Reflection

Looking back on 2014 from the end of it, I can safely say this has been a weird year. I'm reading back over my current journal, which started on 27 November of last year, and I catch words like "scared," "try," fail," "pacing." It's been a year of letting go, saying goodbye, and welcoming new friends with wary but willing "hellos."

The year started out with what I thought was a brave move. I had spent a semester with a less-than-ideal roommate situation, and when I was presented with the opportunity to move into an empty room in the corner of the freshman dorm, I took it. It was the first time in a really long time that I made a move that was in my best interest, instead of taking the easy road. The semester progressed and I plunged head-first into literature classes and writing courses that stretched me both as a scholar and as a writer. I was journaling nearly every day and on a level that was deeper than "today I cleaned my room." (That's actually a joke, I think my room was clean the day I moved in and the day I moved out.)

Between that semester and this past summer, I was the busiest I've been in years. I was put on stage crew for two shows and counted such a blessing to work with some of the most talented and dedicated people I've ever met. I have been working for nearly two years straight, between cleaning showers and sealing envelopes and scrubbing baseboards for old women and vacuuming carpets that smell like cats and dusting shelves and pulling weeds. And nearly every day I come home exhausted but with the sense of "I did something today."

This year has been one of figuring out what's in my best interest. Certainly not in a selfish way, but I rarely take time to think about my needs instead of what other people want for/of me. I wrote back in the spring that I was tired of being overweight but not because someone else had told me that I was overweight; I wanted to get healthy because I wanted it. I didn't go on some crash diet, and I didn't starve myself...though I did do about three hours of exercise in one day, which had me laying in bed with such a massive pain in my chest that I literally thought I would die, right then and there. (It's called "angina," and it's not a heart attack. It comes from your heart working too hard. Or, in other words, when you play the idiot and subject yourself to three hours of exercise in one day.) And without beating myself up if I gained a little and not letting myself go if I lost a little, I have successfully kept off 16 pounds since May. And while I've lost a little bit around my middle, I've gained discipline as a lifestyle. Which is really cool.

This year hasn't been all rosy. If you've been keeping up with my blogs for a while, you'll know that especially the last five months have been a little rocky. I went into student-teaching, all ready to learn everything I needed to know to be the best teacher I could be, only to find out three weeks into it that I hated it. I told my dad that the game plan of me going to teach in Korea for two years was never something I wanted to do, which I kept to myself for several months for fear of disappointing him. I have finally decided on a next step that was drastically different from my original game plan, but it's not one that seems unreasonable or like I'm settling for something that's easy. And in the process I have been able to nail down, clearly and without a doubt, "This is what I want." Because it is, after all, my life to live.

As this new year begins, I don't really know what will come next. Obviously the very next step is to go make sweet tea and go to work and take down my Christmas decorations (sad day) and drink Angry Orchard at my family's crazy New Year's Eve party where we all fall asleep on the couch and wake up right before the ball drops. But the next-few-months steps...not really sure. This is not a fun place to be in: for the first time in my life, my next move isn't very clear. But I'm ready to find out what it is. I've already started asking the hard questions and making the bold moves. So whatever winds up happening...I'll keep you posted.

Happy New Year, dear friends. Go tell somebody you love them. And be happy this year - life is so much more interesting when you approach it with a smile.

Tan

Joe and I are reading through Psalms, and while I haven't been as regular with my reading as I should be, I'm about to finish the book on schedule. Today I read in 116 where a half-verse says, "The Lord protects those of childlike faith," and I think it's so interesting how we - who are constantly told be society to be "grown-up" and "mature" - are called on by our Father to be as innocent and trusting as children.

It's easy for me to liken God to a father figure. My dad is one of the wisest men I've had the privilege to know. One of my favorite things to do is ask him questions, because he knows about everything. This comes from spending so much time by himself: he reads constantly - history books, not merely novels to pass the time - and watches the news, documentaries, "how it's made" programs. I love to ask him about World War II: he's an expert on that area and has spurned my own interest in it. The funny thing is, if he doesn't know the answer to one of my questions, I toss out that question, like it's not important to know the answer: if Dad doesn't know it, it's not worth knowing. Example: the other day we were talking about some neutral country's involvement in the Second World War - I don't remember which one it was - and I asked him a question about Peenemunde. He said he wasn't sure, and my brain said, "Ah well, that's not worth knowing."

I love to travel with him. He's been in most of the major cities of the world, and when we go to those places with him he points out this pub and that burger place and this joint that has really good fish and even better beer. He's taught us to navigate airports and subways and bus routes and train stations. Through his experience and his guidance he's made us seasoned travelers, who take every opportunity to see this big, wide, wonderful world. Of all the lessons he's taught us, the constant reminder to maintain a level of curiosity echoes through my childhood, has chased me to western Canada at twelve and England at twenty, has been the ever-present drip in my mind as I embrace the changes that my life will soon - and has already begun to - undergo.

And even at a somewhat-grown-up twenty-two, I feel safest when I get in the backseat of our big grey Yukon with my dad at the wheel. We don't have to do anything: we just have to get in and buckle up.

Yet

1 August

I am severely unready to adult.

When I sit down and look at my life, I see myself - 22 years old with a half-baked degree in English education and $xx,xxx of debt - standing at the edge of a very steep, very abrupt, very scary drop from the comfortable surroundings of my childhood into the abyss of "being a grown-up." I remember being so eager to be an adult ten years ago, when I wanted my own apartment and a dog named Rowdy and the right to do whatever I wanted instead of my mom telling me "empty the trash can" and "wash the dishes."

Now - when the trash is my own and the dishes pile up under dust and mold - all I want to do is sit on my couch in my sweatpants and eat chicken nuggets while I watch "Spongebob."

Yesterday I told my dad that I don't want to teach English in Korea. It seemed like a really easy route: pack up for a year or two, work in a Korean school, and gain the experience of a lifetime to the tune of about $2000 a month. (Housing provided.) I've prayed so much in the past year for wisdom in everything that I do, and I've been blessed to feel the peace of my Father in several areas of my life. But in the past few years I've learned the difference between fear in my heart and unrest in my soul. And this time, I think it's the latter.

Don't get me wrong: I want to be free. I want to be independent. I want to pay my own bills and get my own groceries to myself for a little while.

I just don't think I have to go halfway around the world to do it.

Since the conversation with my dad, I've had another conversation with my mom: if not that, then what? This is the time to buckle down and figure out what I want to do with my life - not the rest of it, but just the next step of it. I have student teaching left as a cushion, but that'll be over four short months from now. I'm dating an incredible man and we've talked about the possibility of getting married. And I know that the next year will be one of incredible growth: personal, spiritual, experiential, financial.

Be it known right now: I am not scared. Sometimes I get a little overwhelmed with the thought of moving out of my home and starting a career and finding an apartment and paying for electricity and maybe marrying my best friend, but I am not scared. I'm ready to see where life will take me around the plans that I'm making along the way. I'm ready to see where my God takes me while I'm busy saying "this is what I want" instead of listening to what He wants.

