The Room and the Papermaker

There is a girl sitting in the corner.

The room is wide and made of cold gray stone. It has a soaring ceiling and is lit only by the sun seeping in through the windows. The girl has rich, dark skin and thick hair. Her eyes are blue, and her simple clothes hang gently around her shoulders. Her voice has a gentle sing-song quality, yet it is low and smooth. Her soul is very old. She never speaks, but has so very much to say.

Little boys chase all the other girls around the stone room, throwing paper hearts at their feet. The girls yell and run away laughing, their patent leather shoes squeaking in their wake. When they think no one is looking, the ringleted girls carefully pick up each paper heart and marvel at the crinkled paper, then place it lovingly in their pink purses.

Adults bustle in and out of the room in their work clothes. They all have tall stacks of paper they are balancing, trying to maneuver around the rambunctious children. These adults in the stone room never pay much attention to the children. . . except for the blue-eyed girl. For some reason, the grown-ups always seem struck by the blue-eyed girl and gaze at her with curiosity. Without fail, they become distracted by the giant ticking clock on the wall. The adults are the only ones that pay attention to the clock.

College students come to the room to observe. They have philosophical discussions about the room--mulling over the ambiance of the lighting, the traffic patterns of the children and adults, the giant ticking clock, the smooth gray stone, the red paper hearts on the floor. They stay up late at night thinking about the room until finally, their weary eyes droop closed and they fall asleep at their laptops. The blue-eyed girl does not appear in their thesis papers.

World leaders speak about the room on TV, ignoring the subject of the girl, each trying to sound more educated than the next. These politicians all boast about their degrees, carrying around their paper certificates in giant picture frames hung around their necks. "Room Studies, PHD."

Musicians slave away, trying to capture the essence of the room on their violins and harps. They scribble out the notes on crumpled manuscript paper, frustrated with the results. Trying to incorporate the blue-eyed girl into their soundscapes always comes out sounding dissonant and complicated.

None of the stone-room-dwellers are aware of where all the paper comes from. The adults pick up their stacks of paper each morning, never thinking twice about its origin. The college students print out their regurgitated knowledge, never having to refill the paper cartridges. Nobody knows who handwrites all of the certificates on the elegant gold paper or draws the lines of the staves for the musicians.

The little girls do not realize the blue eyed girl sneaks away from the beloved room just to cut out extra little paper hearts in case one of them doesn't have enough to fill their purse. They do not know that she spends the nights soaking rich wood pulp in tubs and gently pressing it dry every morning. They do not know that she carefully picks out different fibers for each one of them, so that they are never disappointed.

The room-dwellers do not understand that they cannot look at this blue-eyed, silent beauty because they know deep down that they owe her the world. They do not understand that her labors connect them all forever.

They do not understand that she is love, in its simplest form. Humble, thoughtful, nonexclusive, relentless, and all encompassing. They do not realize that if they looked her in the eyes with reciprocating love, the stone walls would crumble.

Pebbles

Shades of gray paint, sprinkled with plumb and deep red. Twists in the canvas make it look bizarre, broken, uncomfortable to view. The painter sits across from it, biting her lip, wringing her hands. The piece is a reflection of herself; unclear, trying too hard, overwrought. Self-expression turned sour, unintentionally truthful. Sweat beads on her forehead.

She wakes up before her alarm clock, worried. She wonders vaguely why she is upset. Fruitless. Clearly  SOMETHING must be wrong, or she wouldn't be seeing such early light outside. . . . she analyzes. Frets. Rubs her feet together nervously, tugs her hair. She wrenches her fists open and lies face down, trying to find peace.

She thinks about the way she wants her world to be. Brightly colored, full of contrast, and well lit. She tries so hard to create this world, furiously painting the cold white walls around her. She realizes, suddenly, that she is using the wrong brush. This one is much too small. She sees the vastness of the room for the first time, noting the lofted ceiling and long corridors. She drops her brush, lethargic and angry. She never cries.

Pebbles appear in her backpack. She pulls them out, one by one, and runs her hands over them. They are smooth, heavy, slick. They slip between her fingers. She looks around for the culprit. Who has put them here? Crouching on the busy sidewalk, she starts pulling everything out of the bag. Without thinking, she empties the contents; exposing the sarcasm, tactlessness, make-up, depression, selfishness, breath mints, fear, control, photo ID, and vindictiveness that she carries around with her at all times. A tall and well dressed man watches from the cross walk. She averts her eyes and darts away, embarrassed, before he gets a chance to offer a hand.

