The Quarter Life Crisis of a Twenty-Something Is REAL

Let me say this. Mock millennials all you want. Until the sun goes down and yoga pants go out of style. Hey! I'll even join in for a verse of "put that phone back in your backpack or so help me. . ."

But I will say that growing up, no matter your generation, is a difficult time. Maybe that's why it's so easy to poke fun at the rising generation with their misdirection and their superficial emotions and their epic failings. It's not even that the rest of the world doesn't fail; they do. My generation, however, tends to do so with the volume up.

I'm not going to get too introspective and deep here because I think failing and sucking at life every once in awhile is important. It keeps you from having "perfect" syndrome and walking with your arms floating behind you and all the while being completely incapable of understanding empathy. (breath) But does it ever get EASIER? Do you ever wake up and realize, "Oh! I'm still kind of the worst, but by golly I am getting better at failing my life!" (That certainly calls for a ceremonial woot woot)

This last year has been the epitome of my quarter life crisis, and I'm not even sure how or when exactly it began. But it has been something that I have most definitely perpetuated.

I won't get too much into the personal reasons why this year has been particularly difficult, but I will say this. If you see the following symptoms or similar reactions in either yourself or the people you love, you may know someone with QLCS.


I went from a blonde to a "purple-haired freak"
(may or may not be a direct quote)

I bought a house.
And sometimes, I still can't remember what led me to that rather large decision.
On April 1st I started looking (no joke  . . . heh . . . get what I did there . . . Because it's April Fools?)
And on June 10 I signed my closing documents

I went to Disneyland TWICE!
Hahaha jk. This isn't a symptom of QLCS.
It's just plain awesome!

All in all, it has been a year of many firsts. It has been a year of self-discovery. It has been a year of realizing that I don't know half as much as I'd like to pretend.

It was the year I had to paint my wooden fence by myself, and somehow proved that I could do it (nevermind the fact that I couldn't stand up straight for a few days). It was the year my best friend moved out and got married. It was the year I bought not one, but TWO shades of blue lipstick. It was the year I saw a mouse in my house and I considered for a good 30 minutes if I could put it up for sale the next day. It was the year I hired every single employee on my team at work. It was the year I made big decisions; some wiser than others.

It has been a year of pushing people away and slowly realizing those who would not allow themselves to be pushed (I owe you so much). It has been a year of feeling love, but somehow feeling more alone than at any other time of my life.

It has been a year of discovering what a home truly is. Not something you can purchase and move into. Unlike a house, a home comes with something far more unique than that. It's something I've sought my whole adult life.

I have a recurring dream every once in awhile. I'm lying on my mother's bed in my childhood home. She's there next to me as I watch the ceiling fan whir around and around. No words are exchanged, but every piece of me is safe and loved. The darkest thoughts and most terrible nightmares could be stalking outside her door, but I somehow know they can't be let inside.

Since losing my mother as a child, I have never been able to duplicate that feeling of peace except for in one place. In His house. In the place I had the priviledge to go nearly two years ago to receive my endowment. In the place where eternal covenants are made and His love is exponential.

It's not that this realization has dramatically changed my experiences this last year or the pain that has been dealt at times. Nor does it solve the problems still in my way. But it does everything a home should do in that it gives me (and everyone who works to achieve it) a safe place to land; a haven to wait out the storm. A place to refocus and refresh.

Let this, if nothing else, by my theme of 2017.

New Year Reflections

I don't believe in New Year resolutions. Let's be honest; the end of the year comes after the holidays where we over-indulge on everything from our budgets to our waistlines. In an effort to over-correct, we find ourselves making commitments that we far exceed our true desire to create change.

At the end of the year, we find ourselves thinking back over the things we have done, the ways we have changed, and (often most notably) the ways we have fallen short of our own expectations or guide posts. 

This Year I . . .

Received my endowments in the Draper Temple

Planned a surprise "Dr Who" birthday party for my best friend (with streamers and everything because we're five years old)

 . . . It got weirder as the night progressed.

Nerded it up and went to Comic Con to get my picture with Matt Smith and to prove that I am Whovian enough to brave an enclosed space filled with people who do not shower on the reg. 

(If you don't understand the tally marks, watch Dr. Who. Like now. It will change your life)

Traveled to New York and saw Wicked at the Gershwin Theater

I went to the happiest (and my favorite) place on earth with my best friend!

I marked 10 years since losing my beautiful mother. Not a day has passed since when she hasn't been present in my thoughts. 

After 10 years, my sister and her family moved back from Alaska. I still can't believe they are really here. 

I went to Yellowstone for the first time and discovered the truly putrid stench that geysers let off. 

Traveled to Chicago for work and fell in love with the view from my room and the city in general (what our crazy schedule allowed anyway). 

We visited Sun Valley, where days spent by the pool with a good book were plenty and happiness-filled. 

Received a promotion to Communications Manager at Younique; the result from a long year of ambitiously striving toward that goal. 