I just need a minute to curl up under my blankets and stare at the wall.

~~~

8 December

I think it's high-time for an update. This is in response to my 1 August entry, when I was staring down the barrel of a 15-week student teaching gig, back when my future seemed so certain and I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

How four short months can alter everything.

Whether I like it or not, I am officially an adult, about to start paying rent and car payments and worked 1 1/2 full-time jobs and trying to make my way through the transition of student to totally a grown-up.  In August I was planning on going to Korea to teach English. At 22 years old, 168 pounds, with a half-baked English degree and five-digit debt, I just needed to get through student-teaching before I was turned loose in my own classroom to teach the masses and change the world.

With three days left before graduation, I'm still 22 years old, though another six pounds lighter (this comes from not eating); my degree will come in the mail (though my teaching license will come via email) in the next few weeks. And next week I go back to Kroger full-time instead of just part-time like I originally thought would be the case, along with a few hours a week at an orthodontist's office. And I can still do odd jobs for the guy I mowed grass for this summer. On the side I'm looking for editing or publishing positions so that I can at least put part of my degree to use.

The thing I'm forgetting is that my God has a game plan even when I don't turn to Him for guidance. That doesn't mean He doesn't show up: I got the news about my Kroger hours after I'd been moping around for three days feeling sorry for myself. But as my dad always says, it's all about an "attitude of gratitude," which hasn't exactly been my priority for the past few months. I've been so worried about what will be my next option that I've become self-centered, miserable, and zero-fun to be around. What a horrible way to spend a life.

My Father, help me to trust You in the hard times, and not to be so bitter during those times.

Eskimo

I'm writing this from our empty classroom, where I sit alone for the last time. It's my last day of student-teaching. With two class periods down, I've shocked some of the kids who have only just realized (even though I've told them for weeks) that I won't be back after today. And while some of them are probably not too sad to see me go (I've warned them that the work load I've given them won't stop when I leave - I wasn't the one telling me what to plan, you know), most of them have this look of "please don't leave us" on their young faces.

That look always makes it so hard to leave them.

I asked an education professor once if there was a way to separate our human emotions from our teacher emotions - the same way hospice nurses do. And she said that, unfortunately, it's impossible. After all, how will you ever be effective if you chose to remain detached, unfeeling, disconnected?  This is not the sort of job that you leave in a drawer when you go home at night. Your dealings are not with boxes and paperwork; you are placed in charge of that most delicate of products - human souls. Their young images flash across your mind as you think about something brilliant that they said, something funny that they did, some character trait that you wish you didn't see developing at their tender ages. You can't help but be "all-in" - totally invested, totally submerged. And when you leave, you can't help but leave a bit of your heart with those kids who have taken so much of your thought and energy.

I remember watching the kids on my last day at my last field experience, a seventh-grade class. I remember thinking as I watched them, bent over their work, "What will happen to them?" Where will these tender little souls end up? I don't see my juniors and seniors with the same innocence beaming from them - so many of them are so hard and cynical already. But I still can't help but wonder what will become of them. They're still so young, so early in their lives, and yet they already feel so beaten-down by their experience. Most of my students are seniors, which means they're heading off to...something, whether it's college or the army or the work force or their parents' basements. And I can't help but wonder about where they'll go, what they'll do, who they'll become after our lives part ways, them spiraling off to one uncertain future and me to another.

My next class is coming in, and I have to pass out the cookies that I baked for them. I will think of you at first, my kiddos - those thoughts will fade, but for now you will come to mind often as I think of you, pray for you, miss some of your cheerful spirits and the smiles that you gave to me in the most trying few months of my life. Thank you for being my first classes. Thank you for bearing with me as we learned together and stuck it out in a place where neither of us wanted to be.

Thank you for making my last semester of college one to remember.

Dodge

I have a question.

Actually I have a great many questions. Such as: when you put ketchup on something, is it because you like the taste of ketchup better than you like the taste of that food, or does the ketchup do something to the taste of the food itself? Or: how could you tell in the earliest versions of airplanes if you were low on gas without a computer-chip gas tank, did you keep it in the front seat with you? (The perks of dating a airplane mechanic so he can tell you these things.) But this one’s actually one that I’m interested in learning the answer to, not just something I ponder when I’m driving home alone in my car.

Incidentally I thought of a really cool idea for a character interaction. I imagined an older guy coming home from work every night and, without offering a “hello” or a “I’m home,” he asks some stupid question, taps his granddaughter on the temple, and says, “Now there’s something to ponder.” And she hates when he does that. Ponder what? How long is one expected to ponder something? Until an answer is discovered? Is he really even looking for an answer? Or is he just focused on the act of you pondering? But the big question is: why can’t he come in the house and say “Call me when dinner’s ready” like a normal person.

I digress.

Why is it such a big deal when someone “comes out?” Why do people record videos, make announcements, schedule press conferences, hire skywriters to declare to the universe “I AM A HOMOSEXUAL”? I’m not saying not to do it: however you deliver news is your business. I personally like to announce when we’re out of peanut butter in my house with much laying face-down in the floor and questioning the purpose of my existence in a peanut butter-less household. But what does that do? Literally, nothing. It doesn’t make a new Jif jar appear before me and lessen my burden. (First-world problems: “There’s no more peanut butter, I may as well just cease to be.”) So what does such an announcement do for the world when a homosexual declares something that he or she already acknowledges that they are?

I think the odd thing about being a homosexual (and this is all innocent speculation, I’ve never actually been one) is that it seems like you have to prove something. “I’m gay, now let me show you what I can do.” Is it a general assumption that, because you’re a homosexual, you move a few steps down on some ladder and you have to work extra-hard to make your way back up again? Or is it that it’s such a small (though ever-growing) community that you have to work to secure the status of “your group” (I don’t mean to marginalize, I pray you not to take it as such) within the larger circles of society? One of my former students chose to be “over the top” with the embodiment of his sexuality, even at the expense of his own safety, for the sake of the handful of other homosexuals within that school. And while I admire his courage at such a young age, I had to ask…what was the point?

This “pondering” has been sparked by a video of a country music singer coming out, and it just struck me as odd to announce something that you classify as your identity – part of who you are, a slice of your psychological and physical makeup. I wonder if I stood up and said, “Dear friends and family…I’m a woman,” even though that’s already part of my identity, if I would have shocked responses and people turning to me for support. “Don’t let anybody stifle that part of you, your courage is an inspiration to us all.” Somehow I don’t think it would have the same effect.

I’m not trying to start a fight, and I don’t want to be perceived as a homophobe or a bigot or anything even remotely related to that – you do what you do, I’ll do what I do, tom-ay-to to-mah-to, bada-bing-bada-bam. But I am genuinely interested in hearing an answer: if we’re supposed to be moving toward a society of equality and less of a dichotomy between the formerly-separated “us” and “them”…why must it still be addressed with fanfare and YouTube videos?

Back

My brain is so exhausted. In the past week I've gone from substitute teaching to going back to school to seriously looking at going back to school in the spring to sitting on the back of my truck talking to a very wise man about how my whole life has been a lie. But I've finally put into words what I'm going to do.

When I graduate I won't be going back to school. I thought about maybe going back and finishing my English degree - I would only need to take twelve credits and could knock it out in a semester. But when I emailed one of my profs about a class question and explained my game plan, he asked if we could talk it through a little bit. He explained that it would mean more money spent on getting a degree that, in the eyes of potential employers, I already have. He said it would be a better use of my time and money to go ahead and work - pick up another job, work my ass off (let it be known that I am not afraid of hard work and lots of it), live at home, and start to make myself more financially stable while figuring out what I really want to do.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that going back to school was a safe option. I've been a student for a long time. I'm used to it. But it's not moving me forward at all. In fact it would be putting me into even more debt for something that I basically already have. And in my panic over the impending end of the semester, I was desperate for some option. In the week since it was presented to me, I hadn't had a chance to sit in silence and think it through. I was flying around, frazzled and exhausted and panicked and scared, and I wasn't seeing clearly, let alone thinking clearly.

Which is never a good way to make decisions.

About an hour into our conversation, he said I need to figure that out first, because he hadn't heard it up to that point. I said, "I want to find a Muggle job (something that brings in cash even though it might have nothing to do with my actual degree) that I can leave at work so I can write on the side."