At night she puts on her party dress, teases her hair. She smiles and laughs easily. It reminds her of a self-portrait she did once, where her eyes were bigger, mouth much smaller. Men dance with her, twirling her about. One asks to walk her home. She grabs her purse, and a pebble falls out. She kicks it out of sight.

She loves to cook, but almost always eats by herself. Seasons change, and she pulls on her leggings. She walks to a meeting, feeling under-dressed. A woman with stark cheekbones and dark eyes asks her what her plan is. May I see your four year plan? Hmm. What will you do with your life? Who will you become? Who will you love? Who will you vote for? When will you face your fears? Will you be a mother? When will you stop wearing such silly leggings? How will you pay your rent? What will you stand for? How will you avoid mediocrity? Hmmm.... acceptable. Fill out this form. See you next month. Oh no, we only validate parking for those with a purpose. Use a meter next time.

She turns the purple painting around when she gets home. She meets up with friends and criticizes their grammar. She talks too loudly about herself.

At work she succeeds quickly. She is described as promising, ambitious, gutsy. Potential.

Walking home in the balmy air, she softens a bit. Those stars, wow they are something. Quite beautiful really. And the water seems so peaceful tonight. She sees an older couple walking hand in hand, and she catches herself smiling. Maybe the world is kinder than she feared. Heels in hand, she strolls to the beach. She twirls herself to distant music, someone having a party. The brass players fuel her happiness, and she breathes deeply for the first time in a while. She sits to soak in the glow, and feels a familiar arm around her. He smiles with his whole face, happy to see her.

She climbs into bed, grateful for the familiar hug of the covers. She wiggles her feet, and tries to think of nothing.

Her toes touch something cold. The unwelcome pebbles gleam in the moonlight.

The tide and shore

Life breathes in and out. The tides change.

...I don't like it.

I'm the kind of person who resists change with everything I've got. I sit stubbornly on a rock at sea, willing the tide to go back out and leave me in peace on my beach. I scowl at the cleverer people standing on the shore, waving for me to swallow my pride and swim to them. Never, I decide, and cross my arms and stomp my feet.

Life is not okay with that. Life takes people away from me and rips the familiarity out of my hands. It replaces happy circumstances with new and foreign discomfort; then mixes in jealousy, sorrow, anxiety, fear, and loneliness. Finally it tosses my hopes into the air, and rolls it all into one giant wave that comes and knocks me over.

If I was smart and level-headed, I would dive under and swim with the wave, allowing myself to be guided back to the shore.

I am rarely smart.

I have been learning lately that I have to figure out a way to let go of the constant need to be in control. Someone asked me today, "What do you truly need to be happy in life?" Upon consideration, I realized that it was not, indeed, my time spent sitting on the rock out at sea.

All I need is God at my center, family nearby, friends at the table, and someone who loves me to tuck me in at night. These things wait for me on the shore.

Balmy nights

This year has been really crazy. In some ways, the first year of college has felt endless. Endless hours of studying, practicing, going through the grind. Thousands of trips from Herriott to FAC, seeming to get longer every time. Five-ish months of ridiculous cold, never leaving the room without coat, scarf, mittens, earmuffs, so much hassle. Stupid professors that don't understand that I am TRYING my BEST. Friends who flake, situations that fall through, a few nights left lonely. Dealing with depression and anxiety. Away from my family, my best friend, and the people I have sat across the classroom with since first grade. So much change. Caffeine headaches, changing majors, paperwork, relentless to do lists. Time stretches on forever.

Yet at the same time, it is so fleeting.

It feels like just a few short weeks ago that I was driving around my hometown in the hot summer air with the windows down, thinking about how scary college would be. I would eat meals alone, struggle to fit in, be pressured to do things I simply don't like, such as drink. Feel lonely.

I was nothing short of shocked when college felt like home quickly, when friends were plentiful and welcoming. My best efforts were given continuously. Fun was had by all, new relationships were made, and respect was earned from professors. I made myself a nice cozy little home at Drake, and it seems weird to be leaving, even just for three months. I have learned so very much here.

I have improved greatly as a musician. Coming into college, I could not read the bass clef, couldn't find sol from do, and could only tell you where middle C was if the "steinmier" label was in the right place. (hint: below the S). I remember literally asking Ryan Bower during a theory class which notes on the piano don't have a half step between them (which, if you don't know music, is utterly shameful.) By the end of this year, I composed a four part choral work, played Beethoven pieces on the piano, and rocked my voice jury. These are hurdles that would have made my cry, if I had truly known what I was getting myself into upon the start of this adventure.

