A Place of Last Resorts

Now...that sounds a little desperate. But it has a nice ring to it, so I suppose I just had to use it. I'm not too very stressed out, not really. And I'm not sure what I will put here that doesn't just shout out all the boring instances of my life into the stratosphere. But I miss this place. I miss being able to just sit here and think of everything and put it up, hoping that someone sees it and thinks something good of it.

Here I am, knowing that in less than a week I am going to take the SAT for the third time, knowing that it will likely culminate into a panic attack later in that day and that I might not even do any better than I did the last time. But hey, I'm not worried. I already know what's coming, and I know that no matter what, by saturday afternoon I will never, ever have to take that test again. And, hopefully, will never have to go to Jordan high school ever again.

You know....I am very lazy. I am. I work insanely fast, and thus have not cultivated any sort of ability to just sit and work for hours, whether I need to or not. This, this is where I'm feeling it the most. Now that I have to put extra work into my last year of high school, hoping beyond hope that I make a good enough impression to get a scholarship to my college of choice, I am beginning to feel winding. And all I can say is: Thank God.

Thank God for my support group, for my beautiful dog and my wonder boyfriend, for my loyal friends and encouraging teachers. Thank God for my ability to zone into a different time and space when the stress is getting to me--after all, there is nothing like a good story to bring the stress level down. And thank God that He gave me the self-interest to shove this blog into the corner for a year, because if I'd had to worry about it on top of everything else, I would have shot myself.

Not really. But there might have been a little more stress than I could have handled.

Now, as I come back here, I can truly say I have an interest in life. My life, and what I can accomplish in it. What I want, and what I feel called to do. Although admittedly, sometimes those things clash a little. Whatever. No matter how much I struggle, God will easy drag me to where he wants me to go. And that, my friends, is perhaps the one fact that has lead me closer to peace than anything else I have experienced.

Question

So I guess I should write up some sort of a post before I leave for five days. I don't like to say that ten days went by between my posts, even though they basically have and I don't have much to say. But I guess...I owe it to you? I dunno. I started this back when I was thinking of pursuing writing as a career and wanted to dip a toe in the water. Since then, through both the blog and general events in my life, I've realized that that is not the course for me. I'm not supposed to live that way, whatever 'that' way is.

Of course, I'll never stop writing. I just don't want to be pressured. I want to enjoy the process and take as long as I want. I have to like and care about what I'm writing or I won't have the fuel to finish a story. That doesn't work for a career writer.

Not to mention, my lack of muse is about to skyrocket as an endearing eight-week-old puppy enters the household this coming monday. I'll be very tired and very busy, and I already have commitments to friends and other sites. This just isn't a priority for me anymore. Nothing extremely useful, deep, or important goes up here anymore, and I'm not good at writing fluff pieces. I don't enjoy them, at least.

So...yeah. This is my question: Does anyone still read this? Do you care about what I'm saying, or are you reading as a courtesy? Would you be duly devastated if I told you I'm scrapping the blog? I ask because I never get any feedback and I do spend a lot of time of each post, and it's sometimes discouraging when you come back and no one has anything to say to you. Blogs aren't supposed to make you feel that way.

Yup. If you want me to continue this, you'd better comment or Email me or something. Because I like writing, but if no one's reading it I might as well write on my own time, without trying to maintain a site.

To Satisfy

What exactly does that verb mean? To make content? Or is it to fulfill until there is no more room for improvement? Is it to make happy or just to make at peace? Is it merely to quell the distress of the heart? Are you truly satisfying a person if you have to 'keep' them satisfied? If you have to go back every once in awhile, and prove your worth again?

I have heard this verb used in so many ways in the world. Good ways and bad ways. The ability to be satisfied has moved from a virtue to a defect and back so many times that really I tend to stay away from the word altogether. At least, in any original form. Any writer in the room must raise their hand and admit that they have fallen into cliche's from time to time, using weary phrases and techniques as well as developing their own.

Anyway, I only thought of this because I used this particular word in my facebook status only a few minutes ago and...well:

'Good day, then bad day, then worse day, then busy day, then great day, then complicated day, then wonderful day. Funny how the most satisfying days are the ones you can't quite define.'

Obviously, to my deeper self, to satisfy is not strictly to make happy. Today was not a happy day, for the most part. It was filled with disappointment and irrational anger and trying to vent to a friend who had to leave soon (No, I don't blame the friend at all. In fact, I'm thankful that he tried to help during the little time he had.). In all honesty, the only excuse I have for being so out of sorts today is that the entire household has been tense for several weeks now.