And he said, "That's it. That's what I should do."

And so that's what I'll do.

I have twenty-five days left of student teaching, and after that I'll certainly have my Kroger job to look forward to. I'm going to focus on looking at library jobs - I don't need my masters to just have a staff job, only if I were planning on being a full-out librarian. I picked up an application today and hopefully should know something in the next few weeks. I figured out that I really don't want to be a substitute teacher: I've been told that it's boring and not that great of pay, and it just really isn't something that I want to do.

So now we have a game plan. A real game plan. A more sure game plan. And, this time, the game plan that I want.

I'm scared. I'm unsure of what job I'll do or where I'll eventually go. But for right now, this is OK. My prof said that this point in my life - my early twenties - is not only allowed to be an experimental one, but it's expected. And the only thing I'll be held accountable on at this point is my effort in finding another job. And that is so much more comforting.

And it's OK to be scared. Because this time is very scary. And there's no need to minimize that.

For the first time in months, I feel like I'll be OK. And that is such an amazing sense of relief.

Rise

Today was the first day that I seriously thought about quitting. I was so close to walking out the front door of that school and saying, "No thank you, I'm done," to ending this charade and going out to find what I really want to do. I was looking at jobs online yesterday and getting so discouraged when I didn't find anything where I might fit. (Ma squashed my interest in the high-speed career of urn salesman, she said I wouldn't be very good at sales.) And at this point - as I told the guy who called from Concordia University to talk about a masters in education - I'm not interested in continuing with this venture after graduation - the next 43 days are merely a formality, a hoop to jump through, a means to an end that is unnecessarily overwhelming and confusing and not rewarding on most days. Most of the time I fly around trying to remember everything that I need to do while also trying not to stress out and to remember that this is just a thing, this is not a life. In 43 days this will be over, and I'll be moving on. To what, I have not the slightest clue. But to something other than teaching.

I took a  minute to look over the notes my 7th grades from my last school wrote to me on the last day I was there last year. And it almost made me cry to see those little smiley faces and heart doodles around the encouragement to "Mrs. Howls" to "keep the faith," "don't give up."

"We'll miss you."

"We loved having you."

"You'll be a great teacher."

These little people who had faith in me when now my faith in myself is dwindling.

I'm so overwhelmed, my heart is so full. My brain never shuts off and I don't see any break from it.

O God, my God, calm my writhing spirit. O God, my God, help me to lift my eyes to Your precious peace, Your ever-steady calm.

Decoder

I was legitimately offended last night when the punk at Wendy's asked if I wanted my Frosty to be chocolate or vanilla. I was born in an era in which all Frostys with chocolate. Vanilla Frostys are almost as white Oreos. If you want vanilla ice cream, go to Dairy Queen.

Anyway.

I am sincerely terrible at fiction.

My first story was about a little mushroom who got kidnapped by...some other evil food - they may have been eggs. We were going through our third grade reading books and I saw the title "Mort and the Sour Scheme," and I used it as a prompt to start my own story. One long paragraph typed in WordPad. In italicized cyan ink. 10-font.

I got close to a decent plot (if not the decent writing of a plot) in high school, inspired by "Beauty and the Beast" to take down the tale of an orphan boy whisked away to England to be a servant to an eccentric old man. Very Downton Abbey "focus on the servants" feel. I even had characters drawn out - one of them looked like Ratcliffe from "Pocahontas." But a friend lost my only printed manuscript and all of my typed work was lost in a computer crash. All I had left was about a third that I had handwritten - not to mention a very Jo March, my-whole-life's-work-and-purpose-down-the-drain feeling. And while I tried to get it back and have even thought about picking it up again with my now-more-mature writing style, the magic of the original is gone.

My later attempts have been depressing little scenes about rebellion, death, heartache, fear, isolation by and from others. I've started several times to pen the idea in my head of a rehab house where the inhabitants/patients/inmates/what-have-you are trapped there by a greedy counselor who uses his state funds to fuel his drinking habits. But my problem is, I can't write it down in a story.

I hear the dialogue, I see the details, I have the movements all planned out. But to write them down in a "John paused in his journey across the green linoleum" format is appalling. The lines become cheesy, the details unnecessary; and the whole thing takes on the feel of a Nicholas Sparks book that says "pick me up in your beach hotel gift shop when you finish everything else you brought to read."

I.e. "shiterature."

Hold on tight, we're shifting now.

I think I've narrowed down my near-but-not-total-future choice to two options: find a totally-unrelated-to-writing job (a "Muggle job," if you will), or proofreading. I really enjoy editing for some reason. Which is awesome, considering I have about two inches of essays to grade this weekend. If I could find a job where I can read, maybe stay at home for a lot of it, and get ideas for my own writing - that would seriously be awesome.

Unrealistic? Maybe. But I'm a dreamer, don't you know.

So I have some avenues. I can always look at Career Services at the 'Ville for options. My cooperating teacher said she has a contact who quit teaching to work in editing, maybe she could hook me up. And there's always freelance - certainly not as a full-time job but definitely as a means of some work if I were to just stick with a Muggle job. Which I'd be cool with.

Gah. I can't even decide what I want for lunch, how am I supposed to make these grownup decisions about my life?

Leaf

It's been about a week since I finally put into words that the path I've chosen isn't what I want to do. Since my meltdown on my couch last Saturday I've conferenced with my ma, talked to my cooperating teacher and supervisor, messaged two of the wisest men I know, vented to Joey, and emailed my English profs at school for help. And this is basically what I've learned:

• Most importantly, I don't have to feel like I have everything figured out. I am, in fact, only 22 years old - maybe about 1/4 of the way through my life. The fact that I'm not sure is OK.
• This isn't a decision that I have to make tomorrow. There is ZERO reason to freak out about it now.
• I can basically do anything (except nursing and engineering) with an English education degree. I've learned how to be a good writer, the ins and outs of grammar (a.k.a. editing skills, a.k.a knowing that "editing" has one T and not two), above-average communication skills, and how to instruct other people in those areas. This is why businesses like to hire English (even education) majors.
• No amount of education can be called a waste. Even if I don't go into the field of my degree I've learned many more valuable things.
• If I go to grad school and live at home, my parents will help to pay for it. Ma mentioned looking into something to do with libraries.
• Editing and publishing are good places to start, as well as some (but not exclusively) freelance writing.
• "Writing on the side" is all well and good, but that can be hard if I get a job writing during the day - when it's time to write for yourself, you're tired of words. Unrelated jobs give you ammo to write about at night anyway.

It's a start. At least it's more than I had to go on than last weekend.

So let's list the options. I could go to grad school online and work (maybe two jobs) while I live at home, have my parents help me pay for it, and stash away the money that I'm earning. I just need to figure out what to go for, and it needs to be something I'm really interested in. I could keep working at Kroger and pick up another job in January (where, though?). I could always sub (which would make it tough to get another job since the days are so erratic), but that would be putting my degree to at least some use. One of those wise men encouraged me to try teaching for a year or two, but that doesn't sound like a great choice when I have one of the teachers from my student teaching school saying if I'm not 150% passionate about it to get out now. (I've spent the last four years working at a job I'm not passionate about, I don't want teaching to become "just a job" and lose that enthusiasm that will make me effective). I could pick up and move to Pennsylvania or North Carolina or Ireland (just me and my debt) and say, "Screw this, I'm starting over."

My parents rest easy at night knowing I'm too fat and uncoordinated to be a stripper.

One of the options has never been just dropping out: I have one last hoop to jump through - just eleven or twelve weeks (and some of those are only half-weeks, at that) and I'll have my diploma. And you have a better chance of getting a better job with better pay if you have a degree - regardless of what it's in - than if you walk in with a half-baked degree. And like Joey said, I don't have to worry about this tomorrow...why panic about it today?

The one thing I forget most of the time is to rely on God's timing. He has a game plan, He sees what's coming down the road and through the fog that I can't even imagine yet. And while I'm running around in a panic, He has all of this figured out. The only thing I have to focus on now is jumping through this last hoop and letting Him show me the next step.

~

Don't worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank Him for all He has done. Then you will experience God's peace which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. (Phil. 4.6-7)

That Moment

There comes a moment when you have look at your life and say, "Am I doing what I really want to do?"

Not what someone says is a good choice, not what sounds logical on paper, not what looks like the best option.

Am I doing what I really want to do?

And if the answer is no, you have to figure it out what it is instead.

~

I think the whole idea of college is confusing to a lot of us. Before you even move in, you have to pick a degree, which will be the basis for the rest of your educational career. You get into your classes, and some of us realize that we hate those classes. And so you change your major to something you're pretty sure you'll like better. And the training you get is what prepares you for what you'll supposedly do for the rest of your life.