Conclusion

Seeing these photos in quick succession (much like you do when scrolling through your Facebook feed), it is easy to assume that my year has been filled with happiness and success. It would be hard to think after reading this carefully put together post, that my life is anything but the depictions to which these images allude. 

Here's the fortunate thing about life; there are always blessings. There are always moments you can pull from a 12 month span that reflect happiness and contentment. There is achievement, adventure, success, love, and many more things to help you realize your life is rich and has meaning. 

What these images don't portray is the very real difficulty that has been this last year; a year full of pain and difficult change. From the loss felt from severing familial relationships to the testing moments of isolation and the very tangible realization of my own shortcomings. I won't share specifics here; it's not the appropriate place. But when the clock rang midnight, an audible "thank you" left my spirit. I was more than happy to say farewell to those last 12 months. 

If I know one thing, it is that happiness and light come from understanding struggle and pain. 

My early teenage years were spent solely in darkness, avoiding anything or anyone that shined too brightly. I despised those with health. I detested anyone that had a mother to go home to. And it almost killed me. 

I can't tell you when it happened, but there was a tangible moment when I realized that the pain in my life was cyclical, and that I had the power to control the spinning wheel. 

Pain and sorrow and trial have many ends; many real and imagined victories. Mine? The ability to truly feel joy and gratitude in a way that previously I could never imagine. 

The difficulty of feeling true failure, for example, only heightens the accomplishment of knowing success. The bitter loss known when someone leaves you only aids in the complete gratitude and love felt when someone stands with you. 

I look toward 2016 with hope and faith. Undoubtedly there will be struggle, but I anxiously await the joy and love and tangible happiness that struggle will unleash. 

May we all have courage to meet it head-first. 

Skating with Mom

Sun Valley was my childhood refuge; a summer escape that meant forever wearing your swimsuit and smelling of sunblock and chlorine. It meant leaving school, leaving friends, leaving home and taking the family somewhere they could spend time alone together. It meant the strains of violins and thundering trombones catching our ear as we ate dinner on the deck, shoes off and plates in our laps as the symphony warmed up for their evening performance. It meant blueberry skies that stretched for miles as we hiked, as we walked, as we biked beneath them. It meant the familiarity of returning to the same haunts every year, ones that measured me as I grew taller, as I grew stronger.

I had friends there as a child; the old park behind the staff dormitories, the ducks and swans that frequented the pond outside the Inn doors. The cold stream that ran behind the village shops; my feet would numb as I absentmindedly squished the mossy bottom between my toes. Every year as we returned, the oak trees outside our window grew taller; majestically so. They seemed to protect our annual retreat, and as the imaginative eight year old I was . . . they were ceremoniously named. I know I named one of Herbert (I was strangely fascinated with that name at the time), but I can't remember the other. Either way, I fancied those trees my watchdogs, seeing that we returned every year; noticing the changes in who we'd become in the last twelve months. I'm sure they took notice of my vastly changing hairstyles, the year I finally accepted tomatoes into my diet, the unnatural amount of purple in my wardrobe. I imagined them noticing the years my brothers left on missions, or when my sister stayed back at home to be with her boyfriend.

They watched the year mom came in a wheelchair, and then not at all. That year I stopped imagining the trees altogether.

My first steps taken on the ice were at the skating rink behind the lodge when I was three years old. And those steps were the beginning of a deep-abiding love. And while I could never quite call myself the expert skater, sliding across the ice with the wind lapping at my lips felt like the truest form of freedom. I would glide, then fall. Get up again, and glide some more. Try to spin and crash to the ice. Pat my bruising kneecaps and try again. With my mom on the sidelines cheering me on; clapping at every successful jaunt around the rink and helping me up after every crash. And while I can never remember her ever tying up laces of her own and joining me, she was always there. Always present. Front and center; allowing me to take lessons, watching the Olympic skaters performing their twists and tricks. I'd stare up in amazement, wondering how anyone could turn and jump and waltz with such grace. Mom would only smile and tell me I could be just as amazing as they were. "You can be anything you want to, Laura".

I went back to Sun Valley this Thanksgiving, and it's still the same beautiful place. Blueberry skies and frosted peaks. My nieces and nephews wanted to go ice skating with me on Friday, and I was more than happy to take them. But I had to do something first. So that morning while everyone else was busy with other things (mostly rousing themselves from a turkey coma), I left the room to walk down the road, lace up my skates, and take to the ice alone. Partly because the silence of the cold morning air and freshly sharpened blades cutting through the ice is beautiful. Partly because I'm older now and don't always believe I can be anything I want to be. All I seem to find lately in my life are roadblocks and height requirements I don't live up to. But mostly because my mom was there and I wanted to skate with her; with her and every version of my childhood self that has slid across that icy rink.

                    

The Beautiful Truth

This idea I have to share is one that came upon me today with sudden force. It's something really very simple and completely obvious, but also amazing and wondrous at the same time. God loves me.