This is, I learned quite a lesson today, and not from any particular thing. Just...the entire day. I was so miserable at the beginning, and the end was so helpful and fun and relaxing, showing me that love lasts forever, even if you lose the person you love for a time. Showing me that no matter how hard things seem at first, God always has something wonderful coming for you at the end of it. That he does have a plan and he does want you to be happy. And really, things aren't as dire as they appear in the moment. Things pass. Everything passes in this life. That's what makes the bad bearable and the good precious.

So yeah. Tonight, I am satisfied. I am satisfied because I have given up everything, all my rights, and allowed both good and bad to happen and pass and shape me. Because no, I'm not important, but I am sustained. I am loved.

Character

So, here I am again. I've been writing a whole lot more this week, which is unexpected, but it's late right now. I don't want to get started on another part of my story without full control of my consciousness. Also, I just watched two of the worst movies known to man. Well...I fell asleep during the second one. Twice. That's ok. I don't sleep enough at night, I feel like it's a good thing that I catch up on it during the day.

See, friend-whose-name-shall-remain-undisclosed? I only said I don't sleep at night very well. That's why I take cat naps almost every day. So there.

Anyway, I figured I'd ramble on here for a few minutes, maybe drain some of the writing-itch I'm feeling. I don't really have much of a deep discussion to lay out for you today, so I'm sorry. Most of my deep thought these days have been about matters best not thrown willy-nilly into the internet. You understand.

You know what's good therapy? The ability to throw words into a story without much thought of quality or continuity. Don't believe me? Well, have you ever been really, really angry with someone but unable to confront them? Did you ever vent by, say, staging a conversation and shouting into thin air? or figuring out long-winded arguments that of course pin down your side of the issue perfectly? Or just dwelled on it until it got so old and worn out that you just got over it yourself?

Honestly, that's what writing is half the time. It's taking your pent-up emotions and giving them to characters and situations and creating confrontations until you've completely worn yourself out on the subject and can look at it with better clarity. I've done it several time. Feeling overly romantic/lovesick? Slap down a two-page love story. Feeling murderous? Write about...gory battles. Evil, angsty, or angry characters. It's not coddling the emotion, really. It's putting it on the page, reading over it, letting the badly written work show you how illogical it all is, and calming yourself down. It also separates the emotion from real life, which helps you control yourself in the moment better.

"You" being me, of course. I know there are several people who just don't work this way. But even if you are not a writer, per say, you should try it out. It may just help. And then, you can show me your work and let me steal all your ideas, because everyone knows that's what good writers do.

*ahem* Just kidding.... >.>

Me, I write epic novels with all of the above enclosed within. You'll find, if I ever show people anything I write, that most of my characters reflect several of my deepest beliefs in one way or enough. My life goes into what I write, especially the way people relate to each other. Allow me a few seconds to brag, and I will say that I have been highly praised by several experienced and successful writers on my dialogue flow and character definition. It makes me happy--characters are, in my opinion, what make the story. If the characters grab you, it doesn't really matter what the story is about--you'll want to read it.

To a certain extent, of course. Plot is a big part of any story. Give it thought.

Interesting

Listening to music, two specific songs came one just after the other, and I just thought I should share:

Broken by Lifehouse

Wait Til You See My Smile by Alicia Keys

I don't know.... if you listen to the lyrics, it sounds almost like a question and then an answer. I've always found this specific song by Alicia keys very beautiful and uplifting, even though it isn't upbeat.

In other news, I have a picture of my puppy to show everyone. Denver, youngest of a five week old litter. Well, almost five weeks. I'm very, very excited to bring this little guy home. I mean, who needs a boyfriend when you've got a loyal, unconditional fuzzball of love?

Eh...for those of you who don't know, dogs are my first love. I am at my happiest when around a happy dog. Or a happy litter of nine puppies. :)

Renovations are going slow, but still...the chaos of the house has my brain in a scramble. I have literally written zip nonfiction for sixish weeks. I'm just journaling a whole lot and (rarely) posting here. I should try to post here more. I apologize for the long overdue post.

Hopefully the next will be sooner in coming.

Well Hello There

So I'm sure you've noticed that I haven't been posting as much recently. Well, I'll tell you why. First of all, a friend of mine is fostering a litter of nine puppies, one of which I am going to adopt. That'll be in about five weeks, but considering they live within walking distance, I want to get to know them, and they are so dang cute, they are taking up a deal of time and thought process. I mean, I could write about them up here, describing them to every single and boring detail, but it's just not the same over a blog. I might post pictures, should they decide to work on here.

Also, my sister and her husband are moving...tomorrow. My sister is freaking out. I am going to be helping out and the stress level (not mine, but it's sort of infectious) is skyrocketing. Rather, it's bouncing between absolutely relaxed and insanely intense. Ah well.