And suddenly you find yourself sitting on your couch, eating pizza and bawling as you finally put into words the thought that has crept up on you when you're lying in the dark and finally able to drop the front: 

"I don't want to be a teacher." 

The job you've imagined, trained for, dreamed about really isn't what you thought it was.

You start to panic a little. This was the plan! This was my future! This was what I was banking on! I want so much to love this! Guys, I am good at teaching! Kids learn from me! I'm planning and doing and teaching and organizing and gathering resources so I can do this on my own!

And I don't want to do it.

I'm about a month into student teaching, and it's going really well. And I've been warned, "Don't write this off already, you've only just started." But you know how you just know about some things? This is one of those things.

The problem is, I don't know what else to do. I've talked over so many options with my ma in the past two days, I"m just getting more and more confused. It doesn't help that I have this perspective in my head (wrong though it may be) that I have to find a job "worthy of my degree." Something in my head tells me it has to be something that will send me upward, something that will challenge me and so many others, something that will influence the world.

Is it bad that all I want is a 9-5 job that I can leave at work?

Is it bad that I've cost my family thousands of dollars - earned myself thousands of dollars' worth of debt - worked for four-and-a-half years on a degree and all I want to do is be a writer?

It is bad that I'm coming to the end of a very long and hard journey and want to ditch the path I thought was mine, running back to the love I developed in third grade but didn't see as a viable option?

I haven't had a day off since Labor Day, working sixteen-hour days during the week and eight-hour shifts on the weekends. I am exhausted, physically and emotionally. And at first I wondered if all of this meltdown might just be a side effect of this. But I don't think this is just me being tired. I believe that when you get to the point where you're too exhausted to put up your defenses, the truth comes out.

I don't want to teach.

I'm going to finish student-teaching - stopping that has never been an option. But when I graduate, I don't think I'll be found in a classroom.

Prayers as I question what I'm supposed to do - get a job, move out, go for my masters - would be appreciated.

Puff

Never have I said "TGIF" and meant it as sincerely as I did yesterday morning, when I sat in my bedroom floor in a towel for twenty minutes watching "The Office" at 5am and wishing I was still asleep. But I threw my hair up in a messy bun, put in some bad-ass earrings, and finished the first five days of seventy.

My first week of student teaching is complete.

And I'm surprised at how well it went. The way the student teaching experience is set up, my first week was just supposed to be observation. Over the first few weeks I'll pick up a class here and there and take on a full-load (and it's co-teaching, which means balancing the leadership role with my cooperating teacher, not so much taking full control while she plays on her phone and drinks lattes) starting day 20. But already I've taught on two separate days. On Wednesday I took over a lecture while the teacher stepped out into the hall, and I led the whole lecture for the last class period. Yesterday (Friday) I read the same section of "Beowulf" three times and led out-loud reading of "Of Plymouth Plantation" in two junior classes. I led a couple of activities for the seniors as well and passed out papers to most of the classes. In a nutshell, I've been there for five days and I've already had a day of leading activities in five of our six classes.

I've graded, sorted, filed, recorded, stapled, copied, hole-punched, and passed out papers. I've made connections with a few of the kids already! And for the first time in many years of starting new school years, I haven't been nervous. The other night I went to dinner with my pseudo-aunt, a former elementary school teacher for 30+ years, and told her that I feel like I've been doing this teaching thing forever - not because it's boring or monotonous, but simply because of how comfortable I am with it. My hands don't shake when I'm in front of a class of 30. My heart doesn't race when my cooperating teacher says, "Do you want to take over this lesson?"

This is one of the few things in my life right now that just makes sense. This is what I am supposed to do. It's a little overwhelming at times when I look at all the things I'm responsible for - no longer is the role of the teacher simply to impart wisdom and grade papers. And like any job, it has its drama, its ridiculous tasks, its "why in the world do we consider this important?" But I'm ready. I am so ready to keep going with this, even when I roll out of bed bleary-eyed and sore-footed and leave my house before the sun comes up. Because it's what I want to do - it's what I feel like I'm meant to do.

Such a good first week. So thankful for a long weekend. I get to see my sister tonight and my Linus tomorrow. And I am so, SO thankful for all of you being such an encouragement to me during this time. :)

Landing

And just like that, August is nearly gone.

The cicadas are singing and the sun is still warm, but the evening air is cooler as summer wraps up her aria and autumn waits in the wings. The leaves haven't started to turn yet, but the twilight sun in the woods is sad, and before we know it the lace of the limbs will drift to the ground in the dance of death that only God can make lovely.

It's strange to think of new beginnings in the time of nature's annual demise. December is the most popular month for proposals, which means fall is the prime time when young hearts burn, plans are made, love is nurtured, and dreams are born. Young minds are pulled from the pool and stuck in a classroom to start that arduous task of expanding with things about which most of them neither know nor care. These, though, are the "someday things," waiting to be put to use on a someday, a job, a higher degree. With autumn comes the harvest, the bounty of labor that means life. Making a living, providing a livelihood, feeding livestock - all these necessities are born in the time of great death.

"O death, where is thy victory?" O death, why should we fear your sting when from the ashes rises new life? It is only in the death of man that human hearts mourn, but from elsewhere in the natural realm we pull inspiration for art and hope of rebirth. Perhaps our God put before us the perfect example of His plan and the crucial role death plays, and yet it is us who still misinterpret and grieve what we have made death, equivalent to finality. Perhaps it's just something else we see wrong.

There is a harmony in autumn, and a lustre in its sky,

Which through the summer is not heard or seen,

As if it could not be, as if it had not been.

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Hunter

Back from another amazing three days with Joey and his precious family. There really is nothing like shooting stars, walks around a farm at sunset, lots of laughs, and good music to refresh the battered soul. :)

And now, in a little over a week, I start student teaching. When people ask me if I'm excited or nervous, the answer is always "yes." I'm excited to start this phase that's basically the waiting room for my future career. I'm nervous about getting into a new environment, this new role. But now, sitting here in my pajamas on a nearly-fall Saturday with paperwork and old English notebooks and writing out potential notes for the literature we'll be covering with 190 juniors and seniors, I'm starting to look forward to this more and more!

Since it is only 10 am on a Saturday morning, I decided to turn on a movie in the background to wake up a little bit. And this morning it's "Patch Adams," in memory of the late great Robin Williams. Word of his death rocked me more than most celebrity deaths - maybe because of the tragic way he went, maybe because I still have the idea that actors and famous people of my generation will never not be there. Whatever the reason, I was deeply saddened by the passing of one of the funniest men I've ever seen.

Geared though he was toward comedies, his best roles (in my mind, anyway) are the ones who dare to defy what has always been, the ones who put heart and soul into jobs that have a straightforward definition. "Patch Adams," "Good Will Hunting," "Dead Poets Society," "Good Morning Vietnam" - these were the ones that truly defined his acting career to me. It was "Dead Poets Society" that made me want to be a teacher in the first place, as I've heard it is with so many people. "Patch Adams" showed the relationship that can be developed when people see each other as people and make the effort to touch them on a human level. These films have heart, humor, and severe inspiration for those who watch them.

I think that's why it's so tragic that he went the way he did. Obviously the man behind the roles had his own demons that nobody else knew about, as we all do. But I wonder if he knew how many people he touched with his work.

I wonder if it would have made a difference.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, at this time this blog post will turn from a commentary to a commission. Go tell somebody. Go tell somebody what they mean to you. You may be exactly what they need to hear today.

Moment

Let me tell you a story.

It’s not a very good story. It’s about shame and guilt and not pulling your weight and doing what you want to do instead of what you should do.

But then again, it’s not a very bad story. Not many bad stories have happy endings.

Four years ago I was a freshman in college. I still can’t believe that when I say it – they say (whoever that all-knowing they are) your college years fly by, and it isn’t until you’re standing on the other side of them that you realize how true that is. But four years ago today I was preparing to move into my first college dorm room with my first college roommate to experience my first year of college education. At this point, I was probably to the point where I was so nervous that I wasn’t eating, laying on the couch watching a documentary about PIXAR and trying not to look at the growing heap of dorm things under the upstairs window. I was putting on the happy face and telling people how excited I was, when my insides wouldn’t stop moving and my hands hadn’t stopped shaking in three days.

But move in I did. Settle in I did. I remember on the second day – when my parents had gone home until that afternoon and my roommate’s family had taken her out somewhere – I took my campus map and walked around to all the buildings to find where my classes would be. And I remember feeling so proud of such an independent move. And as I walked around by myself, dreading the “getting started” group meeting that would come later after the required chapel services that I came to despise as my four years progressed, I felt very grown-up.