This is not to toot my own horn and throw sparkles at my accomplishments, but rather to marvel at how much stronger everyone is than we think. If I have learned anything this year, it is that I can handle more than I think I can. Challenges should be met with gratitude. Without struggle, rewards are empty. The sweetest rewards are those that are hard earned.

Having changed my major, I feel as though I am behind the curve and wandering aimlessly. I have regrets from the year, but those aren't helping anybody. Let them go, live happily. I remember my dad telling me before I left, "If you are lucky, the thing you will learn in college is who you are." I'm not there yet, but I think I am headed in the right direction. It's not about goals. It's about moving, growing, letting life happen.

Today when I was walking between dorms, I was struck by the scene. It was balmy, dark, warm, and glittery. The lights on the street were in happy contrast to the deep foliage around the landscaping, marked with benches, bridges, and a small downhill lined with stone. The campus was silent, and seemed to be pondering the comings and goings of life through its doors. The atmosphere reminded me of a beautiful outdoor hotel I stayed in once, on some vacation or another. It was nighttime, and I was up way past my bedtime. Walking around, I felt excitement in the air. I was somewhere brand new, feeling posh and special, free, tingly. The color scheme was the same. It seemed like I was constantly on the brink of something absolutely fantastic.

These mental snapshots are what it's all about, I think. Moments. Experiences, memories, flashes. Moments. Some are good, some are beautiful, some are bad.

But no matter what, they are yours.

Chasing happiness.

After a really big thunder storm, it is easy to walk outside and see how peaceful and pretty everything is. After it's been cold since October, April sunshine seems to be the most radiant and soothing feeling in the world. After running around downtown Chicago late at night during Saint Patrick's day with only my boyfriend, I was amazed at how safe and secure I felt when I got home. After I perform in front of lots of people, I always have a ravenous appetite from being nervous the whole day. The world always seems so much kinder after exams are over.

Life seems to be composed of these tensions and relief, the constant ebb and flow.

What I want is to be happy; even when it is storming, cold, frightening, nerve-wracking, and stressful. This semester, I have been trying my damnedest to figure out how to find this sort of invincible happiness. I have been struggling with anxiety and depression lately, and the storms and stress have had enormous power over me. Even little things have been able to keep me feeling down for a week at a time, keep me questioning myself. Confidence is nowhere to be found when feeling like this. I have been going through the motions trying to bide my time until I feel like my normal, bubbly, outgoing self again.

What I realized while waiting, however, is that what I need is not happiness. I need joy. Unshakable joy. There is a big difference between the two. Happiness comes from circumstances, from getting the things you want, from instant gratification. Joy is something entirely different. Joy comes from the knowledge that you are in love with someone much, much greater than you, who will uphold you and protect you for the rest of time. The kind of love that fulfills your entire soul, so that you do not want. This love is holy, and comes only from God.

Unlike happiness, joy can be found even in the darkest of times. Joy is a decision that you make every day. It is not an easy decision, but when you finally muster up the courage to do it, life takes a serious turn for the better. Suddenly, I feel as though my future is so free, and that I can do anything I want to. There is no way to know what I will want to be when I grow up until I get there, so I might as well enjoy the ride. People come in and out of life, but it doesn't mean I have to be crushed when they walk away. Sometimes lonely can be good. And most of all, God has a plan.

When I allow myself to stop trying to change things that are not in my control, I become who I really am. I get goofy, weird, and embarrassing to be around. I sing obnoxiously at all times, make hideous faces, and attempt some crazy dance moves that I have absolutely no business doing. When I am like this, all is right with the world.

Life is all about balance. I need to count my blessings and stop chasing happiness. Instead, seek joy.

Alice's rabbit

It's so easy to get caught up in it all, isn't it? Life, I mean. Problems arise, and they always have a way of seeming so very big. Suddenly deadlines are all consuming, and nothing else matters. Friends needs are trampled, parents aren't greeted, waitresses are not smiled at. Rooms are left messy, sleep is restless, too much coffee consumed. Shoes are scattered about, makeup sprinkles the desk, papers are dirtied underfoot.

A trail of chaos is left in your wake, but you don't have TIME to think about it. Things are getting lost and overlooked. You'd fix it if you could, but can't everybody see that you CAN'T? If professors wouldn't be so vindictive and work so demanding and tasks so impossible, then maybe you'd slow down. But the world is just completely unfair and nothing ever seems to go according to plan.

