I am...tired.

There's not much creativity flowing through my brain, mostly it has been about getting the weekend. I have a to do list the size of a...something rather massive. (See, I can't even think of a brilliant simile. Literary fail). Actually, the to do list thing is a bit of a misnomer. It's more a list of things I should put on a to do list, in my head, in hopes that this weekend I will find a few moments of energy and productivity and do something besides read memoirs and watch Netflix movies.

Not to mention, I keep vainly hoping, I'll somehow get relieved of work. Not that I'm currently doing much, just that I could use a nap and a shower and my beloved futon.

Everything is still very odd. I find moments of harmony, though, tucked all through out the doubt and fear and insecurities. The questions, be them as they may, sometimes have me tensing my shoulders and fighting back tears, but the moments when I stop. When I uncurl my toes and unclench my fists and join hands with the suffering (sometimes the suffering is myself - and often that takes form in prayers) I can settle into a peace and I think, "Oh I've got this."

"One does not discover new lands without constenting to lose sight of the shores for a very long time."
- Andre Gide

Bring it on, big girl world.

It doesn't matter how many times you grow up, sometimes you still find yourself crying because you are scared of the dark. It doesn't matter how many rationals otherwise there are, you cry your big, thick, humid drops of tears because when it comes down to it, you are scared.

And so I sat on the futon yesterday, having just gotten through a sniffly conversation with my mom, where after listening to me talk faster than a used car salesman about everything I have been thinking about lately she asked me, "Are you sad?" I was struck, because yes, I was, and yes, I am. And I have resigned to my sadness. I have chalked it up to grief and graduating, but I have let it sit in me like a still lake and the days are getting hotter. I am still learning what it means to be an adult. What those reactions look like, and as someone who is just leaving behind her green, I so badly want to do well. It is my lack of grace for my own self which turns against me.

Yesterday, I got home from work, laid on the couch and read. I so happened to glance up only to see that there was a daddy long leg the size of a coaster on the wall. I jumped up and screamed. And then stood there next to it, trying to guess if I should kill it, catch and release it, or just try to ignore it.

I feel exhausted with all of my thoughts and opinions and my stacks of books grow larger by the day. I find myself longing for community, and yet reading instead. I have only hung out with my roommate all summer, really. There have been a few exceptions, but most days that is the most that I get and I can't help but to feel a bit crazy as well as all right.

My humid tears fell last night, like a slow breaking of a lake to a stream, that someday might grow into a river that flows right into the ocean. Until then, though, I sit most days, like a child squeezing her eyes shut so tight in hopes that she can shut out all of the dark around her, only to realize, now she has to see the dark within her.

And yet, I remember who I belong to. And sometimes I think this is what Jesus meant when He oh so mysteriously said we should be like children, or at least, this is part of it. That we should know so much who we belong to that it shapes all of what we do, who we turn to, what we say, why even our name.

So, really, I prefer to think of it less as an identity crisis and more as an identity refinement. I'm at the cusp of something. It's hard to push into the last part of those choices, but I am trying.

By God, I am trying.

And the cycles and rhythms of each day, they fight against each other like waves, and it seems like it would be all to easy to get lost in them, and not even be sure where you started and where you ended. So, in this case, I'll stretch for the moon and melt into the water. I'll be wave pulled my moon, instead of driftwood tossed about. And when I come upon some driftwood, I will not try to pull them under. I will try to murmur the tongues of the moon.

You belong.

Lately

Upon graduating, I felt a myriad of emotions ranging from incredibly empowered to incredibly terrified. It's all a part of it, I kept telling myself.

Since then, the incredibly empowered and incredibly terrified continually switch places leaving me, on good days, a little frazzled, but still peaceful, and on bad days, feeling absolutely bonkers, desparately clinging onto the knowledge that I will be ok, by the grace of God.

And I guess, if I'm honest, that's all I need. I don't much like feeling bonkers and desparate, but I'll take it because never have I felt so...whole and free. This feeling is just not what I thought it would be.

I don't know what I thought it would feel like. I don't know exactly what I thought was happening all this time. I just know that at this new place I'm all right. I still struggle, fight, mess up ridiculously, but I'm all right.

And that's worth all the tears.

Lessons From a Recent College Graduate

I know I have more to learn. I know I'll have to relearn and learn better some of these things. But, this is what I have learned.