As the year progressed I realized that homework wasn’t much fun at all, and that reading novels was. I stayed up late (never later than my nose-to-the-grindstone roommate, only twice in all three years of living with her) but not to study Politics or U.S. History – I chatted on Facebook and watched YouTube videos and amazed people with how many for-fun books I flew through that year. I was making the executive decisions in my life; nobody sat across the dinner table and said “no TV until you’ve studied.” And I felt very grown-up.

At the end of that first year I got a 2.9 grade-point-average. I blew a four-digit-per-year scholarship, missed by three GPA points. And when my parents sat me down on their bed and threw out the words “student loans,” I realized for the first time that I was, whether I liked it or not, a grown-up.

I didn’t tell them for a week after I found out that I had lost my scholarship. Every time I thought about it, my stomach would sink with shame as I had let them down. They don’t ask for much; they don’t have outrageous expectations. But they ask that, in everything I do, I do my best. And I had let them down. And this wasn’t just my grades that we were talking about. It was Laziness – that old ghost who comes to visit me every now and then with his cousin Procrastination in tow, telling me that “later” is the same thing as “now,” it just means you get to do what you want sooner. And I had let them get the best of me. Again. When I finally told them about it – and for another year or so after that – they talked constantly of other scholarships, how to apply myself (which I knew how to do, I just chose not to), that they expected only my best and that was all they could ask. They truly meant the best for me and wanted me to succeed. But every time it came up, I would shut down. I refused to listen, because I brought up all that shame, all that guilt, and threw it right back up in my face. It wasn’t their fault: I never say if something like that bothers me, how were they to know that I felt that way? To them, though, it appeared as stubbornness, which made them talk even more. As is my custom, I let my emotions rise to a boil until it exploded with many tears and my heart screaming out, “I’M SORRY I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!!!!!”

I went hunting for a legitimate, 9-to-5 job for the first time when I was 18. I didn’t have very far to look: in a few weeks I was hired at Kroger, which has been my steady summer and holiday employment for the past four years. When I am asked if I like my job, I respond that whether I like it or not doesn’t matter – I need my job, and so I come in every day and deal with misunderstandings and seemingly-stupid requests and obnoxious customers and straightening up the toy aisle which always seems to be a mess no matter how many times a day you put things back where they go. And while there are certainly other places I could go that pay more or might be more in line with something that I would like to do, I stick it out.

My dad talks all the time about a spirit of gratitude. He pressures us to look for something in every situation that brings our eyes up to heaven and pulls a “thank You Father” from our lips. And it’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve looked back on this frustrating, fearful, disgusting situation and seen something to be thankful for.

In the three years after I lost my scholarship, I didn’t get it back. I worked my butt off during semesters and summer classes, my final GPA being short of the scholarship marker by a percentage of a point. And while at first I considered my progress with a “when you try your best but don’t succeed” mindset, I’ve switched it around to considering the journey so much more important than the goal that I have in mind. Over the past three years I have begun to understand the benefits of working hard in all that you do. I understand now what it means to go looking for opportunities, not just sitting back and waiting for them to fall into your lap. I have been tired since May, because in between my regular work hours I have picked up three or four extra jobs that have kept me busy nearly all summer. But when I lay in bed at night and my muscles hurt and I think, “I have to get up and do the same thing tomorrow,” I remember that I am working myself out of a debt that I put myself into. And that renewed self-worth is so much sweeter than thinking that I am not good enough.

I see the value of a hard day’s work. I respect so much more the value of the dollar that I have earned. Through my time at Kroger I have learned so much about thinking on my feet and customer service and being part of a team and not letting the job affect the way I live my life.

Not to mention that I have met some of the most amazing people that I’ve ever had the privilege to know. They are my family now – my dysfunctional, grumpy, hard-working, through-thick-and-through-thin family.

I use my story a lot to encourage people who have fallen short, particularly students in a rat-race where grades are the most important factor. You, my friend, are NOT defined by these worldly things. Your actions, your transcript, your talents, your lack of talents, your house size, your salary – none of that defines you. You are not put into a category of “greater” or “lesser person” because of these things. There is something going on behind the scenes that is so much bigger than all of that, that you are part of; these earthly details are no more than just that – earthly. And they will all fade away.

Four years after I started college, I am finally to the point where I can call myself "adult." I am staring at the final leg of my higher education with a five-digit debt to chunk away at. I am contemplating moving out (eventually), maybe moving away (sometime), and seeing what this whole adult thing is all about. And the past four years of disappointment and hard work have prepared me so well for those next moves. 

Blues

All writers – particularly all fiction writers – are fundamentally good liars. Because it’s their – not even talent, but responsibility to make people believe things that simply aren’t true. You present a story that never happened to people who never existed and say, “This is what really occurred.” And if you do it well, your reader will be swept along without ever questioning the validity of it. The key, though, is to believe in it yourself. You as the writer have to put on that delusional mindset that tells you the stories in your head aren’t just figments of your imagination, but could have been a story on the news or something you found in a forgotten history book at Goodwill, and it’s your task to tell it to the world.

If you think about it, it’s really no wonder that creativity was associated with mental illness. Sometimes I sit back and think, “I just might be going crazy,” because I have things floating in my head that are as vivid and real to me as reality itself. The conversations I hear between two characters that I have created are just as realistic as a discussion I had with my mom the other day. I can see the kitchen table they’re sitting at, the coffee cups they’ve filled with Braveheart Scottish ale that awkwardly tastes like grapes, the dead yak in the living room they’re wondering how to get out to the woods without the neighbors catching on. That’s half the creativity that goes on in between my ears: scenes, snippets of “reality” that are completely detached from a fully fleshed-out story. Which is why I have such a problem writing fiction – who wants to read a book of scenes that have nothing to do with each other when the writer can’t figure out how to tie them all together? This is also a problem because that makes them all the more difficult to separate them from real life. Because if you think about it, life is nothing more than a series of scenes – you don’t know the full story until the very end of it, and then it’s not even you reading the full story, it’s somebody else looking back on your story and seeing a complete beginning-middle-and-end structure.

Why do I write? I’ve answered this question before and tried to be very philosophical like so many others have before me. You look up quotes online about writing (attributed to authors who probably never said such things, somebody else just thought their words would be more readily accepted if it sounded like Mark Twain or Edgar Allen Poe wrote them) and you get all this melarky about “words are the window to the soul” and “record your thoughts for future generations” and some other such nonsense. And with respect to the penners of those words (whoever they may be), that’s bullshit. What pompous turd sits down with his leather-bound volume (only really posh people write in leather-bound volumes) and quill pen (again, only the really posh people) and says, “I’m going to write something today that is so profound, so groundbreaking, that people generations from now, long after I am dead and entombed somewhere, will still be misquoting it on the internet and inspirational classroom posters.”

Nobody – and I mean nobody – thinks like that. Do you know how much pressure it is to sit down in front of a blank piece of paper and try to fill it up, much less fill it with something profound? No, thank you.

Other than the above universal statement that I have no right to deliver, I can’t speak for other writers. For me, though, the whole point to writing is to catch the bees of genius that constantly buzz through my brain and pin them down in a paper shadowbox. Not for anybody else to examine, not for future generations to look to for wisdom, not for people to see “the real me.” It’s simply a housekeeping procedure. How the hell am I supposed to be a contributing member of society and get done all the tasks I need to in a day when my head is surging with creative ideas that are neither productive nor helpful to me or anybody else? I have journals packed full of midnight rants, loose pieces of paper with conversations, my own quotations in the notepad app on my phone, sticky notes with ideas of stories that I will probably never write. Because if I don’t capture them when they flutter onto the tip of my nose, they’ll fly away and be lost to me forever. And my imagination, to me, is too colorful and interesting a place to let things like that slip past – like the little chip in a Magic 8 ball – without being acknowledged, even if they’re never used.

I am baffled, intrigued, frightened, confused, marveled, concerned, leveled, amazed by the things that float in an out of view in my own head. 

Plebians

