Walking Left

Since I graduated from college, I’ve been eagerly waiting for my life to start.

I had this supposed inauguration marked by certain indicators. I would secure a great job. I would save loads of money and purchase loads of great things. I would help people. I would do great things.

I would also travel the world, a desire so strong anyone associating closely with me knew I was almost solely judging my success off of this fulfillment... or the lack thereof.

Finally in the month of January, I believe I spent a total of 6 nights in my apartment in the state where I reside. At one point around the middle of the month, our plane touched down for a layover and already having had five cities under my belt, I genuinely looked to the man beside me and queried, “what city are we in right now?”

A week later, I awoke in London.

One evening my travel companion and I were waiting for our play to start in southwest London. We stood in front of the Apollo Victoria Theater trying to decide where to kill time before the show.

Knowing Buckingham Palace was about a mile away, I suggested the quick journey up the road. We walked it and upon cresting the hill, I was immediately seized with the sight before me.

The night was purple black. The palace was illuminated with bright white flood lights highlighting its majesty. The London Eye was glowing indigo on the horizon off the Thames. I loved it.

I was so much reminded how I love looking at the DC monuments much better at night, when the tourists have left and the buildings are immaculately regal.

On that semi-foggy evening in front of Buckingham Palace, a question crept into my mind. “Elizabeth, what do you believe to be your Personal Legend?” A humid wakeup call smacking me in the face.

I once read a story of a shepherd boy living a common life who had a dream leading him on a journey to fulfill his Personal Legend.

Crucial to the novel was this idea of a Personal Legend. The boy learned of one's Personal Legend from a King who clarified to him "It's what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is.” (The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho)

Spoiler. One of the enlightening beauties of the story exists in the irony of the shepherd boy finding his treasure in the place he commenced his journey.

By the end of London, I was ready to go home. My Personal Legend had less to do with “the where” as I had originally believed and a whole lot more to do with “the what.”

My plane left Heathrow and upon stepping foot in the Atlanta airport, I was heard to exclaim quite dramatically “God Bless America” as the surrounding passengers chuckled.

I spent all of January gone and have spent all of February making up for it… in a state I have long since had little desire to be in.

I feel once more a robust drive I have felt many times in the past. A drive which has many times directed me to stuffing my vehicle and moving. Each era guided me to trivial fulfillment.

I look forward to more travel. Traveling is enlightening. Inevitably, messing with the Where will help you to decipher the What.

However, it’s not the Where I’m trying to seize. Even now, it is the What.

Life Lag

It was freezing. 7 degrees Fahrenheit freezing. But the view was remarkable. 7 degrees Fahrenheit remarkable.

The house was positioned on the base of the mountain where the views of the valley were astonishing. All the city glittered in the night while left over Christmas lights twinkled sporadically here and there. The city glow ceased abruptly where the lake was responsible for the black out in the middle of the scene. The dark abyss was beautiful in its own sense and commanded respect for the grandness of the void.

When things get stressful, it’s always good to take a deep breath. When things get really stressful, it’s always good to take a deep breath of fresh air. Last night was the epitome of this.

I will spend the next 19 days straight working. I have a business trip to Anaheim at the end of this week returning on Sunday only to work on Monday; immediately followed by a business trip to Orlando at the end of next week returning on Sunday only to work on Monday through that business week.

Stressful. I rely heavily on my weekends. I love my friends and I certainly enjoy playing with my friends on the weekends. It’s a time to be renewed.

One of my dear friends started a new semester today. With half her classes registered for and the other half relying on a professor’s signature to add the courses, she too was anxious for today.

So last night while commiserating at her house, we wrapped ourselves up in blankets and sat out on her balcony porch enjoying the view… for over an hour… in coldness I would next to never be caught in. We breathed. We pontificated. We breathed some more.

Our problems did not disappear with our increased blueness. Just a deep breath. But on the up side, jet lag aside*, I’ll be in much warmer weather.

*UT to PA to UT to CA to UT to FL to ENGLAND to UT within three weeks. Literally coast to coast.

To Help Me Cope With Anything

When I was younger, I would wear my bathing suit day and night throughout the entire summer. I lived in it.

Each morning, I'd wake up wearing nothing but my suit. I would stagger down to the kitchen in my bathing suit and a pair of shorts I had pulled on.

I knew weeding our half acre garden was always the large chore of the day. So I'd pour myself a big bowl of grape nuts to put off the inevitable as long as I could manage.

It was hot. It was humid. It was Pennsylvania.

Still, if we worked hard enough, we were taken swimming nearly everyday by one in the afternoon. So after the garden, I'd grab my towel and actually use my swimming suit.

My siblings and I would come home tuckered out and I'd lie down on the couch and fall asleep. When I woke, it was usually time to set the table, eat dinner, do the dishes, and I even have a few good memories of our family messing around and playing summer games outside.

All was done in my suit.

We'd come in after the sky would darken and watch television. We'd go back out again and watch the lightening bugs.

I'd sleepily stagger back up to bed in my suit and fall asleep.

The next morning was exactly the same, only tasks of snapping green beans, pitting cherries, skinning onions, canning in general, hanging sheets on the line, burning papers (which means absolutely nothing to you unless you're part of my family), and the likes can be substituted for the gardening.

Most often though, all of it was followed by swimming, napping, eating, playing, and bedtime.

I know this seems unorthodox at best if not down right disgusting to most. I lived in my suit and had I not had church every Sunday, I would have spent the entirety of my summer in it. As is, the days I spent out of my suit would have been less that two actual weeks worth.

I'm missing the beach. What I would give to be in Hawaii right now, with no fewer than two weeks of vacation ahead of me, a pair of shoes, a skirt, and a swimming suit.

Lay Thee Down Now and Rest, May Thy Slumber Be Blessed

It's after midnight. But it's snowing. And I loathe the snow. But it's so beautiful. And it's the perfect backdrop for a restless night. So restless indeed, that I'm looking up quotes about my insomnia.

"It's at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. I don't know if anyone has ever pointed out that great attraction of insomnia before, but it is so; the night seems to release a little more of our vast backward inheritance of instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind. Three score years and ten is such a stingy ration of time, when there is so much time around. Perhaps that's why some of us are insomniacs; night is so precious that it would be pusillanimous to sleep all through it! A "bad night" is not always a bad thing." ~Brian W. Aldiss

A Popcorn and Cranberry String of...

I could barely feel my finger tips in my black fleece gloves.

The black fleece hat kept inching off my head and was getting lost in the hood of my sweatshirt which barely moved with my body because it was clinging to the mint green fleece under it. The white tee shirt was twisting under the green fleece and all of it had separated from my jeans.

My bare lower back was itching from the pink striped wool blanket between me and the ground. The blanket on top of me was doing little more than annoy rather than warm. I shoved my hands in between my legs hoping there was warmth to spare for my extremities.

Despite all of this, I gazed up at the black night sky sprinkled full of white stars.