I've learned that...
First impressions say just as much about us as they do the person we've met.
Sometimes the only thing to do is call your mom.
You should always apologize as soon as you realize you are wrong, even if that means calling someone back five minutes after talking to them on the phone.
If a friendship is worth it, you'll both work at it.
Sometimes, it's ok to let go and walk away from someone, and is best when done with forgiveness.
Forgiveness is something we give, not because we are better, but because we are the same.
We have all been the mean girl.
We have all been picked on by the mean girl.
A soft heart speaks louder than any cynic's tongue.
Often, the person that is hardest for us to love is who needs it the most.
Sometimes, the most important thing to do is just show up.
It's ok to say no.
It's ok to say yes.
It's ok to say, "I'll think about it," as long as you really do.
The fear of messing up should never be what stops you.
Prayer is transformative.
It's ok to not be a grown up all the time.
Sometimes, you just need Chipotle and a movie to make your night better.
Good roommates make life lighter.
It's ok to voice your needs.
It's ok to talk about whatever you need to talk about, but you have to listen too.
Sometimes, trashy reality tv, is really brilliant.
Laughing so hard your stomach hurt will always turn your day around.
Crying is healing.
It's ok to do what you have to do.
It's ok to do what you want to do.
"The only reason they think they're beautiful, is the same reason they think you're not."
Sometimes, the only thing to make it seem manageable is to drive out the country and scream in your car.
Everybody is at least a little weird.
Just because it is, doesn't mean it should be.
Every little thing needs love.
If you don't think you're crazy in this world at least some of the time, then you must be crazy, because it's crazy.
It isn't all right.
It is all right.
Your family will always be a little bit or a lot bit crazy, but they are always your family.
Everyone (including yourself) is hard to love sometimes.
Dr. Pepper makes a hard day better.
It's ok to be mad/sad/frustrated/screaming angry; it's not ok to get lost in it.
Sometimes PMS makes you feel insane - remember that you're not, and in a few days, it won't be so bad.
We must take care of the suffering, even when the suffering is yourself.
Truth is real.
Friends and coffee are life savers.
It's ok to be selfish sometimes.
If no one is taking the last pita bread, just take it, but be the one to ask the waiter for more.
Be crazy and carefree whenever you get the chance.
Cry as often as you laugh because they both heal different parts of the soul.
Speaking to understand accomplishes more than speaking to be understood.
Sushi and PBR don't mix.
It's ok that it's hard sometimes.
It's ok when something is easy.
We have to do things that are hard for us, but those things are often also good for us.
Grief is a part of life.
Hope is something everyone needs.


Finally,

I've learned that being able to rest in God is...well, it just is.

Still.

Even though life abounds and chaos there with it, I find myself strangely still.

Even though anxiety creeps and reaches for my throat, just to tighten a little, I find myself strangely still.

Even when those around me seem to not care, I am finding myself strangely still.

This is beautiful. This stillness, hard and odd as it maybe, is teaching me to loosen my death grip, give people a break, take deep breaths, and stop pretending like I have this all together.

Even though, I may be and always will be a bit of a mess, I find myself strangely still.

A shrug and a sigh

Sometimes, I see myself reaching and grasping at straws. Sometimes, I feel myself fighting so hard. Sometimes, I hear my heart weeping. Sometimes, I feel like I'm a dervish, spinning, spinning, spinning.

I see it in other people too. I guess it's one thing we all have in common. The struggle. The fight. Sometimes, I think we get lost in it. Sometimes, I feel myself fighting, and I can't figure out why. Sometimes, I am just sleeping.

I am not profound. I am not wise. I just am. That's the imago dei. Are amness. The problems happen when I definition becomes centered in doing or was being or will be. These are components of amness, but never the end of.

I am just shrugging my shoulders now.

There are no words for right now. Sometimes, that's the way of my incredibly overly articulate life. Sometimes, there is just quiet. And that's my heart right now. It is just quiet.

And that is ok.

A Moment or Two

I can't explain why I haven't written lately. I have been asleep for a week or two. It is the easiest way to cope with transitions, but not always the wisest. I have had half thoughts that I've lost behind closed eyes of too much sleep, and no real rest. What can I say?

And, yet, this weekend, as I roused a little weary, from my 100 year sleep, not from a kiss from a prince, but from a cut at the heart (which can sometimes be the same thing), I found myself aghast, a little startled. Like I woke up from sleep that I didn't realizing I was having until I woke up.