I have 246 books in my little room. My four bookcases are jam-packed – I had to built another one and shove it in my closet. I have books everywhere: lining the back of my desk, books lying sideways on top of upright books, books in stacks on top of my ancient typewriter, books hidden behind other books. And trust me: there is a system. Novels are over the desk and dresser. The staunch-looking hardbacks are set aside on the desk (I’m particularly proud of the 1936 edition of Robin Hood addressed to “Eugene” from “Uncle Hubert and Aunt Helen” on Christmas Day 1957, a 1942 copy of Great Expectations, and a combined copy of Kidnapped and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from 1937). Biographies are in the closet with the seven Bibles I’ve accumulated since my first black KJV, issued to all new kindergartens at Middletown Christian. Textbooks (the ones that aren’t novels – English majors’ “textbooks” are more fun than everybody else’s) are next to my own meager attempts at literary genius.

Certainly there is overlap. Some of them were purchased before I realized we had a copy hidden somewhere in the house. I bought my own copy of The Da Vinci Code when I was in Paris because 1) I ran out of things to read on a “mission trip,” and 2) how can you not visit the Louvre and then read the book that takes place largely in those hallowed halls? I accumulated a Dickens here and there before my parents gave me a GORGEOUS set of Penguin editions for Christmas last year. And I received a copy of Gone with the Wind as a birthday present a few years before one of my closest friends gave me another edition for a graduation gift: it’s a little battered and one of the pages is missing, but the fact that she introduced me to the story in the first place and the first page bears a handwritten note from her, that beaten-up paperback is as special to me as if it had been signed by Maggie Mitchell herself.

Once while I was drying my hair I went around and counted how many of those I’ve read. 117. One hundred and seventeen. The rest of the ones I’ve read in the last seven years (how long I’ve been keeping track) have been borrowed, rented out, or given away to someone else who would appreciate them as much as I did. I can look at almost every one and think of what I was doing, where I was, what was happening in my young life as I turned the pages. I read most of Huckleberry Finn out loud, mulling over each of Mark Twain’s accents to an audience of none in my bedroom. Charlotte’s Web was the first novel I ever read, and Peter Pan was the first novel I ever read in a day. A Tale of Two Cities took me three days, Les Miserables three years. I’ve blazed through Prince of Tides three times; the first time I read Water for Elephants, I finished it in a day on the way to a Florida wedding and had to get No Place Like Home from Walmart to tide me over for the rest of the trip. Captains Courageous, Treasure Island, and The Sea Wolf are the exhilarating sea stories I love so much, each one bearing a different tone that makes them whimsical, riveting, and sinister in their turns. The first three of the four Robert Langdon escapades were amazing, while the last one fell flat and was an unwelcome weight in my backpack in England. The Road and Life of Pi were philosophical and deep and made you read them upside-down to catch the meaning lurking just beneath the surface – a far cry from A Liar’s Autobiography which you have to read upside-down to catch the fact that it has no meaning at all. My Last Days as Roy Rogers, The Divine Secrets of the Ya-ya Sisterhood, and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn only in the summer (just because it’s summer doesn’t mean you have to read beach quiki-mart shiterature); Little Women and Oliver Twist only in the winter; and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and The Kite Runner only if you feel like abusing your heart.

My brother found me six hundred pages into Gone with the Wind the other day and said he couldn’t see how I could read all the time. And honestly, I don’t either: how can anybody be content staring at a piece of paper with the same old words for hours? And I do mean hours: between a two-hour car ride and sixteen hours on an airplane I flew through nearly 800 pages of detail about the biggest bitch in all of literature. (I despise Scarlett O’Hara. Almost as much as I despise anything Jane Austen dreamed up: who wants to slog through three hundred pages of walking from room to room gossiping?) And I don’t like the Pinterest graphics that call reading an escape from reality, a chance to get away from your world to delve into another one. For me it’s merely an exercise for the imagination. Look at it from a writer’s perspective: the only way to get better at your craft is to write (no shit) and to look at other writers’ work. One of my writing profs told me last semester, “Don’t try something new with your writing: look at what other writers prove works and do that.” How the hell can you do that if you don’t look at examples of what works?

And when it comes right down to it, I do love a good story.

Ma

So a few months ago my creative writing professor asked us to write about ourselves. “Who are you? What makes you you? How are you different from everyone else?” And I had more of a problem with that than I thought I would. How do you define yourself – your worth, your being, your psychological composition – in two pages? That’s a lot to ask of anyone, let alone an exhausted college student.

I set it from the angle of “where have I come from.” I talked mostly about myself: coming from someone who passively let life happen to her to someone who stands up for what she deserves; coming from very small-minded and intolerantexpectations of how people should be to a broader point-of-view that allows other people to be themselves; coming from the scared freshman living with a stranger to the senior standing before you, ready to take on the world and see what happens.

I am a strong woman. I am a tough woman. I think this because I have a legacy of tough women to live up to.

My great-grandmother, Mary Isabelle, the feisty little woman who was dancing the Charleston at ninety-five years old, her arm cut off at the elbow from a work injury many years before I was thought of. In her, her grandchildren found an escape as she whisked them away for outings to the store, for ice cream, anything to get their minds off the house where they must return and endure. She has taught me that hardship should not be muddled through with a grimace.

My grandmother, Pearl , the quiet lady on the couch in her pantyhose and trousers who had survived a tyrant, a drunk, the judgment of a much less tolerant time, two sons who never realized – one from physical incapacity, the other from blatantrefusal – how much her heart beat for them. She crept on with quiet dignity, hidden talent as her hands with the mutilated finger danced across the piano, not from lessons but from instinct, limited though she was to only two keys. It is through her that I learned love is not something to be discarded even if it’s not idyllic.

My other grandmother, Nancy, whose past was riddled with dark secrets but we as children never saw them in her cooking, her playing duck-duck-goose on the back porch, her laugh that I can still hear in my head that continued even when her body was riddled with cancer and her own mortality was thrown starkly up in her face. Her death six years ago taught me that sometimes our childish, innocent memories are more important than what actually happened.

My mother, Tina, who has given me the best childhood I could have imagined. Through her I have learned the importance of hard work – the work itself is sometimes more important than the desired outcome. I have learned how to be self-sufficient, when your options are exhausted and it comes down to you and your ability to think on your feet (lying underneath a toilet with a Home Depot how-to book when Dad’s not home and we don’t want to call a plumber). I have learned to recognize your past but not let it define you or hold you back. I have learned to be tough, selfless, not to fall apart until everybody else is taken care of, but also to realize that sometimes you just need to have a break-down. I have learned to reach for the stars, but also topack enough fuel for the rocket ship to get you there.

I am from beaten wives. I am from dark secrets. I am from hours and hours of work at a piano that blossomed into a passionwithout which I cannot breathe. I am from stories in my head that churn constantly, especially when I sit quietly and try to push them away. I am from “Monty Python’s Flying Circus and amaretto brownies, “Hogan’s Heroes” and chocolate milkshakes. I am from dancing in my pajamas to 80s rock-and-roll while we got ready for church. I am from treadmill ranting with my Irish twin and duck-hunting stories with the man that I cannot believe is my baby brother. I am from keeping my heart to myself so intensely that I feel like I’m standing naked in a ballroom when I let somebody catch a glimpse of what’s behind the curtain. I am from secret writings, oddball traditions, questions of sanity, and moving to the realization that I am not nuts, simply myself.

And I have these women to thank for that. Mom Belle, Maw-Maw, Grandma, and my ma. You have taught me to proudly wear your names that have christened me, and your lessons have taught me to be a woman of laughter and a woman of bravery.

Happy Mother’s Day, and thank you.

Spray

The words aren't coming today for some reason.

Is there a difference between "strong" and "tough"?

Thesaurus.com says they're synonyms. Mental, physical, emotional. Able to bear up under great weights. Of great moral power, firmness, or courage.

I was called strong once. Twice, actually, and I didn't understand either time: once when I told a close friend that our friendship had to stop where it stood, and once by my adopted grandfather who had seen death and war and hell on earth and still saw something resilient in me. I didn't get it. I still don't. What's so strong about sitting on the edge of a couch sharing Reese cups with an old man? What's so strong about lying face-down on your bed shoving the comforting arm of God away after you've told a dear friend "no more"?

Strong people aren't supposed to feel remorse. Tough people aren't supposed to be bogged down by their emotions.

But seriously: is there a difference between "strong" and "tough"?

My mom used to tell me to "be tough" when she would brush, curl, untangle, de-gum, ponytail the mass of hair that hung to my waist until I was eight. Gingers have scientifically-proven more tender scalps than people with other hair colors, and I would fuss and fidget when she would rake a comb through the huge wad of red. She would say "be tough," and I knew to grit my teeth and not make a sound until she was done.

"Be tough" as the nurse sticks the needle into your arm.

"Be tough" as your dad wraps gauze around the elbow you've just shredded on the driveway.

"Being tough" didn't make the pain go away. The shot still hurt, the wound still stung, the hairbrush still yanked. But you set your face, shut your eyes, clenched your fists, dug in your toes until you were released.