I could say God loves us, which is absolutely true. But the fact that He loves me so specifically (as He does each of you) speaks volumes as to my potential relationship with Him. My loving Father in Heaven knows my heart, my intentions, my pain, my soul. He knows and could name every tear I've cried, every person I've loved; every breath I've taken. He's seen me at my finest, at my worst, and everywhere in between. And despite everything, there is never a single moment of any day that He doesn't love me with all His heart. Why would I ever give Him anything but the same? 

Like any amazing parent, He not only cares about my spiritual growth. He cares about the little things in my life; the inconsequential things that have little to no eternal perspective. But He cares about them because they matter to me. Meaning . . . 

When I really start to like that guy that never calls back for a second date, He understands.

When I finally get the raise I've been working so hard for, He rejoices with me.

When I pray for the breath to stay out of the hospital and finish my education, He knows how much it means to me.

The thing is He wants to bless us. He doesn't want us to feel unnecessary pain or be lost in some abyss filled with doubts and fear. None of that comes from Him. All He asks is that we follow His teachings, listen to the Spirit. Because that is exactly what brings us those blessings. It's not like He's sitting up there demanding our full obedience or He won't be responsible for what happens to us. This is no ransom demand. Thing is; following the commandments, living the gospel standards. They are the blessings! 

Living our lives free from addictions gives us the freedom of our clear minds and openness for family, healthy relationships, knowledge, and the presence of the Spirit. 

Paying our tithing and fast offerings helps to build churches, temples, and to spread the gospel around the world. How could that not be a direct conduit to great blessings and happiness?

Reading our scriptures and following the leaders of the church? Well, let's put it this way. If I had to walk across a tightrope with a basin of hungry alligators beneath me (I know, slightly dramatic), I would want someone giving me directions on how to get to the other side. Where my Savior would be anxiously waiting, arms outstretched. But I can only fall into them if I make it there and take His hand. Otherwise, I'm somewhere far below; swimming with the alligators. 

I know He loves every single person on this planet as individually as He loves me. And I have felt that love so strong it's unmistakable. But it's been through this past week that I've realized something else. I can feel His love through the depths of my trials. During the most difficult and most frustrating of times, He is there. And His mercies are tender. They won't necessarily save us from the trying moments of our lives, but those tender mercies remind us that we are never alone. He is there.

Trials come from our Savior to prepare us, to teach us, to better us.

Our fear, our pit of darkness that we create while in the midst of them comes from Satan.

Don't let him in, don't let him win. 

Get on your knees and pray.

I need Him every hour. 

Shower Monkeys and the Wackiness that is Me

Really, there isn't too much I can say to introduce this video I'm sharing with you. For those of you that know me well, this shouldn't be super surprising. I'm just kind of wacky. So I wrote this song years ago for my nieces and nephews. And while it's changed ever so slightly over the years, the general principle remains the same. And then, well. I got sick yesterday. And I was SO BORED I thought I was going to shoot my brains out. But no. I decided to make a music video for my new single, "A Monkey in the Shower". 

Enjoy, and remember. Sometimes you never know what you're going to find in your shower. :)

Time

For my momma . . . 

A long bridge stretching

out past the water and misty moon.

She stands at the other side,

hand to her breast and chin to the stars.

Her dress is long and soft and clean.

Her brightness grows in gleams.

Beyond her stretch fields of blooms,

woods with hanging moss and cool sheltered places.

Further beyond the mountains high,

so high they touch the sun

and the sun bleeds light.

Light everywhere

It extends to the earth, to every seed.

It touches the slumbering flea.

It encircles the woman standing still;

her palm reaches out.

I want to run, run fast

into her arms and weep.

But the bridge is worn and tearing.

I take a step, it creaks.

The canyon below is vast,

jagged rocks and shrouds of darkness.

Unable to touch, unable to hold,

unable to see her face.

I’m thrust to the ground

to bury my face and remember

a life that never ceased.

A world that lurks in my mind,

taunting me with time. 

Me and Writing... How it all Began

I can't even remember the first time I heard the story of Scheherazade, but I do remember the fascination I had with the whole concept. In case you're not familiar, Scheherazade is the tale of a Persian king, who every night would marry a virgin. After their wedding night together, the King sent his newly wedded bride to be beheaded. A thousand young women he married and slaughtered in this fashion. (You'd THINK that some of those girls would pull a Julia Roberts, tie up their tennis shoes, and run away... but okay). 

Then he met Scheherazade. Against her father's wishes, Scheherazade volunteered to spend a night with the King. (Gotta love the self-destructive types). When she was ushered into the King's chambers, she began to tell him a story. But she stopped only halfway through as the sun began to rise. The King was anxious to hear the rest, so he spared her life one more night so she could finish the tale. But the next night, Scheherazade told the King another story, even more fascinating than the one before. 

This went on for some time. In fact, a thousand and one nights (and a thousand stories) passed until Scheherazade finally told the King she had no more tales to tell. But by then, the King had fallen madly in love with her and made her his Queen. 