Even as it is, the idea of a social life seems laughable. Friends become those convenient, the ones that are seen every day as you rush from task to task. You make plans and have to cancel, but it's not your fault, seeing as there is SO very much to be doing. Planners are beaten and scribbled all over, phone numbers hastily written on the mirror, hose ripped while putting them on at lighting speed while brushing your teeth at the same time. Your bible sits unopened.

... When you have a free moment, you don't even know what to do. Relaxing no longer comes naturally. Knots in your shoulders, butterflies in your stomach, and sweaty palms have become your closest friends. You wake up before your alarm, already tense.

Because really, if you can just reach Friday, then everything will be fine. If you can just get through to the test, everything will go back to normal and you will be greeted with open arms by those you have stepped over on the way. Right? Because it's not your fault. You are doing your best. You are trying harder than anyone around you. You know you have to have it together at all times, and it doesn't matter how you reach it. You HAVE to be the best. You have to do everything, be everywhere, never stop.  Never.
Never.
Never.
Because if you stop, you will have failed. The moment you relax, you will crack. Your armor will break, and you will be exposed as the weak pretender that you really are. You don't belong here, really. You're not good enough. Just don't let them see it.



I don't know why I started writing this saying "you."
This is me. This is what I do.

It is so easy to get caught up in it all, isn't it?

Turns out that this is not what life is all about. Thinking about things from hurdle to hurdle does not bring happiness. Running through life focusing solely on the future prevents you from enjoying the present. My fear is that I will get to some distant point in my future and be atop my personal mountain of stress and empty accomplishments, standing alone, comforted only by regrets.

When I look back at what my life has amounted to so far, I do not think about my GPA, my scholarships, my career path, or whether things went according to plan. I think about moments of laughter and inhibitions tossed aside. I think about the bittersweet times that God has tested my faith, and forced me to lean on Him. I think about pretty days, meaningful conversations, warm fires, soft beds, prayers, and dinner tables. I think about the people I love, the ones who mean everything to me. Because love, more than anything, defines a life.

Don't lose track. Don't turn into alice's rabbit.

Find love, and live for it.

Typical college student.

So I'm probably going to change my major.

It turns out that music education and painting are absolutely incompatible, so I am being forced to decide what my priorities are earlier than I might have liked to. If I want to paint, I can't do education. As much as I have been panicking, pacing, worrying, and shouting random things whilst trying to make this decision, I think it has been good for me. Because let's be honest, I am the type of person who would gladly put off life decisions for the rest of my life. I realize the irony.

After chats with many professors, advisors, and people who think they should tell me what to do regardless of whether or not I ask, I have decided to do a major in music business and a minor in painting. For now.

I realize that this is a terrifying idea. What kind of masochistic right-brained wacko thinks they can do music and art at the same time? Professionally even? Wow, pretty stupid, riiiiight? And really, why bother going for the business side of things, because no one will hire you anyways, since you currently live in a culture-less state in the midwest. Who needs art and music? Certainly not Iowans.

That's the point though, isn't it. The point of college is to explore and try things and *warning: cliche* dream big. Assuming that one career will lead to more success than another is presumptuous. Who knows what anything can lead to, really. Medical students are having to look hard for jobs. Music students are being accepted to law school over poli sci kids. True, there is the possibility that I could make no money at all. It is also true that I could make lots. It is the most true, however, that money does not happiness buy. My family has never had money, and I happen to have had a splendid childhood, thank you very much. And here I am, sitting at Drake university. I have traveled to two continents and am going to China this summer completely free. I am getting a world class education and am a fairly put together young lady. Do I have piles of cash? Surely not. But I am happy. So who cares if I make lots of money, if it's something I love. What I'm looking for is to make deep connections with those around me, create music and art, love God, make a family, and live with my eyes wide open. Money is not necessary for any of these things.

If there was no struggle, no change, no challenge; I would be paying too much to be here. If I was perfect at everything I did in college, I would be in the wrong place. I am about to dive head first into things that will challenge the hell out of me, but at least I will know that I am growing.  I will second guess myself millions of times, and who knows... maybe I will switch back to music ed after a semester (or less). But it's college. What 19 year old really knows what they are doing? The really UN-FUN ones, that's who. I am going to try something that interests me, and we'll just see how it goes.

After all, life without challenges would not require faith.

Chest pains

Sadness leaks into my ribcage, causing me to catch my breath. The kind that doesn't disappear after a night's sleep or a great kiss. You still wake up with a teeny tiny sense of dread. Just a hint. It gnaws.