It was cold, yes. Yet it was a beautiful sight… and my two giggling friends were making it all the better. What can I say? When a person just needs to breathe some fresh air, she counts herself lucky to have friends willing to do it with her even on a frosty night.

We were all taking turns asking the questions. When I wasn’t staring at the heavens, I was focusing on the ice flakes which had formed on our blankets and any other exposed clothing.

“Is there anything you regret in your life that if you could go back and do it again, you would change?”

I laughed at the question. I still laugh at the question. I never know what I’m going to hear with something like this. Mostly in this day and age, a day where we’re taught to take little responsibility, an age where we’re told we don’t owe anything to anyone, in this day and age of moral decay, I frequently hear people comment on having no regrets. They’d do it all the same.

This has fascinated me. I understand the concept of thinking you’re on a good path now, of thinking there really is no going back anyway so why really think about changing any of it, of thinking you are a good person in a good place and to change anything about the journey may change those two facts.

The truth is I have a string of regrets. I have a series of events and behaviors I would undo or even summon the bravery to do.

I met a new friend or rather became more acquainted with a new friend who inspires me. A person who is fundamentally good to the core. A person who encourages, uplifts, and fortifies me in our every dealing. A person I can’t seem to get enough of because goodness in this form rarely, if ever, comes your way.

Every encounter leaves me wanting more and not of this person’s company but of myself.

I am reminded of my many mistakes. I see how this other has come across my same temptations and prevailed. I have many instances I bemoan.

I am thankfully aware of some of my own successes as I’m glad I don’t have to report wrong doing on my part. Not that I owe or would give any sort of accounting before this individual but because being in this individual’s presence makes me acutely aware of my being and I immediately find myself reporting to me.

I regret not being more, not giving more, not helping more. But regrets are fruitless and that’s the truth. Here’s to a holiday season which too is acting upon me as this new friend. To a season where most of us give more, help more, and generally are more.

And here’s to the friend as well.

... And You Lose Some

I rarely try to disclose any specific incident in my life unless it applies to my greater and more formulated themed essay. But I woke up this morning and was giggling literally within 30 seconds of being coherent. And I promise, I do NOT laugh in the morning.

What follows is an account as accurately as I can portray it. I have not embellished which makes it even better.

Each night, I sleep with the window open. I have done this for years. No matter the season. No matter the temperature. The window has to be open for me to sleep.

On a more personal note, I sleep in my skivvies only. I have also been doing this for years. I do not wear socks. I do not wear clothes.

However, when the weather turns cooler, I’ll pull on a t-shirt and bottoms and lately my ugg boots. I don’t know when and I can’t imagine it takes long, but I always seem to wake up back in my undies only.

Last night I pulled on a tee, some pants, and my uggs. After some television watching and a little socializing, I eventually sauntered up to bed completely exhausted. I must have been wholly worn out because this morning when I woke, I was lying on my stomach and my feet felt stiff.

I literally blinked open my eyes and was wearing nothing but my undies… AND my boots. Additionally I have no recollection of how the clothes came off and not the boots.

Wait. I'm thirsting to death!

... said my roommate to me when she walked in the door and I with guitar in hand told her I wanted to dedicate a song to her. I waited for her to fetch a beverage. “Okay, go,” she urged.

Probably for my final formal posted installment of all things gratitude, I grateful for good people… and my roommates are some of them.

This same roommate later on needed to run an errand and commented how her Jeep was out of gas. “Take the civic,” I offered. “I just filled her up yesterday.”

Of course I drive a mazda 626. The civic is indeed hers (yes, she is a two car woman) which she has been so hospitable to lend to me while my car, heaven help us all, is yet again out of commission and has been since Saturday.

Yet to know her is to know that even though this vehicle is hers, she’s just that nice that you’d have to offer it back to her. She’d never presume to reclaim it under my usage.

The best part is this girl is not a push over. She is a sassy little thing. But good people exist in this world. Better people than me. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for them.

What Is It About... Certainly Not Me

I must confess, I’ve been excited to write this post for a few days.

I decided to make a goal to post on the 5th, 10th, 15th, 20th, and 25th entries of gratitude leading up to THE day of thanksgiving.

I made the goal with the intent to force myself to at least be grateful on those days having no foreknowledge I might actually be thankful on days in between. And I’m entirely excited for this one.

I am grateful for feeling blessed on days when I feel like I least deserve it.

I’m incredibly aware of my personal faults and flaws on any given day. I fall subject to many follies which beset mankind.

There are days when life is good, I’m very happy, and everything is going smoothly. On these days, I take little time to feel blessed. Then there are days when life is bad, I’m very miserable, and everything keeps getting screwed up. On these days, I take little time to feel blessed.

On the occasional day I feel blessed, it’s commonly a result of something going my way and the emotion which accompanies is a sort of giddiness. I smile. I laugh. I am… well giddy. Yet this is NOT the emotion I reference today.

There are moments in this world when you are going about your days knowing you could do better, be better.

You are indifferent to anything outside of yourself and apathetic towards yourself.

Then when you think no one is noticing, something INCREDIBLE happens to you. And you are immediately aware this is the result of nothing you’ve done and certainly nothing you’ve earned.

There is one source you know to offer up essential gratitude but the emotion is not giddiness. It is debt.

And it is a purer form of feeling blessed than anything else I know. I’m awed. I am overwhelmed. I… weep.

For THIS unpolluted, unsullied, authentic blessing which has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with an altruistic Gift, I am grateful.

The Recipe

It was 5:34pm on a Friday afternoon. I was exhausted from my work week and excited to get home and get on with my evening plans.

I was wearing a black long sleeved shirt, a black knee length skirt, and fantastic black boots worth every last penny I spent on them. I had my bag strewn on my shoulder, my keys and security badge in my right hand and a bright red covered, holiday edition of “O” magazine in the other. I looked every bit the part of an executive woman ready leave.

As I journeyed to the glass door which separates my department from the general lobby of our building, I prematurely threw the force of my body into this door before I had adequately pushed the release bar to liberate the latch which secures shut the access.

Upon so doing, the most thunderous crash, followed by a metal scraping discharge of lever, while finishing with a pop from the sheer forcing of the door open drew all of the attention of the my two male co-workers lounging in the lobby to me.

A great deal of laughter commenced. The boys were roaring in amusement and I myself broke out in the most lively, hilarious mirth I’d experienced in an extended period of time.

My high school choir teacher once paid me one of the greatest compliments I have ever been given. One I have frequently treasured and thought upon when labeled with characteristics such as boisterous and the likes.

She told me she couldn’t help but laugh every time I laughed. She told me my laugh was one of the most authentically jubilant laughs of all the people she knew. She said I laughed from the toes of my feet to the hair on my head and was certain every part of my body partook in it.

In my more recent adulthood, for many reasons the world feels more comfortable with, I have learned to stifle this hearty laugh of mine. I have scaled back and toned down my merriment to be more appropriate for public displays of gaiety.