Lastly, we are going to do major renovations to our house once the sister and husband are away, and I'll be moving to a different bedroom, at which point I'll get the puppy and start training it and taking care of it. Sometimes I get little moments where I just have to write or I'm going to explode, and hopefully I'll be in a position to do that using the blog. But hey, what can I say? Real life comes first, and posts are going to be spotty the majority of the time.

Have a good one.

Oh

I got an email from someone random that I don't know telling me they liked my blog. Obviously, if you look to the side, they are not a follower. Why not? Oh, they just liked the way I wrote and wrote consistently and wanted me to join this random fashion website. I looked, saw the word 'sexy' about fifty times, and passed it by.

But hey, at least I know people...read this. Sometimes. >.> Maybe I should be worried.

Don't Think Of Anything

I ruin my vacations by wanting desperately for them to be over. I mean, what would you do if each day that passes brings you closer to getting a puppy, getting your own room, and seeing one of your best friends ever again. Well, all of them, actually. I also hate being uncomfortable. You wouldn't think it, but I don't like strange situations, places, people. It's more difficult for me than I think it is for most other people. When with relatives, that's one thing. I've known and trusted them all my life. But out here, out in Charleston, where I've already seen everything I want to see and really don't know where anything is, I just don't feel right.

Don't think of anything.

At least I'm feeling about ten times healthier, right? I mean, I can breathe (mostly) better and I'm not as physically exhausted as I was at home. Constantly. At home. And it's likely allergies set off by dirty dirty carpets and cats and plants and stuff. So I have all that to look forward to again. Feeling like I'm getting over nausea over and over and over again. And only three separating me from more of that.

Don't think of anything.

I've learned lessons, though:

1) Don't kick mushrooms on hot, humid days. They splatter.

2) If you do choose to kick mushrooms on hot, humid days, don't wear shoes with holes in them.

3) If you both kick the mushrooms and wear holey shoes, just go inside and put on a different pair. Don't desperately try to clean them in the two minutes before you leave on a very long trip.

4) No matter how hard you try, you are never going to be able to get a full nights sleep on the first night. Better just plan ahead and put yourself in a comfortable, quiet, entertaining place before you settle down for a sleepless night.

5) The door isn't jammed. It just hates you.

6) Forty bucks isn't enough for souvenirs, no matter how stingy a person you are, no matter where you go or for how long.

7) Sometimes the best days end in panic attacks. Just look over it and move on.

8) The shower doesn't only spray boiling or freezing water. It just hates you.

9) Always bring spares.

10) If you forgot the phone charger, go back and get it. Now. I don't care if you are already there. You won't survive without your cellphone. Rather, you will go insane. Because...

11) Family drives you crazy. There must be outside contact.

12) Go ahead and buy it--you /didn't/ spend 20,000$!

13) Lastly, you really can't help it. On every trip, at least one stuffed animal is going to find it's way home with you.

Also, just don't think of anything. This is your time away from reality, for better or worse. Relax.

Fall Down

'Break me out of my complacency, breathe your breath of life into my soul.'

I'm broken with No Regrets

Everyone, just raise your hands. Both of them, because I know you've done this more times than you can count. Y'know what? Your feet too. If you can, wiggle your ears. 'Cause I have a question for you. How many of you have knowingly done something very wrong and stupid? Raise your hands if you have. All of you? Oh.

Hello.

You can put your hands down, now. I forgive you for everything you've done. You may glare at me and say I don't have the right to claim that you need to be forgiven by me, but that's just a cover. People, in their insecurity, are desperate for someone to tell them that it doesn't matter. That there's nothing they can do to make you love them less. They want that assurance, and they want it to be real. Only then can it assuage any pain, or self-destructive hate. It really doesn't matter what you did, even if you did it to another person.

I swear, the person you are hurting the most is yourself. Because half the people out there have thick enough skins to be able to brush stuff off. The other half learn soon to surround themselves with tons of people who will help them heal. When it comes to deeper things--things that touch the soul--everyone may fall to it. But still. You do that to them, and no matter how it destroys them, they are the victim and they are going to have a plethora of helping hands to fix them. Who's gonna fix you? Who's gonna look and see the pained, dilapidated soul that would allow itself to do such a thing, and say that they feel sorry for it?

See, the thing about this is that in order to get better you have to pluck up the courage to surrender and let yourself be weak. People who have been hurt already know weakness. The first barrier was already broken down for them--by you.

You know, sometimes I want to just walk up and kiss the people who've hurt me on the cheek. I want to thank them for the many many lessons I have learned and the friends I have gained because of them. But when I do something wrong, all I want to do is kick myself or throw myself out the window. What right do I have to forgive myself, I say, Why, if I know now that it was wrong, didn't I know it then? I have no answer. Except that I am human. I am inherently evil, and I am in no way powerful enough to be good on my own.