Now, just as a disclaimer... I'm not necessarily advocating a husband-finding technique for all you story-minded girls out there. 

But here was the cliffhanger born. 

I've always loved the fascination that comes with a really great story. I know all of you readers out there have found those books that you can't bear to put down; reading every last word as though it were with your last breath. And even you TV-lovers, movie goers, theater majors (see? I don't discriminate), you know the power of strong characters, finely crafted plots, and excellent writing. THAT'S what writing has always been about for me. Finding the stories that bring people to betterness (it's not a word, but go with me). 

To take an adventure.

To share an idea.

To rally for the victory of a beloved character.

To find the ability to better ourselves.

To inspire!

To envelop!

To imagine!

I cannot adequately describe the thrill of creating a name, a physical description from thin air. And then, rather suddenly, that physical description takes shape; an expression appears from the otherwise empty face. A personality emerges from the background of the character's past. And that singular (and rather fictional) being suddenly has more than a name... but a sort of spirit. 

Through that character, you take flight.

You discover the world.

You change the world... even if only in print. 

This may make no sense to some, maybe to most. But every idea began with a word. Every persuasion (both good and evil) started with a thought. 

And for me, the mission of capturing those thoughts, words, and actions into thought-provoking scenes... THAT is the ultimate goal. To create something that could live in the hearts of many and change the life of even one.

THAT is what I desire to do. 

And maybe someday I will be granted that ability.

The Wonderfulness, Splendidity-ness that are Mothers

No matter how the definition of a mother changes in the world, my heart will always look to the amazing woman who gave me life, who kissed my tears away, who took on my problems and concerns as her own; that is what a mother is to me.

If you've known or had a mother like I did, she's the most beautiful woman in your eyes. And not because she studiously applies her makeup every morning, or because she wears the nicest clothes. It's not about the length of her lashes or the height of her heel.

She radiates love and warmth and safety. Her arms are always open and wherever she is is a place of safety. I remember times as a child sitting in my mother's room talking with her, or lying in bed reading with her; and in those moments I knew I was completely safe and wholly loved.

I'm so grateful to my mother for everything she gave to me, and everything she gave up for me. Most importantly all the time she gave to me; time she well could have used for other things. But my mom was there. She was present. At every recital, at every music lesson, through every emotional crisis (like what socks I could possibly wear now that my purple ones were dirty), every day picking me up from school (even though usually a little late).

Though taken away from me early, I realize how much of her I got; and for that I am truly grateful.

For a woman who had four children closely spaced together (the first of whom was born when she was only twenty), I can't fathom how she managed to raise them. And then, I came twelve years after my closest sibling, and when my mom was in her late thirties. So it's needless to say that my mom was always a mother. And in my eyes, there was no one better at it.

Mom, I miss you more that I could ever express; so much sometimes it just hurts. You have always been the woman I'm trying to become, and sometimes it seems as though I'll never find my way to who you were (and still are).


I spent the majority of the day today looking through old pictures and trying to piece together what my mother was like at my age. And this is what I found. A beautiful woman, inside and out.

Um, yes. I do believe she's pouring a drink down her future husband's back. Go mom!

Ha, I love it! My dad's dancing with my mom's roommate, and she's just giving him the eye. 

Happy Mothers Day, everyone. I'm grateful for all the amazing mothers that I've had an opportunity to know in my life. From neighbors and ward members who have pretty much adopted me all the way to my sister Jen, who just recently became a mom herself. And of course my other sister, Melanie, who has been the best example of what a mother is in my adult life and what it means to love and be there for your kids.

Just one more thing. If you are able, tell your mom what she means to you. Don't let the opportunity pass you by. She deserves it!

Blessed

Life is just a struggle!

There are no methods of using the English language to describe this living that we do without recognizing that much. Life is hard. It tests you until you're bleeding and submissive. But what arrogant, narcissistic, (I'm not going to swear here, though I feel it's almost necessary) idiots would we be could we live without all of this? What kind of connections would we form without the ability to be humbled and open?

I feel that, though young, and sheltered compared to others' experiences, I've been through a lot. I've suffered so much heartache, so much pain (both physical and emotional). I've watched people I love leave me, people I needed be taken from me. There have been nights when I've prayed only to sleep without the images of my life haunting me throughout the night. I have felt abandoned. I have been alone. But here is what I've concluded.

My losses have made me acutely aware of others' pain.

I have sobbed openly into the arms of my sister, who said little but held me with a strength I could only describe as love.

I have watched other people, and have seen a glimpse of what my life would be like without the gospel; how completely hopeless this all would seem. It has enabled me to cling to my Savior with every ounce of strength I have left.

I have felt angels surround me. I have seen miracles; been witness to the great rewards of prayer and fasting. And without a bone in my body hesitant with doubt, I know that every single tear I've cried has been necessary. Everyone I lost, every chance I missed, every night I went to sleep dreading the ongoing progression of the mornings to come... every hour spent in misery was meant to prepare me; like a customized training manual, giving me everything I need to finish out my life in perfection.