Yet on this darkening, autumn, Friday evening, I laughed what I have long since laughed. And I felt it in my toes and on my head.

The boys joked, “sheesh, you couldn’t wait one more second to get out of here, could you?” which sent us each into this gleeful fit all over again.

I’m grateful for laughter. This often socially inappropriate, audacious, roaring bellow of goodness which tingles life into every element of my being. I love when others laugh. However, I love it more when I get to do it myself. The sound of laughter is medicine.

A Flashlight

There are times when you find yourself lost, marching in the middle of the night on unfamiliar ground.

In these times you become wide-eyed and your alertness is heightened. Each one of your senses deeply awakened. Every sensation intensifies.

The moment to panic vanishes immediately in a desperate desire to survive.

Every resource you’ve been taught you could use is gone and as you look around, you’re overcome with a realization you may not make it. A feeling of defeat. The awful true knowledge that every last drop in your reservoir of faith has been used.

Yet in this final minute, this instant of despair, is when you stumble into a new reserve you were never aware existed. A sister quality of faith.

HOPE. And this is a tremendously grand experience. Mind-blowing in all its revitalizing abilities.

Then air starts to seep into your lungs. Your clenched fists fall to your sides and begin to release. Your jaw relaxes.

I am grateful to have experienced everything which has brought me to this moment.

To be taught again and again of pain, without any exposure to it, is to know next to nothing of pain. Still pain is a commodity the world has much of and anyone with a pulse will be subject to.

Nevertheless hope, a highly examined contemplation in most any philosopher’s mind, may rarely find dwelling in any given person. It shows up in the darkest of hours. It's the unlikely choice a person makes while having every reason to choose anything else.

Though if you do, it's like kicking into rock. Yet when you bend down to observe the damage, you discover a flashlight.

Do, Re, Mi in November

I look forward to every Tuesday. Even as I type this sentence, I feel like I've breeched this topic before. Nonetheless, I look forward to every Tuesday.

This is the day in which media drops, an industry term meaning albums, dvds, and books are released to the public for review and purchase.

I am an avid music lover. I know many people are these days and I don't begrudge sharing this hobby with mankind. In a world where it seems the hearts of men are waxing cold, music is a very simple, very powerful way to invoke emotion from even the most apathetic spirited person.

So the very first thing I’m thankful for this season is the gift of music. For the insightful words of wisdom gathered from inspired hopefuls around the world.

For a crucial escape from any agonizing moment.

For the soundtrack to giggling with the girls in my bed late on Saturday nights, baking pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and decided if blended oatmeal is a good substitute for wheat flour, and mostly for any good spiritual experience.

Music has almost always been the vehicle to bring me back to my divine disposition.

I am grateful to the many writers, singers, and producers who have sacrificed much to bring it to me. Music enhances my life and I, personally, am enormously grateful for it.

Nothing Is Real 'Til It's Gone

My friend said it’s similar to looking at the northern lights and telling someone you love them. I equate it to being at the Goo Goo Dolls concert after a week of hard work with three of your great girlfriends while more confetti than you could ever dream of falls from above.

There are few words and whatever words may be able to describe the emotion is certainly out of my ability to do so.

I knew it was our busiest week of the year. I knew going into it how difficult it would be. I had tons of anxiety. I knew as I packed my bags the night before, before I even checked into the hotel room, before I met the foreigners, it would be grueling and exhausting. I didn’t expect it would be one of the most rewarding weeks of my life.

I expected one hundred hours as the worst case scenario. I came in just under. Yet anything between eighty and a hundred feels the same. Simply put, it’s all a blur.

I work for a global company with distributors coming from many countries around the world. This past week was a corporate convention and it all started there. “There” being a corn maze shaped like David Archuleta as his music blared from the surrounding speakers while 500 multi cultural early comers were entertained by and on the company.

I gave a tour of our corporate headquarters (a frequent job task) to a group of sixty Hungarians and Czech Republicans. My tour consisted of my English to a French translator who translated the French to Hungarian while a Hungarian further translated to Czech for all the rest.

Early on, I sarcastically made a statement only to be told in English by the French translator sarcasm is American and doesn’t translate. “Well folks, I don’t really have much more for you. Here is the corporate state of the art boardroom, CEO’s office, the Co-Founders’ offices, the elevator. Any questions?”

Later that week I would annihilate two of those Hungarians in a speed drinking contest. Upon leaving the table and dashing off to usher another event, I took my wine glass of water, and swallowed the full contents in about half a second. The president of our Eastern Europe Market was impressed. When commenting on my talent, I openly accepted the familiar astonishment as I’ve known I’ve had this ability for awhile.

Two of these Hungarians then challenged me to a drink off in which servers were summoned to bring each of us two of these glasses filled with water, the Europeans’ being room temperature and mine being cold. “Un, deux, trois!”

I smoked them. To which I was told had they been drinking beer, they would have beaten me. I was informed Europeans don’t drink water. To which I notified them I was more than up for the challenge after I finished work. I was cheered by onlookers and fellow co-workers.

Yet if I had to sum up my sixteen plus hour days filled with luncheons & motivational speakers like Peter Vidmar, hand shakes & double cheek kisses (I love these the best), registration & onsite product store assignments, charity dinners & silent auctions, late night dance practices for Saturday morning general session introductions & even later night conversations with co-workers in hotel rooms, I think the only word I could use for the encounter would be “hope.”

I felt a sort of hope which I have long since felt. A resurgence of what I’m good at… people. That I have so much left to experience and contribute in this world… a listening ear and love. That although I struggle with having mastered nothing in this world, I am naturally good at almost everything I try.

I’m bright. I’m comical. I’m charismatic. Then for the first time in a long time, I thought less about how I’ve been begging Deity to take me to the people I need to be with or the place I need to be.

I thought more about how somewhere someone is begging Deity to send me into their life. As an employee. As an emissary. As a companion.

I felt hope. Hope in people of the world. Hope in two prayers are heard better than one. Hope in my future.

So even as the concert marking week’s end finished and I was getting my pictures taken with the Goo Goo Dolls (backstage passes), I was more concerned with getting to IHOP in time to meet up with my friends I’d been without for vastly more than a hundred hours.

I finally got home, went to bed, and upon waking 14 hours later had one thought in my mind. Hope.

A Penny Saved

Sunday is not my usual day for writing anything which may end up online.

I diligently reserve Sundays for personal writing. Pages and pages of journal entries.

Sometimes as simple as recounting a weekend activity, occasionally the philosophizing I restrict from public eyes, and intermittently the notation of private fears or passions.

I have acquired a weird hobby in the past couple months. I enjoy reading obituaries. I’ll go online and pull up any location in the country I wish to travel to and read about someone who lived a life there. And tonight I stumbled across a good one.

It was the picture which seized me. I gazed at this man and felt so immediately connected. I wanted to know about him. So I read. Born in another country. His immigration. His life, his education, his career, and his family. His story. Then I wanted to know him.