Praise God for God. If it weren't for Him, I'd be completely and utterly in deep yogurt right now and forever, and life would be meaningless. Oh, I thank Him all the days of my life for what He's given me! I thank Him for the wonderful friends that always listen and always forgive what I've done to myself. I thank Him for one more day where I've eaten, smiled and laughed, exercised and cried. I thank Him when I'm dumb enough to eat cheese or drink milk and I don't feel any pain afterward. I thank Him when I make a fool of myself, if only because it helped make my friends laugh a little more than they would have without my company.

I thank Him when I write in my journal for giving me a gift in writing. I thank Him for my horrible memory which has driven me to use the gift of writing. I thank Him that I feel every desperate, agonizing emotion of everyone around me, and that I have a chance to understand enough to help.

So why? Why did I do what I did? Why did I look away? Why did I wander off? Why did I give Jesus reason to cry for me?

I am human, inherently evil, and in no way powerful enough to be good on my own.

Humbling, isn't it?

Liberating. I no longer have to worry, because I no longer have to try on my own. God does everything. I just have to let Him and follow. And when I choose not to, He doesn't even give me a slap on the wrist. He doesn't even look at me angrily. He cries when I cry. It's terrible, seeing Papa cry. But all I have to do to stop it is approach Him with a contrite heart and willingness to change, and He'll do the rest. He'll smile and pull me close and let me feel like the smallest, weakest, most vulnerable thing in the world, and yet completely safe.

So now you know why I don't worry. Going out in the sun without sunscreen increases my risk of cancer? Not true. If God wants me to get skin cancer, I'm gonna get it no matter how careful I am. And if He doesn't, I really don't have to worry too much about it. No, I'm not going to jump in front of a car and tell Him to save me if he wants me to fulfill his plan, but c'mon. I'm not going to let fear cripple my life. Beauty is fleeting at best and in no way key to doing what God wants. Health's much more important, but you still don't need to be in peak physical condition to be God's super-soldier.

Just don't worry. Do your best and give yourself breaks and don't worry. "'For I know the plans I have for you,' Declares the Lord, 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future.'" Jeremiah 29:11 What God wants will fill you with His joy and His love. Straying from Him will only hurt you more.

God forgives you for everything you've done. Every step you've taken outside His path. And you know what? He's forgotten about it. You should, too.

Go and Sin No More

Wow

You know, physical health has much more of an effect on the mind than I would have thought. For instance, I have been dealing with major stomach and lung issues since I wrote the post before the previous one, and I haven't been able to concentrate enough to write anything, be it a chapter of my story or another post. The only thing I have been doing has been writing a couple pages in my journal every night, but that was more for the sake of remembering and organizing in my mind everything that's been going on than for the sake of writing.

I also realize that the above paragraph, while of good size, is only three sentences long. That's...not cool. I should be able to do better than that. Really, though, it seems I become a whole lot more long-winded when I'm as continually exhausted as I have been in recent days. I also choose on a whim to say things in very odd ways. Bah.

So yeah. Wow. This is sort of a status check-in on yours truly. I've been stressed out by several issues. Physical, mental, relational.... And I'm not sleeping very well, even though I doze off every time I lay down. So, hopefully I'll feel better soon. But until then I decided to put something up here in order to keep this particular site from dying.

Whisper, by A Fine Frenzy

Whisper, by A Fine Frenzy

'Running the race
Like a mouse in a cage
Getting nowhere but I'm trying
Forging ahead
But I'm stuck in the bed
That I made so I'm lying

But if you keep real close
Yeah, you stay real close
I will reach you

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me still

Eager to please,
Trying to be what they need
But I'm so very tired
I've stopped trying to find
Any peace in my mind
Because it tangles the wires

But if you keep real close
Yeah, you stay real close
I will reach you

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me
Can you hear me still

The sound tires on my lips
To fade away into forgetting

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me
Can you hear me

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me
Can you hear me still?'

Life gets crazy sometimes, you know? I don't think I can say anything about what I feel that isn't covered in this song.

Secrets of the Sands by Leona Wisoker

Ah...where do I even start? I met Leona Wisoker at a writers conference in march, where I learned that she would have her first first book published and distributed by the end of the month. I was very, very happy for her. She was a nice person, a wonderful conversationalist and a wealth of knowledge all rolled up in a person who knew their way around the English vocabulary. Leona was never afraid to give her opinion and share her wisdom. At the same time, she never--ever--made me feel bad for being wrong or of a differing point of view. That's hard to do. I'm a bit too sensitive for my own good. Meeting Leona was a wonderful experience. I have to say, however, that reading her book, Secrets of the Sands, was even better.