But, this heart cutting comes in ways I can't describe. It's come from off handed words, as well as, well thought out ones. It's come from cries in my own heart, as well as, gentle prodings from elsewhere. It has come like the raining. At moments, so hard, I think it might flood. And at others, gentle, lulling reminders of grace and forgiveness.

I find myself torn between joy and sadness. Between laughing and dancing and weeping and screaming someties too. And the fact of all that is that confession drips from my lips in a way I don't believe I fully understand.

I don't know how to explain this well. I've been wont. A little lazy. A little whorish, really. And the same question comes to my mind, that has for a while now. It was the same question Chelsey and I asked each other, in so many words, while I sat curled up in her papasan chair and we listed the things I needed and didn't need to take care of myself. How, in this culture of individualization and complete tolerance, do we embark on the part of community that requires accountability? That requires rebuke, at times? How do we live like that?

This has been all over the place. This has been a half-assed attempt to reach out a bit, to say, this is where I am at, but I am a little bit stuck in my own mud. This is me saying, even stuck in my mud, I am rejoicing still.

I am rejoicing still.

There are no words, sometimes

There are no words sometimes for the sadness inside us all. I don't mean this in some depressing, absurdist way, I just mean, sometimes we have to be sad. Sometimes we have to be sad becomes something awfully sad happens to us. Sometimes because something terribly sad happens to someone else, and sometimes, I think it's just a reminder that we are foreigners here.

Because, while there is something beautiful about being a sojourner, a nomad, there's something sad about never having a home, or always being on your way home. There's something sad about life here. It's like hearing a whisper of, "No one belongs here more than you." But, it's been carried for centuries to you. And even though the backs of the bees the carry this message believe just as much as the one who sent it, it's still a little sad. Because here, isn't here, it's there.

So, all that to say, I believe in grief. I believe it's a companion in life to remind us that this is right, and that's ok. Weep and rage about the wrongness of it all.

But, I also believe in hope and truth. And that they're great friends to grief when she seems close to drowing herself, they remind her of who she is, and why all of this isn't right.

And, I guess, that's all right. That it may not be the most comfortable way to live, but at least when we're quiet we can hear whipsers being sent in messages in bottles that will fight to make it to the sea shore, because the bottles need to know that they aren't floating aimlessly, but swimming with a purpose towards someone who is marked by love to tell them something simple and so profound.

No one belongs here more than you.

And even if here is there, I'll sojourn towards there until it's here.

Sadness

I'm sad.

I don't mean this in any earth shattering way. I don't mean it in a feel sorry for me way. I mean it simply in a, "I went to the grocery store after work" way. I feel like a rainy, cloudy day. In fact, this sunshine feels a little foreign to me.

Things are changing. It's a little bit terrifying. I feel small. I feel young. I feel uncertain. There's nothing like a bit of change to help you discover what's real in you, and what is just you being comfortable in your surrondings.

But, I don't mean to say that I am a sad person. Or a small, young, uncertain person. I mean that to say, as I try to lift up my heart from my knees, or toes each day, I find a resillence that is real. I find a strength that I forget I have.

And yet, I don't feel it.

So, what I'll do it this. I'll take my sadness, my uncertainity, my weariness, my sometimes double middle finger frustration, and I'll stick it in my haven't washed since Saturday hair. And I'll keep it there while it gives me good volume, and forget the fact that it's dirty and messy too. And when it's time, I'll wash it out. I'll find some rain, shampoo, and maybe even a prayer, and wash it right out.

But, until then, we'll settle in the fact of this dirt. This oddness. Because, it's not life. It's just life right now.

Life in Moments

Most of the time, the concept of time completely alludes me. Minutes can seem like mini eternities, and often hours come and go in the blink of an eye. So, I find myself living in moments. Some moments are days of something, and others just nanoseconds, but I take them all and one by one they create the cocoon of my life to surrond me.

Sometimes, these moments look like trying to make deep eye contact and smile at everyone I pass. I call this sometimes afternoon and sometimes community.

Sometimes, it's a moment called harmony and it's spent sitting cross-legged on the floor of a bookstore, where I caress the spin of every book and try to soak up it's secrets. I sit there in silence trying to learn a lost language, and my heart is filled with this moment.

Or last night, I had a moment called balance, where I drove through blurs of trees and street, with my best friend listening to broken hearts sing us to peace. And as my heart gravitated to my throat up from my knees where it usually falls, I found myself holding my breath to both keep the moment and my heart from throwing through tears in my eyes. And found that maybe when all you have are the headlights of your car and the stars from heaven lighting the road, well, maybe then you'll find your way.