I have this immense love for the elderly. A substantial respect really. My friend seemed to finally take note of this in me within the past couple weeks and now frequently observes and comments on its presence in my life. I found her surprise at this fact comical and relayed it to another friend of mine.

When the latter queried to my fascination with this generation I simply replied, “I’m a story person. They have the stories.”

They have the stories about good times and bad times. The stories about war and about peace. The stories about love, hatred, and forgiveness. The stories about life.

In these stories are morsels of explanation, solutions to setbacks, and recipes for doing it all and potentially doing it better than what has come before us.

I hear optimism. I hear humor. I hear hope.

So tonight, I’m taking a second to meditate and re-immortalize this man.

I never knew you but I thank you. Thank you for reiterating to me the importance of education (formal or informal). To listen more and speak less. But mostly, thank you for showing me there are hard things to be done in life. Difficult things like leaving your country and the familiar to commence on a new path. A path I have no doubt frightened you terribly. Yet a path which offered much joy after the fight. You and others like you are inspirations to me.

Are There No Shoes?

About three months ago, I finally had to submit to a package of technology I've been avoiding. Unlimited Texts.

I don't mind texting. I concede to its convenience. Any time. Any place. Anywhere. The fact I had to upgrade proves this. My church texts information regarding activities. My boss texts reminders for meetings. And my friends…

However to ignore the repercussions of its existence would be irresponsible of us. It's impersonal. It takes little thought. It holds us accountable for next to nothing.

If I had a dime for every plan made over the phone and every plan broken over text, I'd be significantly wealthier.

This past year seems to have pummeled us, forcing us into a kind technology not essential for living or work. A technology which has been enslaving in our social practices and regressive in the fine art of communing.

Hereafter is simply my opinion, my experience, and my perception.

With focus on the internet, I have seen an explosion in signups on social networking sites and blogs alone. And with every click to add a new friend, to feel less isolated, we flush away kinship.

We reduce our relationships to a digital, less than 50 words, sporadic coming and going recaps. In our desire to connect, we become much less connected.

Sure we are touching base with a growing number of people. We are locating those who we temporarily lost. Yet at what cost?

Comparison and competition is thriving in this environment. The adolescent seemingly witnesses how peers are skinnier, prettier, and dating more. Women seemingly observe other wives doing it better, other mothers being more successful, and other women who are more involved and more accomplished. Or worse. Their pride supposes them the envy of others.

For me, it's merely the car I don't drive, the money I don't have, and the experiences I’m not encountering. Funny how every walk of life leaves us wanting more and feeling less. Never did anything perpetuate this feeling within humanity as the technology I have illustrated.

Where there is comparison and competition, there is enmity.

We sign on to see we haven’t been left messages or the “right ones” haven’t left us a message. We see those who sit idly on their accounts and others leaving their cyber prints all over the place offering little insight or connection rather a stamp to prove they’ve merely been there.

Additionally I could list more reasons. However it’s my final rationale which pains me the most. The lost art of communication and people relating.

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend who furthermore was my best friend at the time. I loved talking to him. We discussed everything under the sun. We developed this practice of nighttime phone calls.

I would get done play practice at 10 or sometimes 11, come home, get ready then jump into bed while making the call. However the calls would linger well into the early mornings.

Once my mother picked up her bedside phone at 2:30AM and spoke authoritatively, “time to hang up now.” I will never forget it. I will never forget those conversations.

Work and life has been tremendously exhausting of late. Last night I decided to retire much earlier than my usual post midnight bedtime. Upon climbing into the covers, I desired a little pillow talk. Literally.

I picked up my phone and scrutinized my contacts. I found myself in a very real dilemma.

There were two types of people. People who I know and love, who might have been up for the late night phone chat but were on the opposite coast or long turned in.

The second (and this is the distressing part) were my fellow peers. Peers who I knew if I signed onto a certain networking site would all be chatting in spades. Yet peers who I deem as lacking the skills to carry on a heartfelt, authentic, unfeigned conversation. Had I called, I would have confused any one of them.

“What’s going on?”
“I just wanted to talk, that’s all.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Just longing to connect with someone.”
Awkward silence. Stuttering. “Oh. Well… how was your day?” And those would have been the wrong words.

The right words would have been anything which would have jumpstarted the conversation. “Well I took a test today and I’m pretty sure I bombed it b/c I never listen in class. The professor is a total bore.”

“Oh yeah. I hate that. I’m so glad I’m done school. I went to the mall because I have a $40 gift certificate knowing that I wanted a pair of shoes. And after looking for no fewer than 2 hours, I found nothing. Can you believe that? Me? The shoe hoarder of late. And when I went into Vans, a tried and trusted shoe stop for me, I was greeted by indifference to a WALL of shoes, which on any other given day I can covet up to 3 pair. Can you believe THAT?”

(Unfortunately that’s a true story of this past week, folks. The excursion. Not the fake conversation.)

These are the details of our lives which bind us together. Which are defining of our beings to one another. Which are NOT blog worthy. Which get lost in this day and age of being so digitally united while so emotionally detached.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us…" C. Dickens

Now I'm off to hypocritically develop my friendships via comments. After all, I love giving and getting them too.

Susceptibility...

... the state of having little resistance.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

This entry is conceived in much shame. Nonetheless, most of my posts come only after I’ve tested the ideas against time. Meaning, if I think about blogging something and three days later I still want to blog about it, then I usually commence the process towards fruition.

Some of my friends and I have been on a stage kick of late. I’ve seen two plays in the last two weeks alone. And this pastime makes going to the movies look like an activity for the poor.

(I'm still going to the movies AND attending concerts. In fact, I've done all three this week.) Two nights ago, my friends and I decided to go see Aida which is playing locally at present.

I have really come to appreciate the direction which goes into these productions. Every stage is different and every new director has a unique vision for placing the specific story mood and essential details to generate an atmosphere on the small stage.

I was completely amused by the plot though predictable. However, I enjoyed what I believe the origin of the play to be. Elton John and Tim Rice having had so much fun writing for the Lion King that the moment it ended commenced the creation of Aida.

This musical is similar in plot location and musical theme only. Fortunately, it’s about people and not a pride of lions.

I am NOT before you writing a review. There was a simple detail the director took in this production which exploits one of my weaknesses for and affinity towards in my “Pandora’s box of male characteristics.”

(Sigh discreditably.) The fauxhawk. Or my truer kryptonite, the mohawk, when executed responsibly.

Now, there could not have been a better friend or companion at my side than was in this moment. For when I gasped so audibly upon sight of the Captain and his servicemen , the only person who could laugh and understand completely my immediate physical (emotional and let’s face it, 99% hormonal) response was the girl which sat beside me.

All the same. My former roommate. My very dear friend. A hair stylist. And my own color specialist.