World-building. I was stunned by the end of the book at the details in dress and speech and culture and language and history and myths and legends and misnomers of the world wrapped up in that book. I have read few books that compare in the sheer effort involved in creating a world that lives and dances off the page. Unbounded imagination only could have created something so spectacular. The best part, though, is that you didn't have to sit through paragraphs and chapters and pages of explanation for everything that was going on. Leona managed the show the reader her world through the telling of the story, and she never leaves them behind or bewildered. That is true skill.

Plot. Epic. I can't really tell you what it is besides that. Two parts grand quest to three parts mystery, one part romance and fifty parts can't-wait-for-the-next-book-so-you-can-get-more-of-the-picture. It resolves well, but there is so much more to find out about everything in the world, as well as the journeys of all the characters. Regardless of all other adjectives, this was one of the most unique stories I've read in a very long time.

Characters. I knew by the end of the third chapter that Leona put her self into and delved deep into the minds, emotions, and histories of all her characters, big and small, so that there was no flat, stereotypical one among them. There are genuine surprises, irrational behaviors that all people display, and a real connection every one of them that you don't find in many stories these days. I absolutely loved the main male, Idisio, and his oddly developed friendship with a Desert Lord named Scratha.

Anything else? Well, if I told you everything I wanted to say I'd still be sitting here typing three days from now. Needless to say, I am eternally thankful that we met Leona at the conference. Not only because of her book--although that is a big part of it--but because of the honor of a friendship with a person who so devotes themselves to and excels in her work. And I want you, my reader, to go find Secrets of the Sands right now and read it, because you'll love it instantly. Someone this talented deserves appreciation.

Letter--Wait For Me

Wait For Me

Dear Mister ---,

I am going to marry you someday. Just thought you should know. I also thought you should know that in preparation for that moment, I'm waiting. I'm not gonna rush off with every cute guy I take a fancy to and make huge mistakes. I not going to train myself to always look for the better, cuter, funnier, more successful guy. I'm not going to expect everyone else to be perfect and pull all the weight of the relationship by themselves. I'm going to train myself to be humble and caring and kind and serving and hard to offend and eloquent and understanding and strong and flexible and honorable. That is not to say, however, that I don't expect something from you. No, I'm raising my standards too high, and holding myself up to them. Here's a few examples.

First of all, you love me right? Okay, cool. Tell me that sometimes. The most important thing about they way I act in relation to other people is how I feel about myself. And I'll tell you now, I have a hard time with confidence. I get jealous, and then I blame myself for everything someone else does wrong. So you know what? You've got to take some time out of your hectic life and tell me you love me every once in awhile. And you have to mean it--I'll know it you don't mean it. I'll know it you're just saying it to fill the air, or to get something from me. Trust me, it doesn't matter how much it'll hurt me; I'll up and leave if you become disloyal or disrespectful.

That's not to say that the first time you disagree with me I'll blow off the handle. I like to think I'm fairly patient. Trust me, I'm working very hard to cultivate a loyal and forgiving personality for you. I also know that everyone makes mistakes--big mistakes--and everyone needs chances for forgiveness. I'm not going to be one of those people that will hold a lustful thought over you until you've worked yourself raw and blistering. At the same time, it's hard to earn my trust. It may take you a few years just to get me to call you my boyfriend. That's ok. I like to think I'm worth it. The point is, there's a difference between an accident and a habitually wrong mindset. You have to try, very, very hard, to love me and only me and be happy about it. This sort of thing doesn't just happen. You have to be smart. You have to put the other person first.

When it comes to respect, sometimes it's even harder. What if you know in your heart that I'm the one for you, but it's just not the right time yet? If you make the argument that true love with prevail and me can make it through the bumpy times to a brighter tomorrow so long as we hold onto each other and shun everything else, I will hit you. I know how difficult it is! Don't you think I know? Don't you think I wish everyday for that right person to come and for me to be happy? But the fact is that you have to keep your eyes on God. And you have to wait for me. If I say I'm not ready for a relationship, I'm not completely turning you down. I'm following God. And it's hard for me, too. Wait for me.

Oh. Right. You know what? You can't just talk to me and tell me and trust me with everything. You. Must. Listen. If I disagree with you, it doesn't make me stupid. It makes me different. Who knows? I might be right. Who knows? It might not even be important enough for us to decided someone's right and someone's wrong. It may be that I just want you to respect me enough to let me say what I think. Consider it. Openly. I'm not going to bite if you say no, so long as you say no kindly. You owe it to me to be completely understanding and completely honest. I can't stand people who won't allow others to debate their answers. I know for a fact that when I find you, I'll adore listening to everything you have to say. About anything. There's so much that I haven't even considered, and that's saying something.

And even if you love me for the way I don't mind bugs and mud, even if you love me for belching in public, for not being afraid of a fight, for playing video games and kicking your tail into next month, you have to remember a very important fact. It's very sad, and very humiliating, but it's something I cannot and will not change for anyone, so you'd better not even go there. I am, very deep down inside, a girl.