I still giggle. I laugh loudly, causing people to turn. I make faces. It stretches for hours, days or weeks. "How can I make it stay forever?" I wonder aloud.

I flicker. My face falters, you catch the shadow. My reassuring smile does not reach to my eyes.

I am put together. Professional. Aged. Mature. Hire-able. Date-able. Marry-able. I show all the marks of having gone through the training. Every hair is in its place. My lashes are mascara-ed, I am five minutes early. I lack vocal fillers and speak confidently. My handshake is firm. I have memorized the material. I ace the tests you have created. The hoops you make me jump. The ice you put under my heels. I jump the trapdoor that wreaks of doom. I reach the top of the stairs before they turn to a plunging slope. I run away from the unknown terror in my dreams.

But sometimes I fall. Glass shatters somewhere.

I pull my legs up towards my chest. I yank the covers towards me, so that I don't have to depend on you. I don't have to share. I can't share. I hate sharing. I scream. I throw my fists. I can't breathe.

I walk to the edge of the shore, and put me toes in the ice cold water. The sand is rocky. I pull my sweater close and nostalgia takes over. I remember when colors were primary and doors were open. Paths were wide and clearly marked. Bonds were direct and strong. I had companions, and no empty Friday nights to fill. Our songs were simple.

I dream about weddings to faceless men, the guests wearing raincoats. I dream about plays and shows where I never learned my lines. I try to explain what is happening, but the words will not come. The other actors look at me with even stares, watching me falter. They do not show worry in their eyes, only waiting. The audience jeers. Someone in the corner holds flowers, waiting for me anyway. Someone in the very back believes in me.

I misspell things, my makeup is smudged. I am two minutes late. My watch ticks too loudly. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead. I give my speech. I can't remember what I am wearing. How did I get here? Did I drive? Did someone take me? I can't remember. They can all read my thoughts; I can tell. It's the big secret no one ever tells me.

I look up at the stars, and wish I could see them better. I know they are so much clearer outside of the city, beyond the mess of humanity. I imagine the clouds parting around the stars, piercing little holes in the sky. Unfamiliar music plays softly from old fashioned speakers, bright against the indigo sky. It sounds foreign to me. Someone is next to me, and he puts an arm around me. My shoulders relax. He reaches over and pulls something out of my pocket, something I hadn't even known was there. It is small and heavy, and I feel as though a burden has been lifted when it is gone. Without hesitation, he puts it in his own pocket. I worry suddenly for the man, and look him in the eyes for the first time. His face is not what I recognize to be beautiful, but I suddenly feel like maybe it should be. That this, this is beauty, and everything else I have known is false. I glance back at the stars, and they seem clearer.

I wake up far before the rest of the world. My pillows are scattered across the room, I am uncovered.

My chest aches. I can't remember why.

Protecting me from monsters.

I like to push people away. I go home early, cancel first dates, ignore phone calls. I plan evenings all by myself. I dismiss opportunities, run away from conflict, and avoid hospitals and nursing homes. I hate change. I can be bossy, controlling, critical. My mood changes quickly, and I am deeply affected by the feelings of those around me. I get lost and frustrated and angry and don't communicate well. I shut down and become despondent, give up easily. I over-analyze everything. I whine. I put myself first. I can't make decisions on my own, and take it out on those I love. I make snap judgements, and find excuses to skip school, skip town, skip life. I feel guilty. I have regrets. I fear the future. It is incredibly difficult for me to depend on anyone else. I rarely ask for help. I get jealous and disheartened whenever I feel compared to those around me, particularly the beautiful and talented. I am messy.

I'm a pretty broken and screwed up person, if you want to know the truth... But there is something I have found that takes it all away.

The love of my creator is radically beautiful. Remarkably, impossibly, beautiful.

My Lord turns his face from my past, and makes me new. He thinks about me often. So often, in fact, that He has written me a love letter. His love pours into all my cracks, and I am whole. He knows the number of hairs on my head.

I screw up time and time again, and he patiently takes it all away whenever I ask. Like an indulging parent, he lets me run around screaming my head off, writing in permanent marker all over the walls, throwing my gifts from Him everywhere like an ungrateful little brat. I kick His shins, pout, whine, throw fists. I rip at my hair, stomp my feet, and curse Him for making me the way I am. He just sits patiently, never folding His open arms.