I love mohawks but am extremely particular to shortness of the sides, wideness of the band, and overall height. So I love the fauxhawk. Additionally, a more traditional hair do is essential (as I prefer my men with respectable jobs) which lends itself to the conservative fauxhawk better.

Men in any play have never looked so appealing and so… well, delicious that appetite seems an entirely appropriate word for sexuality. I was in love. And those who do not presume lust to be a form of love, who sadly limit their definition of love to “happily ever after”, are truly missing out.

Should you believe this to be a random act of direction for the men of the play to be required to sport the look, the play has quite a sub-plot emphasis on fashion. It makes sense for the director to have employed fashion details such as this. I applaud the person who took my dull mundane week and turned it into daydream central ever since.

I cannot ever truly love a man who does not have a fauxhawk.

With Great Effort

To say I haven’t had any good times during 2008 would be a lie. To say 2008 has sucked for me would be an understatement.

It seems as though it’s been one thing after another. What’s worse is, I just can’t seem to weather the storm as I feel I should, even with all of this adversity experience under my belt.

I’m exhausted. I’m discouraged and dispirited. I’m frustrated and I’m downright angry. Is there no reprieve from the constant barrage of life’s assaults?

Now bear in mind, I’m not yet defeated. This is by no means intended to be a “woe is me” composition. I especially feel grateful a thousand times over for the loved ones in my life.

I spent the past weekend in the celebratory throws of a friend’s birthday which included a getaway to our very own nearby Park City. We crashed at a resort none of us could afford. We indulged in spa treatments. We ate out every meal at places ending in “grill” and containing words like “snake” and “creek” in them.

After the festivities and while we were homeward bound, as we drove down the Wasatch Back, I watched a rural lesser known Utah pass before me rather than the urban state I’ve come to be most familiar with.

The mountains’ foliage was already turning red and orange. The expanse was divided by an unspoiled azure stream. I became fixated on watching it wind its way through the yellowing meadows.

I witnessed a fisherman bundled in a long sleeved plaid flannel shirt under a pair of army green waders enjoying the tranquility of no one being around in this unpopulated nowhere.

While in the middle of happily beholding this breathtaking scene straight out of a movie, my mind caught hold upon the words, “for it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.”

As soon as I thought it, I queried back aggressively, “but what good is the astonishing when I’m drowning in the abysmal?” I pushed the thought out of my mind until I had a minute to reason through it later that night.

I retired to bed and the air of course had a nip in it. I gathered my covers tightly around my face and took a deep breath to ponder my earlier revelation.

In the solitude of the moment, with no one to lie to and no good reason to lie to myself, I became overcome with the power of the truthfulness of the declaration which immediately moved me to tears.

I lie in bed thinking of the countless good things I longed for. Things which I have frequently taken for granted in my life. Things like family in decent proximity, a car which doesn’t break down every six months, and other stuff as simple as good health to someone with a cold.

Then last night at almost midnight, I found myself at Sundance under a full moon enjoying myself. On the fartherest back slope surrounded by nothing except a friend with an affinity towards loudly crooning Disney songs, I felt it again.

After the credit card had been cancelled and my sister in law assures me my driver’s license is on its way. “For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.”

Friends Are Like...

I’m back.

Or I’m slowly getting back. Where did I hiatus to, you may be asking. A little place I like to call “twice a year sulking.”

I’ve just moved yet again. The second time in four months. I’m home sick. I’m Pennsylvania sick. But mostly I’m family sick.

I’m working hard at getting settled in with some things in my life and trying hard to prevent myself from settling in to other things.

It just seemed fitting that after a family blog, I would take time to lavish accolades upon some of my friends, namely my second family. As there is no chronological order to place them in, I will resort to using names.

Amy & Tyler: You have been family for 10 years but no doubt feeling the resurgence of my presence in spades since Feb. this year. Thank you for opening your home and hearts to me. Thanks for sharing your kids, your clothes, your Costco card, your mother/mother-in-law, and your DVR. Thank you for the birthday cake. And genuinely one of the happiest days of my year so far has been when you finally conceded to just giving me a key. A key to American Idol/ So You Think You Can Dance, air conditioning, auto glue, skateboards, and anything else I have ever pulled out of your garage. A key to HOME.

Coco: My blog is titled for moments with you. If I had a penny for every talk we've shared, for every burden we've shouldered, for every act of service we've performed... if I had a penny for boyfriend drama, and birthday giggles... if I had a penny for bowling with pumpkins, and almost crashing the car while looking at Christmas lights... if I had a penny for the haircuts, shopping, and spending of money... if I had a penny for all the chicken alfredo pizzas from OG... truely if I had a penny for all of the magical moments I've had with you, I'd be a wealthy little girl.

Sarah: I’ve never experienced anything like you before. How many times have we made the joke? You ARE my sister as much as any of them are. I love you. I love every hot tub confessional and every late night swim. I love every sauna sweat right down to the jock itch on the face. Who knew kissing the wood would have resulted in that medical trauma? I love the hours you have put in with me in the sun like few can. For cooking, baking, and mostly eating in the kitchen. It wouldn’t be us if there wasn’t peanut butter or soy milk involved. I absolutely love you, Sarah-Bell.

Daphne: Mi hermana latina. Moving into that house was the greatest blessing b/c I received the gift of you. Few know the demands of being my movie companion. But you have embraced the requirements unabashedly. Pop-culture is an expensive hobby but you have put every minute and every penny into the cause right down to TSLOTAT. There is no one else I would have rather “killed angels” with and you alone were the only one who knew of my obsession with KS (note the initials). I’ll never forget the day I caught you watching me watching him. Beauty pageants, Boyz II Men concerts, and home videos mean little to me without you there.

Ammon: Everyday I come to work and leave all of my friends behind. For 8 hours I try to contribute to the gross national product until I can play afterwards. Thanks for giving me a reason to laugh during those 8 hours. Whether it be at my desk, at Great Harvest, or at the stream/pond into which you flipped your car. Thanks for loaning your dimples to me, the cafeteria talks, and the birthday rendezvous. Thanks for opening my mind again to those different to me. But most importantly, never have you had a girl so convinced she wanted to work graveyard just so she could spend more time with you.

Last but certainly not least, Ren: You have been more of a life preserver than you know. To know me is to know passion. But it is a cross I bear, to feel so much. Being friends with you has given me my life back. There are times when I’m wearied to feel so intensely but with you around, I’m always buoyed. You are kindred in the one way which matters most. I‘ve laughed with you, cried with you, and gone catatonic in your living room in front of you. I have showed few others as much passion, zeal, and enthusiasm as I have allowed myself to give you. I’ve told you secrets I have never told others in this state. You are my twin glass rock. So solid to me in spite of how breakable we are.

Loved Ones... HOLLA!

Perhaps it’s the pending birthday looming at the end of the week.

If I get a spare hour, I love to youtube. (Yes, I’ve made it a verb, however, I’m sure I’m not the first to do so.) It’s the ultimate in letting “one thing take you to the next” experience. It’s one of the few places I suspend my need to know where or why and just go and do.