And sometimes these moments are like a great sadness I call anything from grief to suffocation. And sometimes I laugh through the sunshining days, only to find that when I lay down at night, my heart, unachored in my chest, falls to hit my spine so I can't stand, or my lungs so I can't breathe, or my ribs, so I wonder if it won't just fly away. So, I lay in my moment and pray simple breaths of, "Help me," and try to breathe focused enough to close my eyes and find a moment of rest.

So, my life is that of moments, long and short. And though they are sometimes laugh moments, sometimes cry moments, sometimes yell and double middle finger moments, I'll take these moments over hours and minutes that traipse on past me, unconcerned with me at all.

Rain and Sandy Bones

I'll tell you one thing, some days are just hard. There's nothing more to them. Today is hard. My bones feel like sand and I can hardly stand upright. These days are odd, because I am a strong woman, or at least, I'm supposed to be, and I can list things all day long that I can do for myself.

I can cook a pretty damn good meal; I can check the oil in my car. I can change light bulbs, clean lent traps, check air filters, clean the hair out of the drain, hold a baby the proper way, multi task homework, making a cake, and cheering up a friend. I can write most papers under 8 pages in no more than 2 hours, articulating clearly a point, which I may or may not care about, and get a good grade.

I can do a lot of things.

But, one thing that seems to allude me, on this rainy day, with my sandy bones, is not melting when a friend who is no true friend leaves a comment after not hearing from them for 2 months. I can't help but melt. I can't help but want to call, or at least comment back. I can't help but to want to forgive and forget that I've been used, abused, and treated poorly. All I can remember is the time he grabbed my hand, kissed it, and told me he was there. Because he's not. And I can't help but feel completely frustrated and devestated at it all.

Being a strong woman seems to crumble on days like this. On days where I stare out blankly on cloudy days and watch the sky cry like a waterfall and the only thing the stops me from crying too, is the fact that the phone rings at work, and I have to answer. "Kimberley Manufacturing" seems to be my only grace.

So, then, there's no direction for days like today. Inbetween days when I don't feel confident, sassy, and bold. Days when I don't even feel gentle, caring, and charming. Days when I feel something of an unresolved, syncopated poem. One that doesn't quite carry the beauty of it all, but at least isn't contrived. Cosmo fails me today. Bitch fails me today. Because I'm neither woman. I'm just trying not to fall apart because my bones are made of sand. And the only thing the rain seems to be doing is making my own tears turn my bones into something sort of moldable, and potentially beautiful if you have the knack for it. But, today I don't. Today I can't. Today, all I can do is wet the sand.

And I guess, that gives it a little more substance. And I guess, that's something.

