Delilah

Even now as the night air probably sits at a frosty 35 degrees temperature, I can’t resist the need to always sleep with my window cracked. I just jumped out of the shower and my body is still running warm. My bed has welcomed me yet again after a long day and I can feel the cold air on my exposed face. I smell the scent of chimney smoke and although I’m trying, I can’t quite discern the type of wood which is being burnt.

All of my senses are currently equating the mood with the holidays. Though it’s not yet Halloween, I can already imagine a crystal clear scenario of Delilah on the radio playing. There are active overseas military shout outs to the families here in the states. “I want to wish my wife and 2 daughters at home in Illinois a Merry Christmas. I wish I could be there but I’ll be home soon. Daddy loves you.” The sentiment is followed by a great rendition of any festive song.

(Delilah is a closet indulgence of mine and ESPECIALLY around the holidays, I become a faithful listener to the soft sounds of… De-li-lah.)

So what does this all mean? It means life it good. It means even when life isn’t really good, every now and again you are granted a small escape into a dream world. A world providing an environment of rest. A world of better times and anticipation of good things to come.

So now I lie here listening to the cars on the main road outside my apartment. I don’t have the car I want, or the travel experience I want, or even the furniture I want. I’m acutely reminded I could be further along in career, love, and life.

Yet as I’m here in my bed, feeling the chilly air, and smelling a wood burning stove, I get to forget about the career, love, and life. I get to pretend I have all that I want because all that I want is in this moment. Now is the time to turn off my mind and allow myself to remember. Remember any and all of the good in life. And with this perspective, life IS good. Even without the car.

La dolce vita.

Pondering

A philosopher once asked, "Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human?"

Pointless, really... "Do the stars gaze back?" Now THAT'S a question.

Harvest

I awoke this morning; I twisted open the blinds of my bedroom; I gazed at the sinister syrupy sky; and I had one thought. Autumn is here.

The grayness has settled in. The on and off again precipitation is present. The temperatures are cooling.

This is my favorite season. I easily enjoy many things about it. Baking increases and there seems to be an abundance of pumpkin and spice. Pumpkin cookies, pumpkin breads, and pumpkin pies. Candles and wall plug-ins sprinkle the stores in scents of harvest spice, spice cake, and spiced cider.

People are settling into their dwellings. Sweatshirts are pulled out of the winter clothing trunks. Blankets out of the storage closets. The smell of wood burning fires and stoves pepper the night air. The streets seem to clear a little earlier.

Of course it wouldn’t be the season without the plethora of insects which too want to nestle in before the winter. I spied a spider in my office, two in the workplace bathroom (girls, cross your legs with me), and one marching out of my roommate’s bedroom.

I promptly picked up the Raid can and sprayed him to death on the sheer principle his stride pompously declared his residence in a place I’m sure he never paid a dime of rent for.

Some are brown and thin and frail while others are dark and thick and crunchy. There is absolutely zero irony the 8 legged creepy crawling creatures are the symbolic indicator for the first festival to mark the holiday season.

Already the ghoul candy has been discounted and the webs have been replaced for Christmas trees in the department stores. Some mumble under their breaths about the premature existence of holiday music and perhaps they are substantiated.

However, it’s not too early for the deep regal hues of autumn. Gone are the pastels of summer. Present are the concentrated shades of reds, oranges, greens, purples, browns, and black. Happy autumn.

Any Powerful or Compelling Emotion

There have been many words and phrases used to describe me and because of the type of person I am, I’ve never really had to probe others to find out what they were.

As a gregarious person, in the beginning, that unpolished characteristic sometimes lent to social awkwardness. One can assume the words which accompanied. Cumbersome. Graceless. Even obnoxious.

Who knows when, but somewhere after inelegant and tolerable followed charismatic and additionally any spin on that word. Captivating. Magnetic. Even on occasion charming.

I’ve highlighted one personality trait of me and one alone. It doesn’t take long to realize the core make-up of any trait remains unchanged although finding an appropriate outlet to display it may get refined.

Many things others believe me to be, I am. Many things other believe me to be, I am not. So with a “big personality”, I’m always intrigued to hear which element and from what perspective I am attributed.

I have always had my favorite ingredient of me. There are reasons why it is my largest weakness and hopefully after a lifetime will become my principle strength.

Passionate.

It has been the component which has earlier had me deemed as insufferable. And I firmly believe it to be the constituent which occasionally has earned me mesmeric.