I know this is starting to sound preachy, but I write here what I know; it's all I'm truly able to do. I believe that  everything in my life is preparing me for a future that I can make a happy one; I can make it the most joyous of lives. But it's my decision. I could wallow; I've done that. I've wallowed, and I've wailed; I've even almost got the whole gnashing of teeth thing down pretty well (Apparently I grind my teeth in my sleep). But life isn't meant to be hell. Life is meant to be wonderful. And no, I guess I can't say exactly how wonderful it's supposed to be. In comparison, I've only started living.

But I know that the depth of sorrow and pain is nothing compared to the depth of joy and happiness we can feel. And it's the difference that counts.

If I felt no pain, how could I enjoy the moment it ended?
How could I revel in the moment when I made it stop?
How could I feel that rush of joy when I defeat the darkness?

I am so blessed. In the midst of struggle, I have my family; I have amazing friends who have been with me through my entire life. I have new friends who I'm able to share my usual dysfunctional moments with of everyday life. And I have change.

I used to dread change. It hung over me like the blade the guillotine waiting to fall. But now I wait for it excitedly. My life could completely change in a matter of months. I could move somewhere far away. I could start a new, exciting job. I could welcome into our family a new little nephew (which I have luckily been able to do already this year).

Percy Bysshe Shelley said in a poem that I love dearly. "Naught may endure but mutability."

Nothing ever stays the same but the fact that things will always be changing.


This post went in a way I wasn't even expecting, and I don't believe that it really has a conclusion to speak of. But since when does real life (no, that does not include reality tv) have a conclusion? Any sense of finality?

So in a sense...

Friendship Never Ends!!!

Ali. Shae. Washburn.

This post is for you.

I get on Facebook the other day to see I have a notification pending, that Ali has posted a link on my wall. Come to find out it's a link to her blog. (Ah, this is sneaky, I think to myself. What a tricky way to get people to read your blog; just post the link to their actual wall. I mean, who wouldn't after you make such a personal request?) So I click on the link and begin to read one of the sweetest things anyone has ever written for me. Ever. She talks about how I do so much for other people, listing off a few rides I gave to the airport at horrible times of the morning or at night, as well as a few other things. But Ali, you failed to mention a few things in your blog post, so I think I need to set the record straight, if only for your own ears. 

Yes, I gave two people rides to or from the airport. I took someone up at 4:30 in the morning, and then picked someone up at midnight. Well, do you know who rode in the passenger seat the entire way? Yep, Ali came along for the ride, at both of these dreadful times of the night (no, 4:30 does not constitute morning in any way). Just so I wouldn't have to make the trip alone. Should I go on? Yes, I believe I will. 

So the night before I have to wake up at 4:30 to drive my dad to the airport, I have to close the law library, meaning that I am there until 12:30 am. Ali not only showed up to visit me, but brought me diet coke and stayed to keep me company until I was able to lock up and go home! I mean, really; how many people would do that? And then she woke up with me three hours after we had gone to bed to drive someone up to the airport she was not at all responsible for taking. 

Okay, so these are just a week's worth of stories of the friendship that you, Ali, have shown me. And yes, now I'm talking to you. Because no one reads my blog. Also, I plan on posting this on your FB wall, so you have no choice. You have been an open ear to listen to me rant, an open mouth to encourage me to be better (yes, I did call you an open mouth, but in a really nice way... and I mean, come on. You aren't exactly the quiet, shy type.). You have seen everything bad in me through the years, and have still managed to support me and make me feel worth something. 

Though we may not have been close through all our fifteen years living next door to each other, I see you in the memories of nearly every joyful and painful significant event in my life. And I hope to have you in many more. Yes, this entire post is corny and so sickeningly sweet, that it would "make anyone an instant diabetic" (yes, that's a GGirl quote). But it had to be said. If only to brag how lucky I am to have a friend like you!! (Okay, now I'm thinking Aladdin and the genie singing the whole song. You know, "you ain't never had a friend like me!". Okay, tangent over.) Love ya, Ali!

Those Schoolgirl Days

It's been one of those weeks; where all I want is someone to give me the tightest hug (you know, the ones that cut off your oxygen supply and make you feel wrapped in the warmest of blankets) and tell me what to do. It's just been one of those weeks.

Grief awakens at the oddest of hours. Nearly seven years ago, when my mom passed away, that same grief festered inside of me; it gnawed at my heart and destroyed everything I'd thought to be true. I was the kind of thirteen-year-old who still believed in magic; not the Santa Claus kind, but more the idea that all stories ended happily. I truly believed that every river in my path had a bridge, and that every bridge led somewhere more beautiful than the places I'd already been. I knew, in my heart and to the very depths of my soul, that she would recover. I had every confidence in the fact that I would ride Thunder Mountain with her at Disneyland again; that she would take my hand and race to ride it one more time before the park closed. These are the things that I knew, and these are the things that weren't true.