So imagine my surprise when my start place of John Mayer’s ‘Free Fallin’ video landed me about one hour later at a ‘Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman’ video. Seriously, you can find anything on youtube.

I laughed and clicked on it. This, semi-shamefully, is an essential reminder of my youth. (Candace, I found a user who has EVERY episode from ALL 6 seasons online.)

A few days later, my heart still kind of aches.

It’s the birthday. I know it. Nostalgia has been running deep of late and the one thing from my past I seem to be missing most is my family. Okay, it’s not so much my past as much as a separation from them in the present which is lasting longer than I would have it.

So on a very short, non-philisophical note, with little creativity and vibrancy in my writing, here exists a shout out to my family.

I LOVE YOU! I MISS YOU!

· From bottom up: Please think of me when you’re home in September. I’m sad we’re not going to be there together like we always try to be.
· I’m glad the beach was tons of fun. I’m jealous as it’s been a month and a half since I’ve been. Plus, David Cook has a new single out as well. I know you loved the Archuleta one I shot your way.
· You’re girls are getting so big. You have to blog more. But in the meantime I’ll settle for talking to you when I’m trying to get mom.
· Remember, I’m counting on you for Christmas. Thanksgiving = You + St. George. Christmas = You + Me.
· John and Jen broke up and my heart is happy? Please explain this as I know you both are one of the few others I consult with in these moments. Also, ‘Sisterhood’ would have been much better with you, girlie.
· The goal is 10 grand then New York City. I’m thinking 6 months. Thanks for inspiring me. We’ll go get sushi together.
· Girls T & K. I’m finally at an age where I’ll take that pizza and beer girls’ night you offered awhile back.
· You’re obviously throwing the coolest parties of the summer. I’m sure the new pool has nothing to do with it.
· Congrats on your big day which has ironically been in progress for years. Plus, you are single-handedly responsible for the best conversation I’ve had this summer. I cherish THAT day on the beach.
· To the big brother every girl wishes she had and I luckily do, I love the genuine interest you always show in my life. Few people sincerely care about the details of others the way you do.

A long read... but you should do it.

My two friends and I were leaving the restaurant. It was in a part of town I was leery to go into in the first place. Supposedly the food was worth every bit of the shadiness it required to walk from the parked car a few blocks away so it wouldn’t get broken into or stolen itself.

We had paid and taken our last sips. I was merely standing in the sitting area waiting for the other two who had escaped for a quick bathroom break. I was extremely aware of my surroundings and in my constant assessment, I looked down to see a crisp five dollar bill on the floor under one of the benches.

I glanced around the room. As we were the only ones in the restaurant besides the staff who were all tucked away in the back, I bent over to grab the money. Upon lowering myself, I noticed another crisp five as well as a twenty which seemed to be poking out of the seam of the wall between the two rooms.

I felt guilty shoving the fives quickly into my jeans pocket but it was the larger bill which scared me. I tugged on the twenty and it pulled out another twenty. When I tugged on the second one, two more sticking to it came with it.

Afraid of getting caught but suffering from a bout of greediness, I put the first two twenties in my pocket with the fives and stood up quickly. The guilt was insurmountable now b/c my thievery was sure to be discovered. By now I was sure none of this money was accidentally dropped by anyone rather as seedy as the part of town we were in and the restaurant owners who served us.

The girls were by my side and it had darkened outside. I wanted to put the money back but I wanted to leave immediately more.

We stepped out the front door and saw two men lingering in the corner of the alley. We were positioned in the middle of tons of industrial buildings surrounded on all sides by these small alleys. My mind tried to calculate an escape plan but I silenced it as my own coping mechanism telling myself I was being ridiculous.

I was seriously afraid. There was nothing comforting about all the concrete buildings and pavement.

The money was burning a hole into my leg and while we quietly spoke awkwardly to each other to feign our normality, we were all aware of the loiterers following us. I was sure they had known what I had taken.

We tried to nonchalantly pick up the pace. As we did, the guests made no attempt to hide their agenda. They broke into a run after us. We all took off but I was slower than the other two.

I instantly found myself separated from my group and down another alley by myself completely conscious to the fact I had no idea where the car was parked. I kept running. My lungs were burning. I was not in shape for this. The acute fear seemed to paralyze me.

With horror pumping through my veins, I turned the corner and bumped into one of my friends.

“Where’s the car!” she exclaimed but I was as ignorant as she was.

By this time we had hidden ourselves behind a dumpster and although I was confident we would be safe from the riot we could hear had broken out now that night had entirely fallen, we knew staying for any longer than a minute was not an option. We would have to leave at some point.

I peered around the corner of the putrid smelling green dumpster. I recoiled at the sight before me. One of the men had pulled out his gun and shot the person in front of him. My heart was beating so fast, it had turned into more of a hum.

We dashed out and started running towards what felt like a “front” street. We had run three blocks or so when a man grabbed me by my shirt and barked orders for me to follow him. I thought we were finished. I knew this was it and my mind ran over every unfinished detail in my life.

He led us into one of these industrial buildings. We swiftly traipsed through the dirt and the clutter of broken glass and rusting gasoline cans. We walked through a door I was sure lead to something more terrible than what I was witnessing but was surprised to see it open into… an apartment.

I first noticed the bed pushed into the far right corner. The blankets were crumpled and dusty. The floor was littered with trash. The windows were busted.

“You guys can rest here for awhile,” the stranger generously offered. My mind confusingly made the leap from equating this man as the villain to my rescuer.

“What is this?” I queried. “Where are we?”

“We’re in my apartment. I keep this place because I work two blocks away. When I get out too late for my safety, I crash here.”

“But there’s no lock on the door,” I shrieked.

“Trust me; it goes far more unnoticed by appearing ‘open’. The moment I put a lock on it is the moment this place is discovered and looted by any passer-bys.”

My body ached. My muscles felt heavy and in severe pain. He explained a little more how his apartment had come to be known as a safe house for the area. He mumbled about the couches and the pillows and blankets I only now noticed on them. But my mind crazily tried to digest the sight before me.

I had wondered to the wall of windows and in the dark had been examining the literal mayhem which was chaotically taking place a mere fifteen feet away outside. Gun shots were as prevalent as footsteps. It was hard to delineate one scream from the chorus of screaming.

I watched a brute shoot another at point blank. He bent over the motionless corpse, reached into his back jean pocket and removed the leather wallet.

Life was not treasured here. How had a city, our city, turned into this? It was a breeding ground for panic and terror. I heard our host once more. He continued on the frequency of guests and in that moment, there was a knock at the door.

My heart stopped.

The door pushed open and our lost friend stood in the doorway. Having been the only one of us familiar with this part of town, she was also familiar with this place. In alarm, she explained how she had parked the Suburban just outside the loading dock to this building. If we could get to the car, we would be able to get out of this hell.