When I finally fall asleep from throwing my temper tantrum, He picks me up gently, kisses my forehead, whispers how much He loves me, and tucks me in. He reminds me that He made me, and I should honor his creation, for He makes everything glorious. He brushes the hair out of my eyes, smiles, and takes away all the pain. Time and time again, He holds nothing against me.

He sits outside my door, listening to me sleep, protecting me from monsters.

Whistful

What I really want in my life is to have a room full of children, and be able to teach them anything I want.

This room is large, clean, and contemporary, with high ceilings and artsy lighting. I would teach them about art, english, music, God. We would start together when they are in first grade, and I would move with them over the years.

My role in their lives would change. I would begin as part-time caregiver and babysitter, then gradually move to teacher, then coach, then mentor, and eventually peer. These children would become much, MUCH smarter than I am.

On the weekends, I get to travel and share my art. I have a husband who makes considerable amounts of money, enough that I don't feel guilty for spending my time doing fickle things like art and music. We go to a phenomenal church that has incredible worship music, and I know everyone by name.

We were married for 8 years before we decided to have children... as we decided to travel as much as possible before we had kids. We go to galas and art shows, theatre, opera, coffee shops, book stores, and to zillions of movies. We drive awesome cars.

I have friends of all types. Intellectual conversations are had by all, as well as many, many laughs. We drink white wine with dinner (which I am hosting. with the apron.)

I have connections, and therefore have dinner at nice restaurants and always get in right away. I go to New York to see my sister in a play. Holiday events are always lovely (although we are more than ready to go home after being with the in-laws for so long.) We play cards.

Terrible things happen, as they tend to in life. Disappointments, hard decisions, and sadness can be found often. But these situations turn to beauty, as they are used to glorify my creator. Sometimes the sweetest things come from pain.

In this future, change doesn't terrify me. We move the furniture often, and I feel refreshed.
Fear doesn't hold me back. I go to the gym without feeling dumb. I take chances.
I let people in. No more walls.
Insecurities melt, and I am humble.
and NEVER perfect, thank God.

In this future, I have learned from my mistakes and forgiven myself. There is no guilt in my conversations with God. I smile freely and laugh easily.

I sing to my children as they fall asleep.

Florescent Futures

I have this weird thing where I see situations in colors.

Memories form into different color palates, generally highly evocative of the mood or feeling I have towards such memory. That is to say, memories of middle school appear under florescent lighting against stark backgrounds and unfriendly shades of beige and navy. Memories of summer are warm and vibrant and contrasting in colors. When I think about uncomfortable conversations, I color them with cool colors and empty spaces. Time spent in the company of friends generally takes on blues and oranges.

This bizarre habit is what, I believe, has allowed me to manipulate colors into moods on canvas. It also has turned me into a freak about lighting. I HATE when there are harsh overhead lights and no warm lamps or natural lighting. The florescent travesties found in PE gyms, office buildings, and doctors' offices immediately affect my mood.

I therefore, see my future in shades of colors. Understandably, I have dismissed with ease the idea of working anywhere with office lighting. There are deeper reasonings behind this as well, of course, but this is the one that comes quickest to mind.

And when I imagine myself happy as a music teacher, I see my classroom with warm lighting, christmas lights, sophisticated paintings, posters of composers smiling and vibrant xylophones sitting against the wall. There are silly and happy things, such as bean bag chairs and magnets on the board saying "Never never never give up!" I am laughing with the children in my classroom, playing the guitar with happy faces singing along.

Now, I realize fully that colorfully painted xylophones, posters, and specific lighting are not what will bring me happiness in my job. But when I imagine gray walls, harsh lighting, children with overly pale faces and greasy hair, the room too large and unwelcoming... I begin to panic. I picture myself standing at the chalk board, writing out scales and enthusiastically encouraging children to participate. I swallow hard, no one responds.

When I picture my future in this lighting, buried fears spin out of control. Without the happy colors, I realize that I may be inadequate for this career path, that I am having to work twice as hard as everyone around me, that I will not be paid anything at all, that I will never marry due to my plaguing unhappiness, that I will regret every decision I've made since high school for the rest of my life. I clearly should have been a chemist. Certainly I would be happy in my science lab, filled with cool blues and beakers that reflect the light in interesting ways and crisp and clean lab coats.

I'm fully aware that this is a poor way to make life decisions... but still.

I should probably just be an artist.