On Twilight

I read the entire Twilight series in about a week. The only reason it even took me this long was because it was during my Fall finals week, and some studying must be done. I came in as a skeptic. After all, I’m an English major, and I can smell a poorly written book from miles away. You’ll need more than a few cheap tricks to impress me. Needless to say, I am a bit curious, if not downright nosy by nature, so I had to read these books that everyone seemed to think were the next Harry Potter or Romeo and Juliet. I had had a guy friend of mine swear to me that I would hate it. He said he could kind of see why so many girls had the hots for Edward, but he was sure, in not so many words, I would be above that. That I would read Bella as a weak female character and unimpressedly throw them aside. I have to admit, I would have liked to have been so couth.
And I was unimpressed. At first. I read a few chapters at a friend’s house while waiting for her to get ready and shrugged and the dullness of it all. The only redeeming quality I could think of was that it took place in my beloved Pacific Northwest. But, then it happened. Thoughts of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan slipped into my normal reverie like they had always been there. They were there like the lyrics to “MmmBop,” dancing with smiles, knocking at my heart with knowledge, that soon, I’d let them in. And I remember letting them in, that in that concession, I felt like I had slightly failed my Dorothy Days, Gertrude Steins, Susan B. Anthonys, and my sisterhood as a whole. But, as I sat on my bed, and thought of all the women I loved and respected who gave in, it seemed rather harmless. I had a friend who was nothing short of a strong woman who swore that redeemed her belief in romance. My feminist best friend was to be found at the midnight book release of Breaking Dawn. I mean, it couldn’t hurt, could it?
A few days later, I found myself in a frantic depressed state. I couldn’t eat. I was listless. I was on the verge of tears at any moment. I would stop after walking halfway up my stairs and just stand there thinking, “Why?” And why? Because Edward had abandoned Bella, and suddenly like an unexpected winter storm in April, everything froze, and I (and Bella) were left alone.
And I absolutely abhorred the weight of it all. I refused to tell most people that I was reading them. Friends would call to hang out, and I would make up some lame excuse, never wanting to say, “The thing is, Bella and Edward are just more important.” I felt an enormous sense of guilt about the effect it had on me. I would spend time, sitting cross-legged on my bed trying to intellectualize my way out of the spell. I would pick fights with my other friends who loved the book, in vain hopes that I could convince them I was beyond that, my feminism was surely more developed than all that. But, every argument would end with a tiredness in bones and a mumble of defeat, because there was something there that was not in any article of Bitch: A Feminist Response to Pop Culture, or even Bust: Women With Something to Get Off Their Chest, but it wasn’t enough for me to forgo Edward and Bella. Neither was enough. I was left feeling as I often do, feeling strange and lost, and holding on by simple strings of faith and hope.
But, where did that leave me? I read articles in Bitch outraged at the characterization of Bella and the creepy relationship that now so many girls longed for, and I chuckled to myself, because I am always in this in between place of trying to figure out how to be a woman of stronger stuff than Bella without completely letting go of the hope that anyone should love me fiercely forever. And sometimes you have to chuckle at yourself because it feels awfully unfair to always be told in not so many words that you have to choose. You can be a strong woman, all of who you are, but you’ll probably be alone, because the only way you can be all of you, is if you forget ever being in a relationship, because that would put you under a man’s control. And if you want the benefits of inlovedness, you’d better be willing to sacrifice who you are. And I know this is a lie, somewhere deep inside of me. But, it’s hard to know the dishonesty of it in a large way that gives you goosebumps and makes you jump up and yell. Instead, it feels more like a small itch of a lie, that most of the time is just there and unnoticed, but every once and a while, it creeps somewhere like the bottom of your foot and you think it might be the most irritating thing in the world. And even then, who has a cure for itches? All we can do is itch is until it goes away, but then often we’re just left with red skin and the memory that we were awfully lied to and there’s nothing much to do about it.
Part of me wants to believe that the intense trust between Edward and Bella exists. Just like part of me wants to believe that I can be strong and gentle, loud and quiet all at once. But, I’m continually being told to pick one. I can’t be a strong woman in love. I am either a feminist or not. So, I’m searching for an in between, because I believe there has to be one. I believe there’s something ok in seeing something beautiful in Edward and Bella, and I think there’s something ok in seeing something wrong in Edward and Bella.
So, until then, and in the between times where it’s far too hard to face it everyday, this is what I pray for. I would like a little escape that's far enough a way to see as many stars as my eyes can hold. A place where there's room for trees to grow tall enough to kiss the clouds and stretch their languid branches to hug each other, hold each other, all the way. A place where the sky is so blue that it's no longer a color, but a feeling in your soul that whispers like a grandmother, "Oh baby, we love you here; we want you here; we need you here." And the wind laughs and tossles your hair playfully, and the only reason it's cold at night is to bring our bodies and stories and hearts as close as we know they should be. And when I laugh, the wind carries it up to the trees and the clouds and they hold it gently, like a newborn, and speak in quiet whispers, because my laughter is so light, so beautiful, so free, so new. And if I cry, each tear is dear, and they hold the tears as tightly as they hold me, the stars, the trees, the clouds, the wind, and the lady in the moon weeps with me, her and her man. And by the end of it all, we're breathing together, singing together, weeping, and laughing together, and it's all one great sound that before I go, with a kiss in the forehead, they bury that sound, like a rushing river in the depth of my soul, so no matter where I go, I have it and them with me. And I would imagine, it would be enough, to give me the courage to take deep breaths and try my hardest to find my in between place.

On Portland.

Upon arriving, something was released. A creative spirit that I have been fighting to find again for a while. I wrote on everything. In journals, text messages, word documents. I wrote in my head, on my heart, with my hands, with my soul. And it didn't even matter that for 22 hours, I was stuck on Mt. Hood, because even though I was near tears and trying not to have a panic attack, I looked up at the sky full of stars that were laughing with wonder and trees that were reaching as high as they could to tell jokes to these giddy stars.