The grief was ever-present. It hovered over me like a heavy rain-cloud, drenching my cheeks in tears and striking my heart with stabbing pain. But I survived, and most days I couldn't tell you how. And it took years and years of trying desperately to live to finally get to a point where I feel happy, where I can deal with the life in front of me with hope and something resembling excitement. But then come those striking moments where I'm hit with a big decision, a momentous life experience, a rite of passage, a first, a last, and all I want is her; I want her to experience them with me. I want her advice, her luminous smile, and more than anything her arms wrapped around me.

I feel as though I'm failing in life; failing my education, failing at my job, and even failing my family. It is nothing I could ever describe to the satisfaction of my own mind. Logically, I know that I'm walking in the footsteps I should be walking in. I know that going to school, having a mindless part-time job, and living on my own are things that I should technically be doing. But when has my life ever fit into the mold  of what is considered "normal"?

If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

What I write in these posts is very similar to the tree that falls alone. I write and vent and think out things in my own mind, and push a bright orange button labeled "Publish Post", yet no one (at least to my knowledge) actually reads the things I write out. But even so, I feel as if I shared it with someone. It's almost the feeling that I get when I pray (I hope that doesn't sound too sacrilegious). I know no one physically can hear the words I speak, yet I feel a peace about giving them to the One that really counts. For me, writing is learning. I understand the things that race around my head in a frenzy when I sit down and type them out on the keyboard. It's as though I finally understand what I'm actually trying to say.

Things I Know

(1) I am blessed
(2) Life is a struggle
(3) Pain is real
(4) So is joy

Two Kinds of People in the World...

There are really only two kinds of people in the world.

MEN and WOMEN

Oh, wait.... and...

People who knock before entering... and people who don't.
Liars... and "Honest Abes"
Those who doodle in their notebooks... and those who take actual notes
People who dream of flying.... and people who dream of being at school naked
Sports fans... and normal human beings
Those who give... and those who take
Idealists... and Realists
People who bake potatoes... and people who mash them
Those who watch out... and those who feel their way
Those who push through the crowd... and those who let the crowd bat them around
Those who sing in concert halls... and those who sing in the shower
Those who aspire to run... and those who run to perspire
Teachers... and people humble enough to listen
Souls that feed... and souls that devour
Laborers.... and CEO's
Aspiring authors... and literary agents
The successful... and the couch-ridden dreamers
Those who dictate... and those who create.

A belated Merry Christmas and many Happy New Years to you all!!

The Yearless Week

Christmas is a beautiful season when I gather together with family and friends to look back over the past year, or to Christmases long ago. It's a time to reflect on the changes I've seen, the hopefully better person I've become, and the wonderful family and friends I have gathered around me. It's a dark and cold time of the year that we illuminate with twinkling lights and melodic carols to help ease the onset of winter.

News Years, on the other hand, is a time when I look forward to the new year that presents itself . I look ahead to what I will accomplish and the experiences I will partake in. It's a time for setting goals and making plans. It's a time for seeing the image of my future in the toll of a clock chiming midnight.

However, there is an odd week wedged in between the end of the year and the start of a new one. I ceremoniously (and because I need a nickname for everything) named this the "yearless week". It's like that awkward stage between your childhood and the teenage years; when your no longer a child, but not old enough to be a teenager. Man, were those good times (cue sarcasm here).

This yearless week seems to be chalk full of mindless zombies going to and from work, all craving naps and stumbling from their stuffed bellies of turkey and pie. The children have no school, and therefore mindlessly eat, play video games, watch movies, and eat some more. I have no actual stats for this, but I wouldn't be surprised if this were the singly more unproductive week... ever... in the history of the world. Not just in work, but in one's personal life as well. There's a lot of staying in our pajamas. There's copious amounts of eating. And let's be honest. We don't have any real desire to be productive.

Maybe I'm basing this entire post on something that no one else experiences. Maybe I'm only broadcasting how freaking lazy I am, but let me show you how my morning went today.

My Plan:
-I had planned to get some shopping done to buy a birthday present for someone
-I had planned to get showered early in the morning
-Before showering, I had planned to run a few miles; nothing too crazy but enough to get me going
-I had planned to at least put on makeup.

What Really Happened:
-I woke up around 8 o'clock to get a good start on the day
-I ended up just sitting in bed until nearly ten.
-I ran on the treadmill for all of ten minutes.
-I didn't take a shower until noon.
-I played my guitar for probably a good couple hours
-I reluctantly put on real clothes to come in to work at 2, makeupless and my hair a frizzy mess.

The yearless week can hit you at any moment; take care to make preparations for the storm. My secret? Don't be too ambitious. Be settled with having date night in front of the TV. Be alright with going to bed at 8:30. (That's my plan tonight). Make peace with the fact that you just might be a lazy bum until Sunday, when the year starts anew and somehow makes us all feel a little more able.

A little more able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Of course we won't be able to.

But that's completely beside the point. 