Yup. Scary.

I like romantic comedies, and I like the color pink, and I can't help, in a weak moment, enjoying the song Girlfriend by Avril Lavrigne. No, I'll never make you listen to it. I promise. But here's the thing that I really want you understand: I cry sometimes. I mean I sometimes break down bawling. You don't have to fix it, and you don't have to understand it, but you do have to be sympathetic. If you start saying 'whatever' and disdainfully watch me as I cry about something you did of something that's bothering me, this isn't gonna work. Mind you, there are many times when I'm going to be over-emotional and crying for a stupid reason. But making me feel like an imbecile isn't going to make anything better. All you need to do is hug me (if I let you) and tell me everything's going to be okay. We'll figure everything out, you'll stand by me through anything, and we'll pray like crazy. But don't try to get me to stop crying. Crying isn't a bad thing.

Lastly (I think), I don't want you nit-picking my looks. I do enough of that myself. My legs are pale? Well that's odd. It's not like the rest of me isn't a glorious bronze hue. Oh no wait, it isn't. I'm a fair person, one of the fairest of the lot, and you've just got to deal with it. Think of it this way: any fair person can go out and tan and get all pretty and brown and cancerful, but good luck to African who wants to get white. I mean...well, Michael Jackson doesn't count. I'm unique. I want you to love my personality first, yes, but woe to you if you don't love the rest of me as well.

By all means, you may push me toward more healthy habits. I want you to want me to be healthy, so telling me (nicely) that I should probably exercise more or stop eating so many donuts or the like will be fine. Accountability is key to any endeavor.

The Blessing

As I said, I hold myself to every standard I've outlined here. I want to become the best and wisest and prettiest and kindest and most loving wife you can imagine or ever want. I want to be perfect for you. I'm trying so, so very hard. Please, please try for me, wherever you are. I love you already.

Bless You,
Rebekah

Sickness

You know what I think about when I'm sick? What I could be doing if I weren't sick.

You know what I think about when I have a fever? Rainbows and unicorns. I know this because I doze off at a whole lot of random times during the day out of sheer exhaustion--even when I'm trying my hardest to stay awake--and when I wake the only thing that I remember is the merest though of dancing around with unicorns in that cliche and overdone fantasy land of pink cotton candy clouds and rainbows.

So, since this doesn't make very good blogging material, I must ask you all to reply with a case study: What on earth does this say about the way my mind works?

I Wish

Yeah, so in case you don't know, I like to occasionally read through those gossip magazines. You [don't] know, 'M' and 'J-14'. I know. You're completely ashamed of me. Whatever. This has a point. The fact is, it's helped me realize how much people care about what random people are doing in their lives. It's helped me respect celebrities--especially underaged ones--for keeping their cool when there's a mob after them. At the same time, I am so ashamed of some of the majorly twisted secular influences the magazines have on ditzy young girls. Really, let's cheer Zac and Vanessa on for moving in together. Let's spray in front of the whole world how horribly bashed and flamed Miley Cyrus was by her ex.

All I hope is that most of that information is accurate. All of it, ideally. I imagine myself as some sort of celebrity looking at the cover of a magazine and reading the lies that the entire public now believes about me and I squirm inside. I'd learn to handle it--they all do, in their own way--but I'd never be happy about it. You lose a lot of freedom as a celebrity.

I know none of us like his music, but did you know Justin Bieber has to cancel a concert because a mob hurt one of his fangirls? Correction, a mob of fans rushed the stage and hurt someone whose only fault was being in the way at the time. Sorta makes me never want to go to a concert again. At least not one with fangirls.

I wish I had the ability to reach lots of people with my words. I wish there were a whole lot more people who followed this blog. I wish I knew for sure what I'm going to do with my life. I wish there wasn't still this desire within me to somehow, miraculously become a superstar. I wish I didn't realize that if I did, I would have just as many haters as Miley Cyrus and the others. Someone out there would think I'm a fake. Or a ditz. Or a bad musician.

I wish I were gentler. I wish I were harder to offend. I wish I didn't judge based on half-truths and incomplete knowledge. I wish I wasn't a hypocrite. I wish I prayed more often for those I despise. I wish I thought more of others. I wish I worked harder. I wish I believed in myself as much as all my friends seem to. But you know one thing I wouldn't change?

I wouldn't change one person out there. Not under my own power. I wouldn't asked any one of my friends to change, and I wouldn't ask my Lord and Father to change. THat would be bad.

"A gossip magazine made you think of all this?!?!?!?!"

Yes. Puts things into perspective, doesn't it?

Time Stops

That time just after a huge storm--
A torrent of wonder, routine surprise
And mundane experience.
Things seem so quiet; the world
Is tired, as if hours beyond
The truth have passed.
Fatigue.