Here's some of what I saw:
It’s like this.
There are power lines racing us on the highway and in between them you can see the choppy expanse of the Columbia River. And the distance between Oregon and Washington she creates is like that of trying to send wings to a fish that loves a bird, yet somehow, the sun knows it’s possible and preens between mountains to watch possibility jump on to dreams’ sinking boat and bail water out fast enough to stay afloat. And wind mills sit upon hills, clad in white and simple strength and pass along new and old love stories to each other, because, you see they don’t spin by wind, but by love. And right now they tell this story. One time there were girls who found sanctuary in the quiet waters of each others’ hearts, and as friends are, these girls were that and more. And their hearts were maps to places yet discovered and held great love yet given. And the wind mills wait for these. They tell each other in strong whispers and quiet songs.

On a drive back from Portland, listening to Rocky Votolato, there are grey clouds and clear skies who meet overhead to show us that opposing forces can, at some perfect times, lay in bed together and share common stories of heartache and harmony.

That's all for now.
Sweet heart, slow heart, find your way home.

Still, I came back to Oklahoma and it rained. I felt like Oklahoma was saying, "Whit, stay a while." And while it is different than Oregon rain, I'll still take it. Portland rain is slow and healing, but midwest rain comes in a fury or two, because sometimes you have to wash everything away and start from scratch. And so I lied in my living room last night, alone, with only light from the movie 27 Dresses and hard, healing rain in the background, I felt strangely whole, yet still lost. But, that seems to be the way of us. Strangers, sojourners, and truth seekers.

I am just a nomad, sojourning towards home, as I carry home with me. (in my heart).

Oh Balls!

I find that title to be most appropriate, mostly because I find myself shouting oh balls whenever startled, excited, or frustrated. And I bring this post to you with all three.

Just as I was about to post this blog, I knocked over my glass of water. It didn't ruin anything, but it did startle me. So, I yelled to an empty house, "Oh balls!"

Lately, I haven't been sleeping well. Also, I've been feeling naseous after eating. That with a few more bodily ailments gets a frustrating, "Oh balls!"

But, finally, and most importantly, this Spring Break (a mere 3 weeks away, I believe), I will be traveling with dear friends Eric and Peter to the GNW. To which gets a hearty and happy, "OH BALLS!"

That's all, friends.

1. I am tired today. Even though, I basically slept for 11 hours last night.
2. When I say basically, I mean, my sleep cycle seems to be sleep straight through a few hours, wake up constantly a few hours, sleep a few hours.
3. The aforementioned thing is very annoying.
4. Lately, perhaps because of the previously mentioned sleep cycle, I am at least 5 minutes late everywhere. And usually it's more like 15 or 20 minutes.
5. If you want me to be somewhere on time, just tell me you want me there earlier than you do.
6. I love Dr. Pepper a lot.
7. I am a nerd. I love school a lot.
8. Last night I started to re read books that were formative in my ideas about love and romance in high school. I found them ridiculous and heart-melting.
9. Those books were my secret favorites for years. My older sister always made fun of me for them.
10. There is a squirrel at work someone trained to eat out of your hand. It's a nice little office trick, I suppose, but I still refuse to try. I hate animals like squirrels, oppossums, and, most of all, ferrets.
11. I smiled to myself when I looked at the caller ID before answering the phone a few minutes ago and it said Donald Miller. I pretended the author was calling me.
12. But, then Donald Miller was rude on the phone.
13. I'm waiting for Mollie to send me an email I asked for eons ago. It's about love. So, I may write about love soon.
14. Ash Wednesday is in a week, and it is one of my favorite church services.
15. I usually don't wear royal blue or navy blue shirts because I think they are too close to the color of my jeans and feel too blue. But, today I am wearing a royal blue shirt.
16. I like being 22. I like saying I'm 22.
17. This was silly, but I felt the need to update.

The Problem With the Internet Is...

It allows me to self-diagnose at an alarming rate. I don't find that I'm usually very hypocondrical. I just like to be informed. What I do with that information is another story entirely. I make connections between what I read and my life, just like when I study literature. Only, in this case, I just find potential diseases I have and how because of them, I will most likely die by the age of 25.

In other news, my birthday was some kind of beautiful. To have my two best friends from Kansas City come (and one was a surprise), I just about crapped my pants. I felt so loved. So celebrated. It was beautiful.

