) it feels like systematics is not a discipline for girls. Like Yorkies, or McCoy’s. I know that’s a bad attitude but you know, sometimes it would be easier not to bother. Shame I love it, really.

3.Jenny bought me Irn Bru! I love Jenny. For a lot of reasons, but the Irn Bru really sealed the deal.

4. I definitely like Princeton now. But Shhhhh! Don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret. (It’s not really a secret, but it is somewhat unexpected. I am just incredibly grateful for the people here above all. I am considering a blog post just telling you about them. It might happen.)

Anyway. I will go for the noo. Pretty sure I’ve missed a million things. But I don’t wish to tell you them right now.

Goodnight and Good Luck.

 

 

 

 

 

A Post Featuring Rather Too Much Parenthesis.

Well. January is nearly gone. It has not, as such, been a month of relaxation. I don’t know whether I explained the semester system here or not. Probably not because explaining it doesn’t actually make it make any more sense. But I shall give it a shot. What occurs is, there’s a Fall Semester and a Spring Semester. Both of these are divided into two terms, Long and Short. So. Before Christmas, we were in the Fall Long Term. When we came back, we entered the Fall Short Term. (No, I agree, January is not ‘Fall’.) The first day was the 2nd. I don’t know why they think that’s acceptable. Public Holiday.

Anyways so. The Short Term lasts three weeks and is structured in such a way that you can do one 3 credit course in that time. This means that for three hours every weekday morning you are in class, and most of the rest of your minutes are spent reading. It’s tremendous. (In no way is it tremendous.) That was my life until last Friday. Then, Kate arrived. Which was very nice although I still had an essay to write so I’m not sure I was super fun. However, she stayed for five days and we experienced all kinds of America things like pancakes and burgers and mailboxes and hydrants (I don’t know, Kate was very excited…) and crazy singing men on subways and Broadway shows (well, just one, they don’t come cheap), and being very High Up whilst the sun sets, and my noisy but pure dead brilliant American friends and a lot of art. And dinosaurs but they may not have been completely American.

Things which have happened since she left have included the very traumatic buying of a 120 dollar book, and a Burns Supper at the McCormacks’ hoose. MARVELLOUS. There was Haggis! Real haggis! Ish. It originated in New Jersey but was surprisingly tasty. There was also Pometry, and Whisky, and Quite a Lot of Shortbread, and last-minute-cranachan fashioned by my own fair hand! I had been worried it might just make me pine for home, as actual Burns Night did (probably because I sat and listened to depressing songs for hours), but in fact, it was just pleasant and made me feel like home was a wee bit closer. The pals who came with me were pals who knew Scotland, and there was chat about the geography, history, culture, gastronomy and Excellent Humans of Scotland. And I got to toast the haggis, which is always a very fun job (though I am not as good at it as certain Tall People I could mention).

Today I have read some Barth. That is all. And may be my life for the next several weeks. Sorry in advance for the impending Terrible Chat. (I lied actually, I also ate a burrito.)

 

 

 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

It was wonderful to be back in Scotland in December. Wonderful to soak up Edinburgh, to feast on tastes I’d missed, to hug, to curl up under a duvet and become addicted to Eastenders, to enjoy Christmas traditions, to laugh with friends, to worship in two of the churches that have shaped me. Wonderful to know I am known and remembered, wonderful to feel at times like I’d never been gone.

Another, less expected (and less immediately delightful) gift of the Christmas season was the reminder of all the imperfection, the stress, the pain and the often-greyness of home. I’d undoubtedly romanticised and idealised it, and that helps noone. So I’m grateful for the chance to remember the reality. I still think it’s pure dead brilliant there, I still think I know some of the best people in the world- but I’m learning, now, to be more fully present in Princeton.

So what has that looked like? It has meant coffees and dinners, making new friends and re-connecting with old ones. There have been board games aplenty and hysterical laughter at often slightly inappropriate jokes. I have thrown myself into reading, and vigourously disagreeing with, John Wesley. I have tried to be more authentic and honest and have been met with nothing but love and support. I have had insufficient sleep, and become something of a mucus machine. I have appreciated the beauty of this town (though it will never win over Embra, it’s actually nae bad), and spent a brilliant day enjoying the vibrancy of New York City. I’ve eaten cajun food, and even watched half a game of football (yes, only half, but as previously mentioned, it may in fact be the World’s Longest Game). I guess what I’m doing is just living. And I like it. Who knows whether this’ll last. Obviously there’s a huge Scottish part of me that believes I’ll probably pay for it. But I also think I’m doing more than just enjoying a better set of circumstances. I’m trying hard, and being enabled by wonderful people, to change my attitude and embrace what I’m being given in the here and now. Not forgetting where home is and WHO home is, but letting this experience in. And I know that though there are seas roaring broad between Scotland and I, between you and I, we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet- for auld lang syne, and for all that is to come.

Dear Scotland,

It’s St Andrew’s Day, and whilst normally I would completely ignore the occasion, I’m far away and thus hopelessly romantic and missing you horribly. So I thought I’d write to you. You see, there are so many things about you that I miss, and that I love which I hadn’t even thought about before.

So yes, I miss the obvious things-  like walking the streets of Edinburgh and occasionally having to stop to be thankful to live somewhere so spectacular. Like haggis and shortbread and tea and scones and real rolls and bacon, and decent crisps and chippy sauce and Luca’s ice cream and mum’s lentil soup. Like your incredible, gritty, self-deprecating, hilarious people, and their unique sense of humour. Like standing in places palpably soaked in history, like saying good morning to David Hume and John Knox, and occasionally quoting Burns. Like your incredible home-grown music. Like the sign of a great night being extensive ceilidh bruising. Like Irn Bru, for heaven’s sake!