Me, quite simply and frank

I've been looking over recent posts as of late, and realized something rather funny. I sound hopelessly pretentious in so many of these, like I have the secret blueprints to life and I'm divulging them slowly in measured doses for your own good. One of my similar posts from over a year ago actually made me laugh out loud because of how know-it-all-ish I sounded. It made ME want to slap ME.

So today I'm going to try writing the truth, uninhibited and frank. Wish me luck. Fantasy and fiction I write well; reality is a horse of a different color!

I secretly love rainy days.
If socially acceptable, I would never wear shoes.
If possible, I would dry my hair in the sunshine every day.
Very few things make me happier than being the reason for someone else's smile.
Nothing cures me of sickness and sorrow like a good, nonsensical laugh.
I lie more to myself than to anyone else.
I crave pickles on a monthly basis
I hold everything in until there is no room to put it all.
Then I pick up a pair of boxing gloves and go at a punching bag until I'm sobbing uncontrollably.
My mother is my guardian angel
I often imagine my life as one big musical
I tend to pocket call people when I'm singing at the top of my lungs to the radio.
When I'm cooking, I dance and sing into a wooden spoon.
I'm inwardly afraid of what people think; not of what I'm doing, but who I've become.
I always look for meaning in my dreams; even the crazy, drug-induced ones. (legal drugs, that is)
There is this paralyzing fear that comes over me when I think of losing anyone else that I love.
I love going to a popular college hangout and watching people on awkward first dates.
I believe cooking and eating together can mend a broken family.
I secretly revel in awkward conversations.
My friends are my light; my family my armor.
I see bits of the future in my dreams.
I tell people I have no realistic goals for my future career, but all I want to do it write.
I secretly still believe I can write and publish books. Honestly. But I hate sounding naive, so I don't let anyone know it. 

The Seventh Year of Christmas

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
But there's a smile, a laugh, a voice missing there.

I may cry the day I take the tree down, but then again; I cry when I stand it up and decorate it too. So how am I to be trusted? Christmas is just one of those times of year, a time when I'm not in full control of the way I lash out or of the tears that fall at the most inconvenient of times. And this season now marks the seventh Christmas I've had to spend without my mom; the woman whose eyes twinkled brighter than any light around the holidays.

And it's funny to look back at the shattered thirteen-year-old girl I was seven Christmases ago. I refused to look at the Christmas tree, locked myself in my room sobbing for hours on end; I couldn't hear a Christmas song without breaking into tears and shrieking at anyone within an audible range. All I wanted to was to lock myself away from my family and anyone who had the audacity to smile or say anything pleasant. I mean, how dare they? I even tried to focus on the selfish nature of what presents I would receive. And I tried to fixate on that and forget everything about what Christmas had always meant to me. But even as I waited for my turn to unwrap a gift, there was nothing exciting or anticipatory about it. All I felt was pain... and emptiness.

I listen to Christmas music now, almost as a religion. I take any chance to wander around looking at Christmas lights. I spent hours decorating the house until it's aglow in twinkling lights and garland. I've been cooking and planning for a straight week to prepare a true Christmas dinner for my 12 family members who are attending this year. And I do it all for her; I do it because if she were here, she would be cooking and decorating and blasting Christmas music all over the house. I do it because taking on her responsibilities brings me closer to her than I ever thought I could be after her death; closer than I'd ever dared to hope.

I sit on the couch, staring up at the tree. It's been a long day of shopping and running from store to store maniacally. The ham and pies wait patiently to be baked; the presents to be wrapped. But I only stare into the ethereal glow from the Christmas lights. A heaviness in my chest almost brings tears to my eyes, but something stops it. It's a numb kind of fuzziness that warms my veins and tingles the ends of my fingers. Almost as if someone unbeknownst to me is wrapping their arms around me; someone I can almost feel.

Just a Dream

I know the dream. Darkness surrounds me. A hollow wind whistles from above. Haunting tones rise and fall from one minor note to another. I’m lost in the vastness of nothing, the darkness of nowhere. I search for the light. There must be light somewhere.

            The shadows fade. A small girl slumbers, lying across the back seat of a car. Still in sleep, she pulls a ragged teddy bear close to her cheek.

I try to bring myself out of it. I can’t watch. Not again. Seeing two familiar figures sitting in front, my heart seems to stop.

            The man holds the steering wheel tightly, eyeing the dark forests lining the road. In almost a maniacal way. The woman twists and tugs at the locket around her neck. She moves her eyes from her wringing hands, to the wet highway ahead of them, finally resting on the little girl sleeping soundly behind her.  

            “We won’t be able to explain this away.” The man speaks in a deep, gentle voice. Large drops of rain patter against the windshield.

            The woman nods. “I know. I think it might be time…” She pauses. Her eyes dim. Her back arches unnaturally. A lifeless look in her eye, but the man doesn't notice. He never even looks her way. 

I try uselessly to push myself away.

 Minutes pass, but finally the woman’s fingers twitch. The color floods her face. She sounds a garbled cry. With a shuddering voice, she whispers, “They know where we are. They’re coming.”