The weary have come and gone,
But their impression stays.
Even as the sun moves lower
You see them as they were
Only so long ago.
Their images, frozen yet moving
So fast.

When you worry that things will end
Yet feel them just beginning,
When you cannot see past the fog in your eyes
Yet you feel you know what comes,
When nothing moves, finished
But only halfway through,
Time stops.

Silence

Really, this thought has been tugging on me for quite some time. I'm not sure why I resisted the pull. Perhaps it is because silence frightens me--it closes the doors to distractions so that the tiniest tremor in your mind, the most insignificant blemish, seems like a mountain to you. A tsunami. An earth-splitting fissure.

While I write this, I forego my usual routine of listening to calming, centering music. It seems a hypocritical thing to do while you contemplate the unmoving. If I am to control myself and truely grasp what it is to be overwhelmed by nothing, I must first experience it. For silence can be far more horrible than most people realize. And it can be far more beautiful.

As I said before, silence is a removal of distractions. It is a tool that one may use to understand what is really important to you. Without the confusing, spinning, whirling stimulation of a world whose only concern is to brainwash you, what are you? It scares some people to even glimpse. There are monsters that blankets of other cover. Even if you do not nurture these beasts, even if you try your hardest to pretend they're not there, they will grow on their own. And soon the creatures are far too big to be totally covered by games and pleasure, and they strike at all you hold dear.

Introspection takes time, and takes effort, but most of all, it take bravery. Are you courageous enough to face the monster while it is still small? It will be easiest that way. Why do you think Therapists have nothing around them but stress relievers? Do you think it would work if they were playing music in the background? If they had a movie on or went to a restaurant? Silence is a tool, just like anything else, for understanding oneself and what is inside.

I know it's scary. It's lonely, sometimes, when you can't get away from it. You know where other people are--worse, you remember the feeling you get when you are around them--but you cannot reach them. Even when they're a mere few feet away. There is a barrier, and they won't speak. They don't know, or they don't care, how much you need them to.

But silence can be heard. I used to listen to it all the time--I still do, but not as much. I can hear the harmony of the content. I can see the crescendo of the joyous and I can feel the discordant strains of those that suffer. I don't know how to explain it to someone who does not know, but it is there. There is nothing wrong with not having anything to do every once in awhile. Why must we fill everything with warped mindlessness? I am at my best, inwardly and outwardly, once I have taken the silence into perspective.

Letter

This was done as three things; a venture into the art of first person, a experiment created to provoke thought, and a style of writing tuned to mean nothing and everything at the same time. I can't tell you the significance of it, but I wonder if anything I say pertains to your life or situation...?

Dear ---

If you understand something, you know nothing. We aren't made to understand but to learn. There's so much you cannot know about the world; can you really assume that a thing is one way merely because you have seen something similar before? Imagine the danger of assuming authority on a whim and messing with a situation as you please. What if you're wrong? Ever if you are right, what if you fix it the wrong way? What if, in fixing it, you lose the trust and integrity of a friendship involved?

There have been times when I've suspected jealousy. I've told the story, and others have picked jealousy as well. But why would jealousy make people act so? Can't one just approach me and explain how he feels? My goodness! Can you not merely tell me the truth! Talk to me! I listen! God put you in my life as a support and part of my guidance. Don't you owe it to me to tell me what you see me do wrong? Do you think I want to do wrong?

But if it were jealousy, I imagine there would be more silent enmity. The tactile sense, which sends shudders down my spine. If it were jealousy, you would appraoch me, and you would do wrong. I don't believe this is the case.

Indeed, the fact that I have seen neither hide nor hair of you shows me that even you understand. Somewhere deep inside, the reminder of your limits grows stronger the closer you come to me. Something stops you when you speak to me, and even though you don't know what it is, it closes up your throat until you change the subject. That's the Holy Spirit, tell you that you don't have the right.

Buy why? Why do you not listen to it sooner? Why must you ignore it just long enough to harrass my friend? Don't you know me at all? If you stopped for one moment and walked around in my skin you'd understand; the worst torture is burdening those I love.

I must admit, I have begun considering again my worth to other people. I begin to realize the pressure my mere existence puts on others. You're not helping. Fact: You don't know what you're messing with. Fact: You're hurting me. Fact: I'm so very sorry. I hate being angry and I hate speaking the unwavering, unforgiving thoughts in my mind. Fact: You're still young, and yet you act like you have the whole world in hand. I don't pretend to know any better, but this is my life. You're not the one who'll be hurt if I'm wrong. Respect me.

Trust God.