On the other hand, I took in some loving rebuke this weekend too. I'll tell you a truth. When people that you know care about you, react very strongly to something, you sit up and pay attention. Why? Because you love them, and you know they want what is best for you. And so, I took in some hard words. I listened to people tell me, "You are better and smarter than that." And with a deep breath, and just enough courage, I made a decision. A change. Because, you know what, they're right.

I just hope to hold onto it well. Good thing, they love me even when I'm stupid.

I wish that for all of you. People like that. And warm-ish February days with cool breezes and sunshine through trees.

Twenty-Two

Today is my birthday and I love my birthday.

It is the most important thing I can think to say today.

A Small Piece of Hope

Grace comes in funny, unexpected ways.

I like that.

Life should look more like this:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it inmy heart) i am never without it (anywherei go you go, my dear; and whatever is doneby only me is your doing, my darling)i fearno fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i wantno world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)and it's you are whatever a moon has always meantand whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the budand the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which growshigher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars aparti carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
-e.e. cummings

Purple Violets

I watched a movie this weekend called Purple Violets. In it a women (played by Selma Blair) finds herself in her thirties in an unhappy marriage, doing a job she doesn't love, and not doing the thing she wanted to do in the first place: write. When her old love from college asked her why she stopped writing, confessing, he was always jealous of her writing skills, she responds, "I guess I loss my confidence."

Hm.

I love to write. I used to write all the time. I would find myself taking notes in class, and in the margins, squeezing in poems or starting short stories. When I was in high school, instead of writing notes to one of my best friends, Mollie, I'd just write her short stories. And Olivia and I would spend hours on the phone making up stories and telling them to each other. All on the fly.

And now, I just...I get this anxious feeling whenever I try to write for real. My creativity feels blocked. And it feels too hard to do the unblocking. To write about the things I haven't been writing about until it's all out there. Anymore, my own stories, my own voice, has lost its confidence.

But, no more excuses. This is the year of living slow enough to hear the whispers. That voice of mine may be choked, but it ain't dead.

I have a plan. And it will start tomorrow. I'll let you know how it goes.

I'm a Calendar Girl

It's been an odd week.

I'm not sure if it is from slowing down and listening to my body, my heart, my spirit. What I need, what I want, what's good for me, what's bad for me, but it's been a quiet week. I find myself just sitting and thinking. Walking and thinking. I find myself feeling odd and awkward at human interaction. I feel fragile and vulnerable. I feel at the beginning of life, or a new season. I feel my old skin, my winter skin, dry and heavy at my feet. I feel tired from the wintry depression I so often find myself in. And yet, there are quiet strings of hope and faith. I find them in odd places as I stand by my old shed skin. I find them in the prayers I have written on scraps of paper and stuck in jars and boxes all over my room. I find them in the smile of a friend when they greet me. I find it in the 70 degree January day. And I find it those deep, still waters that haven't left me yet.

I feel like Jo, in Little Women (which to date, is still one of my all-time favorite movies) when she refuses Laurie and finds out that Amy is going to Europe with Aunt March instead of her.* She knows she's made the right decision, but where to go from there? And what to do when being on the right path feels so odd. So, I'll sit wrapped up in Marmee's arms, but then, it's off you go. "Oh, Jo. Jo, you have so many extraordinary gifts; how can you expect to lead an ordinary life? You're ready to go out and - and find a good use for your talent. Tho' I don't know what I shall do without my Jo. Go, and embrace your liberty. And see what wonderful things come of it." And, we'll see what comes of it.

And it's like a red bird in winter. If you haven't, read the poem "Red Bird" by Mary Oliver. In fact, there is a red bird who often finds himself resting in the bare branches in my backyard in moments where I find myself overwhelmed with anger, sadness, or general discontentment. And he reminds me that even though it's winter, the red bird will still come. At that, I'm always undone.

I don't mean to sound to somber. It's not like that entirely. I have joy and love and hope that is real. I find myself taken, though, by the shadows of fear, for what these next few months might contain, and insecurities. But, just because you're standing in shadows, doesn't mean the light is gone. Just readjust. I'm learning to trade hiding in shadows for resting in shade, but sometimes I forget.

Nothing gives my strings of hope and faith more strength than the reminder that though I feel lost, I'm still found. That I can be both a little bit lost, and a little bit found.

Well, until next time.

P.S. The soundtrack to this post is "Calendar Girl" by Stars. Beautiful.

*I'm not saying that I recently refused any sort of marriage proposals. Hell, I'm not saying I refused a date. That's plot point is moot, in my case.