The engine protests as the man flattens the accelerator. Everything outside darkens into a black blur of looming silhouettes.

The woman turns to her daughter, now awake and waiting still. Their eyes lock. The little girl’s smile morphs into a sleepy yawn. The woman opens her mouth, but nothing comes.

            A green light explodes across the horizon.  Crashing, it illuminates the darkness with an eerie tint. The squealing brakes force the car to a jolting stop at the edge of the road.

The man and woman leap from the car. Their dark figures meet, huddled in the pouring rain. The man takes his wife’s shoulders, pointing to the black forest rising up beside them. The woman shakes her head, over and over. Tears fill her eyes.

            “You have to go on ahead. I will be okay.” The man’s voice only touches the cracking thunder. His gaze falls to his daughter, pushing her door open and sliding from the car. She stands soaking wet, still clutching tightly to her ragged bear. The man sighs, “It isn’t me they want.” The woman follows her husband’s eyes.

            “We’ll meet you at the cave.” She keeps her face to the ground. “Just be there, alright?” Taking the little girl’s hand, she pulls them off the road, down a muddy slope, and toward the darkness of the trees. Never looking back.   

They enter the forest, and a wet chill clings to their skin. The woman tightens her grip around her daughter’s hand. Everything around them stands dark and looming.

            A soft gleam of moonlight leads them to a tight clearing. A long, shrieking howl echoes from somewhere up ahead. The little girl draws close to her mom.

The woman’s body stiffens. Her eyes glaze over.

The girl tugs on her mother’s arm. “Mommy?”

The woman’s eyes flutter. She turns in circles, maniacally searching the darkness. As if suddenly realizing her daughter, she tries to smile. Kneeling on a patch of frozen mud, her eyes are level with her little girl’s.

            “How much do you love me pumpkin?” The woman’s eyes again fill with tears

Her daughter smiles. It’s a game they play, and she knows what to say. “I love you up to the moon and back down again… a bazillion times.”

            Something of a sob or squeal sounds from the woman’s throat. “What would you do for me?”

            The little girl pauses before answering, searching her mother’s eyes. “I’d do anything for you.”

            The woman brushes back a stray hair from her daughter’s face. “Okay, because I really need you to.” Something stirs in the trees. The woman jumps, but does not turn. “I need you to go on ahead without me. Straight ahead, there’s a cave. You’ll be safe there.”

The girl opens her mouth to protest, but her mother hurries on. “I’ll be right behind you, pumpkin.” She stops. A sigh escapes her parted lips. She brushes a finger against her daughter’s cheek. “No matter what you discover, just remember. I did what I did to protect you.”

The little girl trembles. “I can’t leave you.”

Here in the wood, the rain is silent. Nothing stirs. Only the sound of their hushed voices carries into the air, their labored breaths.

            The woman swallows hard. “You can’t stay with me right now, sweetie. I have to do something. But once it’s done, I’ll find you. I promise.” The woman’s fingers move to the locket around her neck. Slowly, hands shaking, she unclasps the chain.

She secures it quickly around her daughter’s throat, though something like a cry erupts from her chest.

            “Make me a promise, Sylls.” The woman’s voice is hardly a whisper. “Promise me. You’ll never take it off. No matter what happens, you’ll wear it always. Until I can find you. Promise me.”

The little girl looks from her mother to the locket, and nods slowly.

A strange glow filters through the trees. The woman turns. And when she speaks, her voice is flat, emotionless. “You have to go now.”

The little girl doesn’t move; she can’t. A howl echoes through the wood. The woman turns back to her quivering child. “Go!” She doesn’t raise her voice, but it echoes powerfully.

The girl stumbles as she turns. And she runs, not knowing what else she can do.

            Acidic tears eat at her skin. She sprints recklessly through the trees, tripping over every stone and branch that crosses her path. Hours seem to pass before breaking through the last of the branches. A wide, grassy meadow sits at her feet.  

            A single scream shatters the stillness. It echoes through the night air for an eternity. The little girl falls to the dewy grass, rubbing the frozen ground against her cheek.

She searches for tears, but they don’t come. Nothing’s there, only emptiness. She waits silently as a breeze picks up against the leaves. No words said, no shots fired, no blood spilt. And yet…

She knows.

I jump awake. Strange sounds, soft whispers, a deafening hum. I sit up, searching the space around me before realizing my circumstances. Wheezing gasps fill the silence. And I realize they sound from my chest. I lower into my seat. Beads of sweat inch down my face, into my eyes. I lean against the window. The icy glass cools my forehead. And I shut my eyes, forcing two hot tears down my cheeks.    

The plane lurches, rousing several passengers from their sleep. Looking down, I realize my fingers have found their way up my neck. They cling tightly to a red jeweled locket, glimmering softly in the cabin lighting. And I try to steady my pulsing heart. As I cling tightly to the locket I’ve always worn. The locket I’d kept close to my heart… ever since that night.