Maybe it's the attitude you assume while you do either of those things. Or maybe it's how much you keep your true feelings hidden. "Strong" is a state of mind, a state of action: preparing for a funeral trip, watching solemnly as they lower your grandmother's urn into the ground, soaking your mother's tears into your shirt, smiling at the dying man around a mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter, not making eye contact with your melting uncles as their strength gives out, cheering with the rest of the crowd when your friends march across that graduation platform.

"Tough" is the facade so you don't add to a bad situation.

Wearing sunglasses in the Florida sunshine as an excuse to keep your tears to yourself.

Waiting until you're face-down in the rain to scream.

Locking your door and shoving the pillow in your mouth so the girls in the hallway won't hear you cry.

Waiting until your roommate is in the shower to grieve the change of your lives.

Sitting against a tree in the dark begging God to tell you what's wrong with you.

Wanna know a secret?

Being tough gets old after a while.

Eventually the countdown on your dorm room door will come down with twenty-nine days left because you're so scared to think how soon your life will change.

And

What happens in the in-betweens?

I turned to Ecclesiastes last night (and it wasn't the "everything is meaningless" that drew me there, thank you very much), and I noticed that all the stuff in the "time for everything" passage is a dichotomy: birth and death, reap and sow, cry and laugh, embrace and push away, love and hate. And I started trying to fill in the "and."

Obviously there are some that don't lend themselves to have an in-the-middle. But what do you do with the ones you can put in? The active ones are very definite: birth, death, plant, harvest, search, give up, construct, destroy - you can mark them on a calendar, send a save-the-date, narrow it down to the moment when you say "It's time."

But so much can happen in that little "and." The most I've ever grown is cherry tomatoes in a bucket, but there's a lot of watering, weeding, and WAITING that happens between planting and harvesting. In the middle of actively looking for something and abandoning the search, there are countless restless nights of "is this worth finding?" The waiting between healing and killing is just an unpredictable as waiting for bucket tomatoes, and infinitely more crucial.

And the "and" between the two most chaotic upheavals of a human existence - birth and death - is that exhilarating, terrifying, outrageous quest that we call life.

Where is the season for the "ands?" Is the "and" the year in which the seasons are constantly rotating? Are we constantly waiting, planning, being silent, contemplating, watching, living, and only making a big deal out of the seasons because they're a break in the monotony. Next to this passage, a younger me jotted down, "Life is not constant - you will always experience shifting circumstances." But maybe life is what remains constant. It's the drumbeat of our existence, ticking along through the whole song to the metronome of our heartbeats. Maybe it's the "times," the seasons, that provide the melody.

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven:
A time to be born and (LIVE) a time to die,
A time to plant and (WAIT) a time to harvest,
A time to kill and (WATCH) a time to heal,
A time to tear down and (PLAN) a time to build up,
A time to cry and (BE SILENT) a time to laugh,
A time to grieve and (PACE) a time to dance,
A time to scatter stones and (LEAVE STONES - pick your battles) a time to gather stones,
A time to embrace and (STAND THERE) a time to turn away,
A time to search and (WONDER) a time to quit searching,
A time to keep and (REMINISCE) a time to throw away,
A time to tear and (PUT TO USE) a time to mend,
A time to love and (BE) a time to hate,
A time for war and (SURVIVAL) a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3.1-8

Danger

It's always a good day when you realize you forgot to turn in an essay TWO FRICKIN' MONTHS AGO. It's always a better day when your prof lets you re-do it and have it due on this Friday, on top of all the other mess you have to do.

One of those good days that makes you want to go to bed and binge-watch "Parks and Rec."

We started crew for the spring play last night, which was basically the highlight of my day. Except for the box of tea and a tea strainer from a dear friend after I told him I wasn't drinking coffee until Easter. (PS that noble venture lasted exactly FOUR DAYS.) Now my whole room smells like cinnamon spice gloriousness.

And the contraband vanilla lime candle I stuck on my coffee warmer. Because it's not actually "lighting it." And because a candle warmer is a fire hazard but a coffee warmer isn't.

It damn near smelled like arson yesterday - Sunday night I left my Christmas lights plugged in when I spent the night at my friend's house. Came back yesterday morning to find half the bulbs burnt out and BLACK on the tips.

Good life choice.

Actually, it was the SECOND potentially-disastrous event of the day. It's actually dangerous to shove a whole peanut butter-covered Saltine in your mouth with a drink - you could suffocate. Oh, and I almost got in a fight when the girl behind me on the way to the BTS was HUMMING and I damn near punched her in the face.

A red letter Monday if ever I saw one. I live on the edge.

This post, dear friends, has been nothing of consequence. AT ALL. But I needed a break from writing an essay about the almost-feminism in Katherine Mansfield's Daughters of the Late Colonel, four pages of which I cranked out in the wee hours of this fair Tuesday morning. The game plan (my ma asked me what my game plan was for getting all of my projects/papers/essays/meetings done between now and graduation....this makes it sound as though I have a game plan) is to finish the rough draft tonight between rehearsals for the play and two different directing scenes, then start working on the annotated bibliography/presentation due next week in preparation for another paper due at the end of April.

Oh, all in the same class.

Heavenly days.

38 days, friends. We got this.

Evening

For those of you who truly know me, you know that my language is less than pristine. So when we were told to write about something important to us for an Advanced Composition class, this is what I came up with.

Because I'm a master of the four-letter variety, I know when it's acceptable to use them. So fret not: I was conscientious of my audience when I wrote this.

~



On Swearing

So I'm at my friend's house. She's only one I know here, and now she's nowhere to be seen - she invited my in and walked out the front door with somebody else. And I'm sitting on the couch by myself, about to get up and walk back to my dorm. But her housemates are there. And they ask me if I want to play LIFE.

They don't bother to ask if I've played before, even though I have - they just launch into explaining it.

Because I have never played like they play before.

You write down your life story while you marry and divorce other players and weave through life's little celebrations, like "sex change," "get hired as a stripper," "have illegitimate children." After I get married to Kadie and switch seats to sit by my new "wife," I see the "sex tape" tile on her side of the board. And I can't help but splutter, "What the f--- is that?!"

I have been welcome in their house ever since.

~

 

I grew up around "bad words." Not from my actual family - I didn't hear my dad swear until I was ten. But between John Wayne, country music, and "A Christmas Story," I had a vast (if not practiced) repertoire by the time I entered middle school. I could "shit" and "damn" my way around a barn like nobody's business when I was only fourteen. At first I reserved "the big one" for special occasions, like when I charged barefoot into the English Channel and remembered too late that French sea water is coooooold in mid-January. At nineteen when I cut my bangs to cover my eyes and shoved eight studs through my ears, I started using it on a daily basis, more times than I could count. Now there's no telling what'll spark it: breaking my pinky toe on the lawn chair by the pool, realizing that my flash drive is completely empty, discovering there are no more Reese Cups in my secret stash.

 

It just makes you feel better.

 

~

 

The fact is, no one really knows where "bad words" came from. The great literary deity William Shakespeare often gets the credit, but the "mother of all dirty words" appeared in print two hundred years before Shakespeare was born - 1475, to be exact, in a poem attacking Cambridge monks. While it was originally "a graphic euphemism for the act of copulation<" World War II soldiers gave it new meaning, new weight. Even today, swearing is largely associated with the military because of its apparent link to bravery, toughness, and courage.

 

"F---" has been taboo since the late Nineteenth Century - the editors of the Old English Dictionary were faced with a serious dilemma when it came time to print the "F" volume in the mid-1890s. It was omitted from most written publications well into the Twentieth Century, as most people considered it "unprintable," "best avoided altogether in polite company." Though the realm of "polite company" is being stretched by modern evening television programs, you still won't hear it on TV nearly as much as you would in a pool hall because broadcast media are actually under threat of fines if they don't fuzz it or bleep it. But when it does slip, "polite company" still sniffs, "How vulgar, how common, what a lack of education."

 

~

 

Look, I get it, we all do: it's still not culturally acceptable. If you stand in the food court in a mall and scream a four-letter word, you'll get stares. You'll get comments. You'll get mothers ushering their children away with their ears covered and glaring in your direction. "How dare you corrupt the pristine mind of my precious child, your filth will drag him into a life of immorality."

 

But that's the thing of it: I can rattle off words that would deck a nun without a flush in my cheeks or tingle on my tongue. But my integrity is alive and well.

 

"The mouth of a sailor, the morals of a lady."

 

There is no correlation between bad language and a bad lifestyle.

 

~

 

Swearing is universal. Billy Connolly says everybody understands what it means, from the jerk who just cut you off on the interstate to some numpty messing with your suitcase in an airport in Tibet.

 

Swearing is cathartic. When you smash your finger with a hammer, don't tell me the first thing that fills your mouth is "Oh dear, the searing pain, how gruesome it is."

 

Swearing is binding. It is the hallmark of blue-collar workers who construct intricate tapestries of profanity to create solidarity against "the man."

 

Swearing is definite. It is the truly educated who know never to use a paragraph when a single word will suffice.

 