I forgive you.
-------

Watermelon Gum

I was writing when I made this realization. At the time is was merely a fabrication--an image of the deepest, greatest happiness in the fictional life of one of my fictional characters--but when I thought back to it, it all struck me at once. It was so simple! It was an embodiment of what I've always wished I had, of the comfort and security and peace I always strive in vain to achieve. However, I believe I'm getting ahead of myself--will you take a walk with me?

”I was six. It was a few weeks after my birthday, and to celebrate, my mother took me to Myrtle Beach, in South Carolina. Just me and her. We'd been driving all the day before, so she was tired, but I wanted to explore. I ran off up the beach without her, and I didn't stop for a long time. Eventually, I got lost, and forgot where she was. But a young man had noticed me, and before I was able to panic he came up to me and asked me if I liked watermelon gum. I said no, and he said that was good, cause he didn't have any. After that, he told me jokes and played little rhyming games with me while he led me down the beach, every once and awhile reminding me to keep a look out for my mom. He didn't touch me, and he didn't ask me what my name was or give me his. All he did was entertain me for an hour or two while we found my mother again. I don't even know why, but I was happier that day than I've ever been. Sometimes I wish I could take a break from my life and go back to walking along the beach, laughing at stupid jokes.”

...It's hard to start. Have any of you ever been so worried about the future, hurt by the past, and fearful of the present that you had no room to breath? That anxiety creeps into your very soul spreads and mingles with all of you triggers--your fears, your desires, and those thing which you despise deepest of all. You can't think, and you can't breath, and finally you succumb to the feeling, just enough so that you can keep your head above water--just enough so that you've created wall inside yourself. And you think you're ok, for awhile. Whenever that memory, or subject, or worry comes up you just stuff it behind your wall and build it higher and stronger. You can laugh, and think, but some of the foulness you've been keeping within yourself will inevitable leak into everything you do and say and see. You get so that you don't even think about it anymore and you run as fast as you can, hoping you can just leave it behind somewhere. But you can't.

That story there? It came from somewhere inside of me. A longing for a distraction, elevated beyond my world and my troubles, brought this into what I wrote. And now I see: that young man is Jesus. He steps into my life when I feel I'm about to collapse and distracts me--with a friend, with a joke, with a game, and especially with himself. And I trust him, though I don't know him. I'm so small, and couldn't possibly know him. But I love him, and I love his jokes and his smile, and the way he keeps me safe keeps reminding me to look for my 'mother', who is my Father, who is God. Everything'll be better when I'm with God.

So right now, I'm walking along the beach with Jesus. Every so often, like the tiny child I am, I'll turn away from him for a second to look at something else. Sometimes, even, I'll leave his side completely and try to do something else to entertain myself, and just when I'm starting to realize that I've gotten myself into a horrible mess, he asks me whether I like watermelon gum. I say no. He says good. 'Cause he doesn't have any. He just has the good, healthy, satisfying stuff.

Being with Jesus is being a small child. In that moment, you're just looking at Him and enjoying Him, and trusting that nothing around you can hurt you while He's there. Nothing in your past or future could ever matter or bother you--He loves you. And He doesn't force you into anything, He just stays by your side, watching when you wander, and smiling while you're with Him. He is ever patient, always kind, all knowing, always loving, forever smiling, amazing comfort. The only thing that could ever hurt me while I'm with Him is knowing that someone else isn't.

So let me ask you: Do you like watermelon gum?

Well that's good; Jesus only has the good stuff.

Choir

Listening to: Emma Wallace

I like this song. I've never heard one of her songs before (that I know of), but this one has a fun jazzy side to it's somber melody. As many of my friends are already aware of, I'm in such a jazzy mood right now. I can often be found on my piano adding a swing tempo to the most classic baroque. It's not technically correct, but I honestly don't realize I'm doing it half the time. The other half I'm bored. Or...stubborn.

I like to think I have a good taste in music. Then I dance to Party in the USA.

No, please! Stay friends with me! I know my own shortcomings all too well.

Anyway, what I really wish is that I was familiar with more choral pieces. John Rutter's Requiem is perhaps the most moving, emotional, ingenious work of art I've ever had the good pleasure of listening to. If I hadn't joined choir, I would have never heard it, and I sincerely doubt I'd have sung soprano in the piece. Hardest thing I've ever learned. And guess what? I get to sing it again! Well, most of it.

Not to mention, my choir does fun songs. For instance, we are currently in the process of learning an African song. It's so fun, and for something so simple and tempo driven it's really hard to get! We even have permission to sway a little and tap the beat (double-time) with our hands during the concert just so we'll stay in time. Funny how slurring an up-beat song can suddenly turn it into a dirge.

Lastly, I must add in this note: My choir director is the best in the world! She makes everything fun and she forces us to push ourselves farther than we'd ever thought possible. I owe everything I've learned about singing (and for those of you who don't sing, it's not nearly as simple as it seems) to her. Hard work trumps talent every time.