But I also miss the freedom to use words like glaikit and mingin’ and shoogle and cannae and ken and haver and shan and crabbit and dreich. I miss speaking 100 miles an hour, and I miss the banter.I miss the delicious cooncil juice. (And the cooncil telly!) I miss people to sing the Proclaimers with, and people who understand that ‘nae bad’ actually means pretty good, and that ‘how’ fairly often means ‘why’. I miss your Kirk despite her wounds, and I miss singing Ye Gates. I miss purple sweets being the best ones and the excellent public transport. Especially the Bonaly 10. I miss free museums, free healthcare, and half-price cake after 3pm. I even miss Brian Taylor and Jackie Bird and David Robertson!

I don’t think you’re perfect. Far from it- you’re broken, and overly negative, and bloody dark. There’s so much work to be done. But you are home, and I love you (and I think about you ALL THE TIME). I still think you’re the best wee country in a’ the world (sorry, Liechtenstein), and I can’t wait to see you again and help make you ever better.

Love,

Nicola

Yoga and All the Food in the World.

SO once again I have neglected to blog for about a decade. Sincere apologies, I am a failure at life. But here I am, to regale you with more tales of my foreign adventuring. (If for ‘adventuring’ you read ‘mainly reading’.)

A couple of weeks ago a quite unexpected and slightly hilarious thing occurred- I tried yoga for the first time. I am not good at that. A friend of mine is running illicit classes in one of the dorms and I thought I might give it a shot to try to push my death date back a little from age 40. There was much bending and stretching and also wobbling, but no actual spectacular falling. I spent the next several days in SO MUCH PAIN, but I did actually find it really good and relaxing and such so I’ll do it again. Even though it has the potential to be the death of me. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to touch my toes. I really do have the body of a 70 year old.
We just had ANOTHER week off. This time it was Thanksgiving, or as I prefer to call it, America Day Which Gets In the Way Of Christmas. Despite its rudeness in so doing I actually had a very nice time. I went to stay with my friend Hayley and her family in Cherry Hill NJ for a few days. They own a WOLF. An actual WOLF. Or maybe it’s a bear. Technically I’m told it’s a Bernese Mountain Dog. But whatever, he was Very Extremely Large and a wee bit terrifying. And fluffy. I wheezed and such.

Apart from that chat, it was totally amazing to be somewhere where I could eat real food and use a bathroom with a proper door. We mainly did relaxing, a bit of school work, some painting, and that kind of chat . On actual Thanksgiving Day we watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade which is HILARIOUS and involves pure massive balloons, lip-synching from people like Avril Lavigne and Cee Lo Green (who didn’t even bother to remove his chuggy), an excellent selection of Marching Bands, and Santa Claus. I quite enjoyed it, having only ever experienced it through people watching it on Friends and suchlike. We then took the bearwolf thing for a walk which was pleasant, and after getting a bit of work done went to visit All The People Hayley Knows, pretty much. Which was actually really pleasant and involved meeting a YELLOW LABRADOODLE. I probably could not have been more excited. I did not sneeze once which shows that I really should have a dog such as that. Called Hamish. We had Thanksgiving Dinner at family friends of the Cohens’ house and it was really lovely, they were super friendly and chatty and the food was amazing. There were no marshmallows on the sweet potatoes which was pure marvellous, and further, there were several pudding choices so I didn’t have to contend with pumpkin pie! (I had cheesecake, key lime pie and cherry pie. Fatty fatty boom boom.) Anyway. Whilst I’m still not sure of the purpose of Thanksgiving really I did enjoy it a lot.

The next day, Hayley’s mum drove us to Philly and we drove around a bit seeing things. However, the tour was stalled slightly because we happened upon this old (by American standards) hoose in the park, and went in and had a tour with a very sweet but slightly over-chatty old man called Charles. I don’t think his hoose gets a great many visitors. So that time meant I have not seen the Liberty Bell or Independence Hall or the Art Museum. But hopefully I’ll get back to Philly sometime soon and go to those places. The other Philadephia experiences we had mainly involved food- including, of course, the Philly Cheesesteak. Now. Apparently if one is really from Philadelphia then one must order cheese-whiz on one’s Cheesesteak. And so this is what I was to do. Sadly the very concept gies me the boak, and I struggled to enjoy it very much. I might get provolone next time perhaps. We also went to some ridiculously good hot dog place. Not a good day for the waistline! (But what day is, in America? None. That is the answer, in case you were wondering.)

On Saturday morning I came back up to Princeton. It is actually weirdly nice to be back. I appear to have decided I like the place a bit more than I thought initially. Or at least I have realised how truly excellent the people here are. The last couple of days have been good, they have involved a lot of hilarity and delicious Chinese food and Christmas coffee and the introduction of the Vicar of Dibley to a couple of VERY LUCKY AMERICANS. Classes start again tomorrow and I am stressed about the work I must do in the next couple of weeks because my brain appears to be completely broken. But it’s Advent and so I’m feeling full of anticipation too. Hopefully that will serve to carry me through and not just distract me! I feel like I should do a Serious Reflective Blog Post about Advent, and I may yet get round to it. But I shall label it clearly so that those of you who don’t care can avoid it!

REJOICE et cetera. Immanuel shall come to thee!

Laters.