Why would we condemn words that create community, solidarity, catharsis, unmistakable meaning?

 

~

 

At the same turn, why is it our go-to to use the words that have been called "offensive" and "vulgar" by our society?

 

Maybe it's our mission to "say what we mean." I've been told for years never to use ten words when one will do - why clatter through a paragraph of politeness when "damn it all to hell" is how you feel?

 

Maybe it's our inner desire to be rebels. My ma told me I didn't sound like a lady when I swear, now I curse in Received Pronunciation.

 

Maybe it's our drive to appear tougher than we are. My language fits my punky bangs, the punctures through my ears. "Don't touch me or I'll punch you back."

 

Maybe it's a combat technique against our crippling insecurity. Maybe I take my glaring eyes, my sullen face, my unruly hair, my shredded fingers, and hide them under a tarp of "shit."

 

Not "look at the girl with the jiggly frame."

 

"Look at the girl with the sailor-mouth."

 

~

 

I belonged when I dropped the "F-bomb" in the middle of a LIFE game.

 

I joined "the team" when I clattered into the loading dock at work "f---ing" and "damning" our common hell.

 

Maybe that's it.

 

Maybe it's just that first-grade yearning that never really leaves us:

 

To have a seat at lunch,

 

To be part of the game,

 

To fit.

Drink

One of my favorite driving songs starts out, "Pretty girls come from the ugliest places, you come from the worst of them all." The same, I think, can be said of a lot of art. I'm in a British Literature class right now (lit is really the only art I'm ever exposed to these days - I'm not much of an actual art fan, and the music I listen to can hardly be called food for the soul), and so much of it is in reaction to tragedy, grief, loss, destruction.

We were assigned to read a poem written by a Jewish soldier who was killed at twenty-eight years old while on patrol outside the Western Front trenches in WWI. It follows a rat through the trenches full of scared doughboys, both Axis and Allies, and claims that the rat has it better than they do.

Another poem - "The Convergence of the Twain" by Thomas Hardy - paints a haunting but beautiful picture of the Titanic, the picture of British opulence and technological progress, lying on the bottom of the Atlantic, covered in blind fish that could care less about what it was above the surface. It's about a depressing event, but it's one of the most beautiful pieces I've read in a really long time.

Of course there's Charles Dickens who used the notorious workhouses of London - a stark example of "hell on earth" - as the backdrop of so many of his novels.

And Christians turn to the hymn "It is Well with my Soul," the story of Job, and the book of Lamentations as representations of suffering-turned-beauty.

It sounds a little upside-down, but it makes me wonder what art will come from hell's gates. I have never nor will ever claim to be an expert in theology, and in my simple mind "hell" still means the pictures from my children's Bible that show souls wandering through eternal fire. Maybe each inhabitant's version of hell will be different according to that person, and all the artists will either be void of creativity or satiated with ideas with no medium to let them out. But if Lewis' picture of hell is right and we all wander around freely, what will be the quality of the art that is produced from hell, the place of ultimate suffering? If people are able to produce literature, music, sculptures, paintings, dances with the unbridled genius that they possessed in life, can you imagine the depth, the raw emotion, the terrific honesty that will fill these mediums and scream out the eternal pain and depravity that lurks within?

Will there be anger? At whom? Will there be regret? Will some stubborn souls still shake their fists at God and scream "Do something" as He shakes His great head and replies "I did"? Will there be sorrow for those who were found and separated from those who lurk below? Will there be fear? Will there still be doubt?

Things that keep me up at night. No wonder I'm a caffeine addict by day.

Mint

Back to normal after a crazy-awesome weekend. One of my prestigious graduated friends came in from Iowa to hang out for a few days, and we've been everywhere, seen everything, watched ALL the movies, and ate ALL the food in the universe.

I was sorry to see her go this morning.

The aftermath of said-madcap weekend was a HEINOUS workout (that's called "Five Guys Burgers and Fries for dinner last night"), and I do not exaggerate by much when I say ALL the homework. Meaning the homework that I have left for this week, the homework that I should have been working on for the next few weeks (all of which are full of happy things that don't have anything to do with schoolwork), and the homework that was due while my dear twin was here. 

But was it worth it?

Hell yes.

Now I have to get back to work. BUT before I do, I wanted to let you know: prior to this weekend's escapades, I lost exactly four pounds. In a week. Heaven knows how. But there is it.

Shine

It's been a week since we've come back to school to knock out the last two months before graduation. I can't believe I'm saying this, but today marks fifty days left. Count 'em: FIFTY. Not fifty school days, not fifty weekdays - FIFTY DAYS PERIOD. While I thought that I'd be pumped to see that in front of me, I have to say it's sobering. Fifty days before the lifestyle that I - and so many of my brothers and sisters who face down that graduation deadline - have known for the past four years will end. It's exciting and confusing and terrifying as our futures are just over that cliff called Commencement Day.

All we have to do is jump.

Or be pushed.

Either way, we're going over.

But that's not what I want to focus on. It's so easy to get caught up in "what will be" instead of "what is." As a good friend of mine reminded me not too long ago, prepare for the future, but don't focus on it all the time.

I'm actually writing as an update to my last entry. (See "House".) I've decided to start a short "journey." A month-long journey, actually. Though I forgot that starting something in early March and ending it at Easter is technically called "Lent," so I guess you could call it a Lent journey - I'm not (though it does make it easy to keep track of it on a calendar) so do what you will. In any case, from this past Monday (10 March) to Thursday before Easter (17 April), I have decided to give up coffee. Sometimes when I go to bed at night, I think, "Oh, yay, I get coffee tomorrow morning." And I think there should be a better reason to get out of bed than to have a cup of coffee. Also, I'm pretty sure I'm an addict, and I don't like the idea of being addicted to anything.

Except maybe bread. I'd be alright with being addicted to bread.

And cheese.

Anyway.

I've also started a Countdown to Summer Preparation. (You have no idea how long it took me to come up with some kind of pithy name for this, and I'm a little embarrassed to say that was the product.) For the next month (roughly), I'm gonna start taking better care of myself. Not so I can look better in a bathing suit, not so I can look in the mirror and say "Damn, I look good." It's simply so I feel better, so I don't look at the ground when I walk past people on the sidewalk like I have something to be ashamed of. For the past week I've gotten back onto MyFitnessPal (which is AWESOME if you are dedicated to keeping track of how much you eat, exercise, drink water, etc. while also giving you realistic weight loss goals and nutrition tips. It's the best accountability site that I've come across yet. Plus I love the little party I have in my head when I complete an entry for a "good" day") and am really proud of the progress I've made so far, strictly because I've been dedicated to it. I haven't seen any progress on the scales yet, but I feel so much better about myself already. And that's the goal.

I have no ultimate number in mind, no ideal figure that I want to achieve. I'm not taking pills or doing seaweed purges (what a horrible thought - do those even exist?) - I'm just keeping an eye on what I eat, working out a few times a week, and drinking more water than I normally do. And there's a deadline in sight: I'm just sticking with this until 17 April. I don't believe in those "3 Weeks to a Beach Body" schpiels. (Dr. Oz, I'm on to your shenanigans.) And we'll see what the results are when I get there.

So why am I writing about this? What do you guys care about my trying to get in better shape?

You probably don't. And that's fine. But I need the accountability. Throughout the next few weeks I'll be writing about my journey and posting it here, occasionally talking about my progress, struggles, etc. And that won't be the only thing I write about, I promise - I have more things to say than just "I did Zumba for two hours" or "I caved and ate a doughnut, I'm such a failure."

Which I will never write - doughnuts should never be associated with failure. Unless you get doughnuts after you failed something to make you feel better. Which is acceptable.

I also want it to be an encouragement to you who are looking to embark on a similar journey. So many times you see the commercials that say "I lost >enter amount of< pounds with >enter name of some fitness guru fad< in >enter number of 'results may vary'< days." But you don't hear about the days when they wanted to give up, when they accidentally ate an M&M and wanted to throw in the towel, when they had one day where they didn't exercise for an hour and inhaled a hot fudge sundae instead and thought their lives were over, that they were on a slippery slope to 700 pounds. This will be a real account of what hard work, dedication, and a few slips will do. (Oh, there will be slips. I'm going out with some girls for ice cream tomorrow. Bet on it.)

I will get frustrated. I almost broke and drank a coffee today. You will hear how aggravated I get, when my body hurts in the morning and I don't want to get out of bed and I just want to be finished. For the past three mornings my hips have screamed "I HATE YOU!!!!!" when I bent down to tie my shoes. (They do that a lot lately, though, I'm getting used to that.)

But I'm committed. And I can't wait to share my journey with you. And I hope that some of you will join me and tell me about your journeys too! It's just until April - it's a month and four days. As my precious Linus used to say, "That's totally do-able."

I don't want this to sound like a weight-loss bandwagon. It's an encouragement to see how far you can push yourself (BUT STAY HEALTHY, MY GOODNESS, THIS IS NOT ADVOCATING EATING DISORDERS OR INSANE DIETS OR MEDICAL PROCEDURES, BE KIND TO YOUR BODY, IT'S THE ONLY ONE YOU'VE GOT!). Make it fun! Make it a challenge. Just make feeling better about yourself a priority.

"Hello, my name is Bethanie, and my spirit animal is Jillian Michaels."