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.