We barely thanked the gentleman for his help. He walked us once more through the rubble. My heart was racing again and I thought it might explode. I could see the black SUV we had traveled in. We had no time among all the shooting to say good bye to the man. As soon as we saw the outside, we broke into a sprint and nothing could describe the fear of every step.

I watched him pull his gun on me. I was only ten feet away and almost at the car door when… CRACK.

---
This was the first of 3 nightmares I had last night. The other two were grossly different and equally emotionally charged.

Everything was dark. My eyes flew open. My hands were wrapped around my stomach. There was a shooting pain in my gut. I could barely think of anything other than this sharp throbbing in my belly. I rolled to my side. What was wrong with me?

My breathing was short and rapid. “Sit up,” I told myself. I couldn’t shake the panic. I climbed out of bed, stumbled downstairs, went to the bathroom, turned on the light, and secured a glass of water. I popped some ibuprofen b/c the pain was real though I was uncertain why. When I was sure I could fall back asleep, I walked to my bed again.

For what? Two more nightmares. Last night sucked.

I Hereby Motion...

... all chuck Norris jokes be edited into Michael Phelps jokes.

Ex: Michael Phelps can drown both a fish... and Chuck Norris.

My loved ones will understand the tribute I pay to the "machine" I have spent no fewer than 30 hours of Olympics these past 7-9 days to see him break and re-break records many times over.

I, too, have shed tears with Deborah Phelps. I'm nearly hoarse from how amazing this all has been.

One More Night

Irrefutable truth regarding me: I am extraordinarily nocturnal. When others sleep, my desire to be awake strongly intensifies.

Two nights ago, I came home to a still house blacked out in sleep and quiet. I found myself in a position I’ve rarely experienced since moving in with the 3 girls. Solitude. Not a solitude of presence but a solitude of being.

As I tried to slow my mind down from the day’s stimulation, my mind kept speeding up in excitement of the alone time, something I treasure as I’m one of the most social creatures you’ll ever meet.

I commenced my evening rituals of shower, lotioning, putting away my shoes, and organizing my things for work the next day. I removed my shorts and tee shirt to settle into my bed, turned on my alarm clock, and turned off the bedside lamp. As soon as the dull yellow light disappeared, my eyes took a second to adjust to the external lights from the world peering through the windows.

I was so exhausted. I’ve been living in a constant state of exhaustion for the past two weeks. My brain has been on overdrive, surviving in a hyper aware condition to all stimuli around me, careful to take note and re-note all which is being said and done in my surroundings. I’ve barely had to lay my head down before I’ve been out.

Yet I lay there watching the shadows bounce around on the wall from the summer breeze through the limbs of the trees outside. I delineated between the white moon and the warmer street lamp glow. I traced the incoming beams to the mirror in my room and then its reflected trajectory outward.

I thought about my work. I thought about my family. I thought about my career plans. I thought about my ‘to do’ list. I thought about my work.

The air was warm and a little tacky from the moisture of the assiduously working swamp cooler. My night side fan moved around enough air to feel a faint breeze in my bed.

I thought about how much I love reading on nights like these. When everything is peaceful and silence is an old welcomed friend whose company couldn’t be more perfect in the moment. When the plot is taking you page by page deeper into your escape world. I almost decided to engage in the hobby when the concept of turning on the light deterred me.

So I decided to indulge in a moment of gratitude for the good things of the week.

The reflection of a specific friend came into my head and I smiled all over. I love good friends. Then in that vein, I mulled over a phone conversation with another friend from a few days earlier and the happiness I felt. Consequently, I smirked when I thought of my sister’s opinion of this friend. I meditated on my family on the other side of the country. I am loved.

I thought about my goals again. I tried to formulate plans. But whatever I thought of, I kept grinning. I found myself in the most smiley mood and it was 1:30 at night.

I should have been asleep. I’d regret all of this in the morning. Still those thoughts didn’t do anything to quiet my mind. I wanted to stay up. I wanted to talk. I wanted to ponder.

I’ve heard it quoted, “by night, an atheist half believes in God.”

One thing I know, as the harshness of daylight vanishes, so does the blanket of invincibility in which we daily cloak ourselves.

My mind is more open and receptive. My opinions are more malliable. The need to be or experience anything other than what I am or how I feel dissolves. It’s liberating freedom.

So take a guess why I love night.

Sweet Emotion

An Enya CD
The Superman Emblem
A Christmas Tree
The 5 Olympic Rings
This one photograph of my sister and me.

These are a few things which stir great emotion in me. I’m engaged with a rush of powerful response towards all of these things.

I could take the time to explain why an Enya CD reminds me of our beach house, one agonizing sunburn, and my family. But it wouldn’t be worth it, because I’d have to scratch that story as soon as I told it to relate a completely different instance.

One involving another Enya CD on a cold autumn’s night with the bedroom window open, gripping the covers for dear life, and loving every second of it. Then I’d abandon that story for no fewer than 5 more great Enya recollections.

A week ago my world encountered a storm as big as I’ve ever been asked to weather. The story of which will not be recounted here as the re-telling of it has already worn out its welcome in my life.

However I will relate this much. There has only been one other time when I have felt so much. I was in torture so acute, so heavily laden in anguish, there are very real parts of the day which are blacked out in my mind with zero remembrance for hours at a time.

I offered one unanswered prayer many times that day, as many times as I could scarce grab the thought. “Please turn the emotions off. Please stop me from feeling. Please turn the emotions off. Please stop me from feeling.”

True to nature, my mind has been the frenzied product of a well employed heart. I’ve tried to sense and make sense of the turbulent feelings I’ve had from and towards the lessons I’ve been learning.

I am frequently heard to utter the comments “aahhh, it hurts my heart” or “awww, it warms my heart.”

About a month ago my roommate commented on the health of my heart after using one of these statements. She observed the regularity to which I exercise the organ noting I would either live a long life due to the relentless training or die young from sheer exhaustion.

So tonight while driving to a friend’s house, a lyric materialized in a song I usually skip which I had the fortunate and incredibly lucky blessing of hearing.

“Oh, there's no heart. And I've spent all this time feeling something you can't feel at all!”

And…wait for it… my heart leapt.

The obvious implication of the lyric has much to do with love, with romantic love. Yet I couldn’t help but apply more liberally the sentiment being presented to me.

Why are some of us so content to walk around this world building up fences, road blocks, and other fortifications around our feelings? Because if left vulnerable, one might get hurt?

I assure you, it will get hurt. You will love and lose. You will love and lose more times than you win. You will love and live, and live and learn. Perhaps even to despise that love.

But you will feel. You will feel a rainbow of emotions which will take a black and white world and color it with the vibrancy of existence. The very breath of life.

You will sit in your scanty boat while the winds and rains of living wallop down upon you and there will be tears.

Still, I also assure you those tears will NOT all be of melancholy. Since tears of melancholy generally bleed into achievement.