So when two nights ago one of my dear friends stopped conversing and just sat listening, I quickly heeded the flag to immediately cease and query, what?

She mumbled something about me being so passionate and what came after went blurry as I wondered how caught up I had become. My eyes must have questioned volumes as she was quick to clarify the trait as making me hypnotizing. I offered gratitude for her compliment and silently I experienced one of those personal “pat on the back” moments.

And though I love it, there are days like today when feeling so deeply is a nuisance, it seems.

When any single sensation slogs thick and slow and bottomless. When every prick of the sentiment is deliberate and intended to inflict deep-rooted scoring on my internal emotional meter.

When every song I hear is flawlessly crushing and comprehended in my core in a way it seems no other could ever grasp… unless by a fellow member of us endangered subjects of passion.

When every inner desire roars immutable and every nerve-ending is hard at work feeling it. When discipline and homeostasis are harder at work hushing it.

In these instants when my being seems satiated inside this crude container with all the searing feeling the universe offers, I’m left to ponder curse or blessing?

Then in these moments a voice speaks in my heart the comforting words of philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. “Nothing great in the world has been accomplished without passion.”

Evolution of A Woman

It all started with a bowl of hair bleach.

Actually, I’m not going back far enough. Allow me to lead with another sentence.

He is very pretty.

It commenced on Sunday. I awoke and attended church like the obedient girl my parents raised me to be. It is a practice I have not digressed from as an adult though there are Sundays when my enthusiasm for organized worship wans from the zeal most saints with my devotion in attendance possess. This Sabbath day happened to be one of those despondent Sundays.

The meeting launched and within the first 15 minutes, I located a newfound reason for interest in religion (in the very loosest sense.) Him.

I never noticed Him before. I was told of his presence for the past year. Could it be I have been so caught up in my own surroundings to have missed Him? Nevertheless, I noticed Him now and I couldn’t stop examining. He was so pretty.

He isn’t the type of guy I would ever go for and I feel certain in saying I am far from the kind of girl he would ever be with. Yet I feel fine. For the words which come to mind when staring at him have little to do with sex or raw attraction, rather beauty, like a sculpture or piece of art. Again I assert he was… pretty.

I utilized my experience to accomplish little more than personal indulgence. (Perhaps the antithesis of organized religion. The irony is NOT lost on me.) Worship ended and so did my intrigue with Mr. Pretty. I went home and prepared for the upcoming week.

This evening, once I had put in twenty solid minutes of apartment time after work, boredom got the best of me and I decided to ring a dear friend. I was quickly informed she was dyeing her sister’s hair and as I have always had an interest and AFFINITY for hair color, I immediately invited myself over to supervise the project, if only to witness the results.

By the time I arrived, the task had been completed and the hair (which looks fantastic) was in the middle of being blown out. As I chatted with my friend, I picked up the brush in the bowl of dye and began painting the substance onto my arms. Ten minutes and itchy bleached skin later, the laughter was flowing freely and the story of Mr. Pretty was shared.

I learned of his ironic residence in the exact complex of my friend. As girls, it took us two minutes to fabricate a story for why we needed to be at his door. We resolved to “borrow an egg.” My friend and I were disappointed to discover his roommate’s answer and upon further inspection quickly deemed the plan foiled. One egg and a painful conversation about a broken DVR later, we were on our way giggling whilst displaying our youthfulness despite our age.

Some things will always be the same. Where there is a boy, there will always be giggling girls.

We returned defeated temporarily. Then we heard of his potential attendance of a church activity scheduled for tonight. Our hope waxed strong once more and we climbed in the car if only to catch a 10 minute glimpse of Mr. Pretty.

15 minutes and 3 false alarms later, we for a second time deemed the plan foiled.

There seemed only one consolation. Laughter. So with a little help from a classic “doorbell ditch” to a random residence (okay, not so random… and my apologies for my moment of silliness if you’re reading this), we found ourselves tearing through bushes headed for the car.

As I sit here eating grapes and scrutinizing over my blonde arm hair (I’m pleased with the outcome but saddened to discover I missed a patch), I’m reminded of the lyrics to a Britney song (of all people) proclaiming, “I’m not a girl; not yet a women…”

The years have lapsed and I know exactly where I am categorized according to that song. I have long since been a woman. Yet every once in awhile, the impractical girl will reappear and vocabulary words like “crush” are used by our friends to defend our harebrained attempts to secure a peek at Mr. Pretty.

I’m ridiculous. Although, I’ve made my peace with it.