Jedi mind tricks

I do not find myself to be an incredibly influential person. On the average day, I probably come into contact with, oh, 34-102 people, depending on my day's activities. If I'm at work, I will greet and serve caffeine-starved customers. If I'm going to class, I will participate with the other students and ask questions of my teachers. I'll see people working at front desks of dorms, behind counters in the dining center, perhaps I'll say hi to someone on my way from here to there.

Random thoughts that come to mind bing around cyberspace, via the various social networks of our time, and perhaps a certain amount of fellow socialites will read them, maybe even agree. Maybe I'll make eye contact with the person next to me at a stoplight, maybe I'll get pulled over and talk to a not-so-friendly lady cop. I'll see a friend in the grocery store, or recognize the guy at starbucks taking my order too often because I just can't help myself.

These relationships range heavily from momentary glances at mere acquaintances, to hours spent on-end with the ones closest to me, having conversations that are general earned through time and love. The bonds between humans spring up everywhere, spider webbing into a mess of hello's, may I help yous, stop its, see yous, nice day isn't its, bye byes, hahas, and I love yous. Yet I don't find my personal self to be incredibly influential. Nobody reads about my life in magazines, names libraries after me, or thinks, "by-golly. good thing that Lindsey was around to save the day!"But it still matters. I still talk to 34-102 people a day. The way I choose to present myself to those around me can affect their mood, their attitude, their outlook on their own day. Kindness is contagious. And so are curses, angry gestures, and rude remarks.

I wake up on the average morning at about a 6 on a scale of one to a great mood. Generally, I believe that each day has the potential to be a really good day, but I let myself rely on others to propel me towards 10 or let me sink to one. I have this terrible knack for soaking up what other people are feeling around me, allowing their disheartenment, anger, and stress leak into my thoughts. Some days I feel like an air-hockey puck... just cruisin along in my straight little line, until someone gently taps me and I go spinning off into some other direction.

I have been learning lately to control this. I have began to understand that I cannot let others dominate the way I feel, that I have to be confident enough and strong enough to stay centered in myself. To not find my joy based on my circumstances. As I have been reaching this realization, my eyes have also been opened to the way I affect others. I have become increasingly aware of my power... not my social prowess or my jedi-mind tricks... but rather the way my smiles can turn someone else's day towards 10.

It's so easy to run around in a fog so concentrated on self, mentally ticking off lists of tasks thinking about nothing but the end goal. It is important to look around.

opera and juice boxes.

I feel as though I am growing older. Wearing glasses, watches, necklaces from boyfriends. Always having my car keys, room keys, debit card, credit card. College ID, driver's license. Textbooks, smart phone, forwarded emails. Sift through literature, listen to opera, work at multiple jobs. Argue about politics, write about religion, read everything uncensored. Listen to the news, think about the suffering. Have a fight, kiss and make up. Be a role model, use spell check, print resumes on nice paper. Own sensible heels, pencil skirts, sweaters, and dress pants. Appreciate poetry, chat with scholars, build relationships. Think about your future. Think about it more. Write about it. Write 20 pages on anything. Budget money, make money, spend money. Regret. Depression. Organization. Poise. Drive. Passion. Professionalism. Older.

I feel as though I am regressing. Taking multiple naps, watching Disney at night, eating lunchables whenever. Juice boxes seem like fantastic ideas. Carry backpack, wear tennies, jammies, and scrunchies. Wear rainboots when it's drippy out, keep your fuzzy socks dry. Vegetables are yucky. Ask your teachers zillions of questions, because it just seems too hard. Laugh. Feel pretty. Like to be kissed on the forehead, have my hair brushed, wear bows, be taken care of. Taken to the doctor. Daddy buys me paints. Block the world from sight, shut the window, watch a kid's movie. Hug the pillow. Sing do re me and play kum bay ya. Tee tee ta. Make funny faces at people in cars. Be told what to do, again, and again. Giggles. Curious. Fear. Slow down. Uncertainty. Slouch. Trust. Regress. 

Life's colors are deeper and more complex than anticipated. 

Questions from little-girl-me.

Alas, it is January third. You know what that means?! High schoolers have to go back to school. Bahaha. But you know what ELSE this means?! It's my birthday! Hooray, I am 19 years old! Not really sure what good this does me... but cool nonetheless. I'll always take another year. Birthdays are good for you, ya know? The more you have, the longer you live.