And when you look around to see who might rejoice in THOSE tears with you, it aches to see over half the population whose hearts have waxed cold and want to scream, “Oh, there's no heart. And I've spent all this time feeling something you can't feel at all!”

So tonight, ironically one week to the day, I have to say I’m grateful to feel. Even the stomach churning negative crap.

Come Here & Sit Down

In the past few weeks, I have scribed no fewer than 3 lengthy blogs. Yet as I develop each essay, I can’t seem to bust one out containing the emotion and power with which I’m used to penning into something.

So I sat down and put on some music in the hopes to pick one of these out, brush it off, dress it up, kiss it with passion, and then post it.

Anyone who’s had a pulse musically this year has had an affinity for Chris Brown. As he was shortly found among the C’s, I clicked on the song “Say Goodbye” and took a moment to enjoy a throw back to 2005 when the song was released.

Chris’s work is completely reminiscent of Usher’s 90s hits. And in THAT, I found some new inspiration.

It was a cool pending summer night. The moisture in the air was more soothing to the skin than it was a nuisance to a hot body. The moon acted as a whitish yellow night light embracing the tree limbs, roof tops, and worn cracking pavement we call streets back east.

I was driving down the back winding roads of the country in my mother’s Plymouth Voyager minivan… a white vehicle with faux side wood paneling.

It was a vehicle I wildly paced too fast around turns, whose brakes I fiercely had a love affair with b/c of my youthful attraction for speed, and a nose I gently pressed to the bumper of a classmate’s car when he chose to slow for railroad tracks I had zero intention of crawling over. It was a vehicle we final few kids in my family have a fondness for.

The windows were down and my younger sister was in the passenger seat. The conversation had dwindled and the radio took over with the smooth R&B sounds we were channeling. It was one of the many times I had heard the words, “it’s seven o’clock, on the dot, I’m in my drop top, cruising the streets, yeah baby…”

For a teenage girl whose life was ferociously transitioning into a mysterious new realm, it felt to me as comfortable as anything at that time could.

We were grown ups, my sister and I. The fake kind. The adolescents who were picking up the boyfriend to bring back to hang out with at our house kind. The kind who was still mildly surprised the request for the hang out, excursion, and car was granted. The free kind.

The cicadas were thick in the shoulder grasses. Their buzzing and clicking add to the cadence of my memory’s soundtrack of the night. Additionally, there was the croaking of tree frogs, the screeching of crickets, and the humming of an enormous underworld of insects crouching in the lush foliage which is Pennsylvania.

The memory is crisp in my mind and definitively paramount to my familiarity of my home state. The new song with the old memory made me think of one person. A person I love. A person I need to call.

And while sitting over two thousand miles away, in a desert state whose sun is literally scorching the paint off of my car this year, I found some passion. It’s why I have always written. It’s why I write.

To preserve the memories.

The beliefs I possess. The associations I make. The memories of my people, my places, and my experiences. And here is the epiphany Chris Brown led me to whilst engaging in a music appreciation moment.

It is easy to feel so small and perhaps even insignificant in this world. There are 6 billion people and only one me. We are ALL seeking to be understood while hopefully remembering to seek to understand others as well.

This is why we engage in relationships. We desire to summon another witness to our lives… to be apart of our existence.

What is the way we connect to each other? By the sharing of ourselves. And I query, what are we sharing?

It has been said, “to understand a man, you must know his memories.”

Perhaps from now on I will print out my journal and print off my blog entries and bestow this book of my past to any new being of whom I wish to connect. But as William Faulkner said, the past is never dead; it is not even past.

One of My Heart's Beliefs

The more intensely we feel about an idea or a goal, the more assuredly the idea, buried deep in our subconscious, will direct us along the path to its fulfillment.
-Earl Nightingale

Authentic Self

“Guys, when a woman is slamming cupboards and tells you she’s ‘fine’ when you ask her what’s wrong, ASK AGAIN.”

I smiled to myself at my professor’s proclamation to the class. At the time, I don’t believe it had been something I had actually done in my life but could immediately sense it was something women do. Of course since my college days, it has become something I have done.

Was there ever a woman or person who existed in the world who at one time or another has not demonstrated incongruent verbal and non-verbal communication at the same time? I daresay not.

So when a roommate of mine last Saturday went from normal to angry in a millisecond, I observed the smashing of the dishwasher door and the banging of the cupboards to be so obviously indicative of her new mood. I already knew better than to waste my breath on the obvious question, are you mad?

The not so obvious questions were at what or who. Still to have asked her these questions in the moment would have resulted in shrouded deceit if not intentional dishonesty. I expected this. What I did not expect was THIS four days later.

This has since been resolved, though my frustration has had me pondering. I can’t help but wonder, why have we forsaken the notion of being honest in our dealings with our fellow men?

I only have myself to compare others against. I understand not wanting to talk about it in the heat of the moment, nevertheless, I’ve learned to talk it to death after the fact… in brutal honesty.

I’m starting to notice our lack of honesty has less to do with our honesty issues concerning others and more to do with our honesty issues concerning ourselves.

“You keep on building the lie, that you make up for all that you lack…” S.M.

Last Sunday evening, I went to a male friend’s house to find solace in a day of chaos. He gave me a hug. He provided me a glass of water. He popped popcorn. He furnished a pillow and blanket. He put on a movie. And he selflessly held me for the better portion of two hours.

He is a man who I trust. I trust him with my dreams. I trust him with my emotions. I trust him with my body. The type of trust which allows him to rest his hand on your softer parts and neither of you flinch at the contact.

It is a comfort derived from honesty. I’m not afraid to be truthful with him… or him to me. He has witnessed me yell, swear, and cry. And even when I’ve done it to him, he’s reminded me it’s often because of my frustration with myself that I sometimes do these things. In the moment, I contest his every accusation of such. Although in the stillness which inevitably follows, I concede.

So instead of penning a discourse on honesty for another ten paragraphs (which by the way, a trait I’m still working on), I leave you with what I know.

My honesty with others at any given time is directly correlated with my honesty to myself. Furthermore, when I have encountered an individual who seems to have a dishonest sense of reality, I repeatedly find an individual who has a dishonest sense of self.

A little more than two years ago, I conducted a personal re-evaluation. In an effort to ever improve my being, I made a few personal goals one of which constituted a concentrated effort in the exercise of being honest with me. An effort to maintain the truth of any situation to myself even if I had hidden it from another.

In so doing, I have found myself hiding the truth less and less towards others. I’m a late bloomer for sure. It has taken me almost thirty years to recognize the value of this while others seem to get it in twenty. Another advantage of my age I’m not willing to forfeit for youth.

Nowadays when I find myself figuratively slamming the cupboards, instead of hollering ‘all is fine’, I try to convey a more honest ‘don’t talk to me right now’ message.

***Post Script. Upon posting this blog, I stumbled aross a well known quote revealing the obviousness of my observation. I suppose I have had no original idea on the topic and the hypothesis has long since been concluded.

"This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." W.S.