And really, in another quick year, I will be 20. Hmm. Am I prepared to be 20 years old? Have I lived enough life to qualify as someone in their twenties? Will I simply blink and my early twenties will have flashed by, and suddenly I'm 25? What will my life look like when I'm 25? Will I have a degree? Will I be married? Will I be a trapeze artist somewhere in South America? Will I have hosted SNL yet? Will someone have named a statue after me? Will I be pedaling hot dogs in New York City? Will I have turned into Liz Lemon?!? so many questions! But I'm getting a big ahead of myself now, aren't I?


I wish I could talk to little-girl-me and tell her what her life is going to look like when she is 19. I'm sure she would have been beyond excited to know. She would ask me what it feels like to drive... whether or not it is strange to look at the road from the other side of the car. She would have asked if I feel cool getting up in the morning and putting on makeup. She would ask me how I knew I wanted to go to college, and why I decided not to go to beauty school, be a real-estate appraiser, be a nurse so I could use a stethoscope, write children's books, or do any of the other zillions of things I wanted to do when I was young. She would want to know why my hair is so big and curly, seeing as I've had naturally stick straight and ridiculously flat hair my entire life. She'd ask about my boyfriend, my professors, my job, the rings I wear, the height I am, the purse I carry, and all the other things that seem so foreign and far away to a little girl. She would want to know if I felt like a grown-up yet.

I would have so very much to tell her.

I think these kinds of things ALL the time. Like, how if someone had told me last summer that this is what my life would look like by winter, I would have just peed my pants. If they had thrown in the details of all the seemingly impossible hoops I would jump through, particularly in school but also in relationships, I don't know whether I would have mustered up the courage to go through with it. Makes the future seem kind of uncertain, doesn't it?

Life is so very funny in that way. Time speeds by, racing through twists and turns and colors mixing into memories and REM cycles and years spent waiting in lines, people entering and leaving a busy building, some bustling their way to wherever else they need to be while others stay close, revolving around as though attracted by a magnet. Cars and phones and TVs and fashions and news stories fade in and out, flickering in the background and out of focus. Moments seem frozen, highlighted by fear, or nerves, or adrenaline, or laughter, or love, or goosebumps and fireworks.

The minutes go by slowly... yet the years escape quickly and unnoticed.

January One

This morning, the world woke up to a brand new year. I always like the idea of a whole new number to be used whilst recording dates. How exciting, right, to be able to use "11" at the end of a six digit date at the corners of papers. That hasn't been done in, what, 100 years? And writing out 2011, well that's just something else entirely.

Oh yes, I love a new year just as much as anybody else.

However, I have never been one for resolutions... And I will tell you why: the idea is terrifying. The thought of taking little ideas and goals and aspirations and putting them into one year ultimatums! VOMIT! Run for the door! Only leaves room for failure. At the end of the year you will undoubtedly look back on the year and dwell upon that which you have not accomplished. Resolutions leave behind trails of hopeless stupid cranberry diets, one-size-too-small-jeans that will never see the light of day, visits to loved ones that were never made, blank-number-salaries that were not accomplished, and hair improvements that were not ever plausible in the first place. Lofty goals set too high spin and spiral out of control, leading to the certain and unmistakable signs of failed resolutions upon the following December 31. Fake smiles, occasional sobbing, questionable company, and poor outfit decisions display the residue of hopeless resolution failure on any given New Years Eve.

No sir-re. Resolutions are not my thing. Chalk it up to my fear of change, knack for satire and pessimism, or even my hatred for poorly constructed Sarah Dessen novels that more often than not begin with doomed failure and glimmer into hopefulness through self-improvement (which, do not be deceived, I gobbled up with teenage adoration at the time.)

As an alternative, I generally choose to look back on the things I actually did accomplish and smile about them. I like to make mental lists of "atta-girl"s and marvel at the life changes that came at me at neck breaking speed with a general lack of warning. When looking back on a year, I can easily recognize that it is impossible to realistically look forward to the coming year and have any grasp whatsoever on what life may hold. I believe that life, via God, has a grand sense of humor that will never cease to surprise, frustrate, and amaze me. Therefore life plans are often destroyed and changed without grandeur or mourning. My view of the empty space that 2011 holds changes considerably when thinking about things this way.

Okay, enough babbling, here's the point; I will not be resolution-ing for 2011. Instead, I plan to take it in with wonder. I am going to enjoy each instance of mess, all my mistakes, and every moment of love. After reaching this conclusion, my brain then led down the path that I will need some way to document such marveling.... and so this blog began. Ta-da!

So, if anyone ends up reading these ramblings, get excited for some excellent run on sentences, occasional made-up words, intense sarcasm, and scattered concrete thoughts. Cheers,  and hello 2011!