Greener Grass

"The grass isn't greener on the other side. It's green where you water it."

Three cheers for optimism! Huzzah! Yeah, cuz we're all so damn happy, right? I hate it when people are right. It's the rightness that rubs me rather uncomfortably. Because I don't like admitting that I'm wrong. Looking at things positively is the way we should look at things. It's either that, or we all just look at everything in our lives through the lens of misery. Which sounds better to you? But people don't understand! Being positive requires SO much more effort than they realize. Especially when you don't think you HAVE things to be positive about. Well, the grass is always greener on the other side. Isn't it?

Why do we use that expression? Why does the grass always have to be greener somewhere else? Isn't that a little depressing? Like, I'll never be as happy as I can be because it's always going to be better somewhere else. It doesn't exactly sound depressing. But let's dissect this. I'm sitting on one side of a white picket fence. There's a picnic table where children are blowing bubbles and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. A dog runs along side a boy riding a bike. The sun shines perfectly on the tree whose shade I sit beneath. Birds sing until their heartstrings burst and squirrels frolic about on their daily business of gathering food. Across the way, I see my house with a small red door, where inside I know my loving family awaits my return from the grassy hill I sit upon. I feel no pain. I feel no sadness. Everything is simply beautiful. But......is this really as good as it gets?

 You could be perfectly satisfied with where you are. But the nagging feeling that it's not as good as it could be pulls at you. Keeps you searching for something better. But what if, by constantly searching for something better, we're actually missing out on all the good that's already present in our lives? Maybe we're so obsessed with finding the greener grass that we don't see the flowerbeds surrounding our feet. That's why I love that quote. Because it's true. The grass isn't greener somewhere else far away. Someplace seemingly unreachable. The grass is green where you take the time to nourish it. Your life is good and you are happy where you put in the patience to watch it flourish. Your life isn't good because you've happened upon a lush hill of verde.

This makes it a little easier for me to stay positive and optimistic. Because I'm in charge of my own optimism. Which, I guess, takes a lot less effort than I thought. I can choose to water the grass at my feet or let it starve while I search for "something better". Like I said, I hate being wrong. But I was wrong, essentially. I was wrong in thinking that we can never really have things that keep us happy. Even in the sorrow and the suffering, there is happiness. As long as I keep the green under the soles of my shoes well-nourished and flourishing. Because, the grass isn't greener on the other side. It's green where you water it.

Hold My Heart

The last month has been rough enough to be considered a ground shattering quake of earth. And beautiful enough to almost be on the same level as those glorious sunsets. The kind you want to bottle up and hide, lest it be tainted by the unsavory blemishes of reality. Reality...man, reality sucks. I keep ruminating on the possibility that reality and gravity are the same figurative substance, pulling us closer to the ground and shoving our faces in the dirt when we try to climb too high. It's not like I'm trying to fly to the moon. Maybe I just want to see the clouds. Maybe I just want to feel the air rush through my mass of tangled hair. No matter how small our hopes, we can count on reality to drag us to the depths and shovel the dirt on top of our graves while we lie paralyzed and silently screaming for escape.

That was the unfortunate part of these last few weeks. The beautiful part came after the suffocation. After the last vestige of sunlight was taken from my sight by the muddy earth being piled on top of me. I died, in a sense. At least, part of me did. The part of that cared too much for something that shouldn't have mattered. Once that was gone, there was all this strange expanse of space. There was this huge section inside of me that was vacant. The tiny part that remained, that was unadulterated by reality, started to grow and fill the vast emptiness. I began to think clearly, to see clearly, and to love clearly. I try to stay away from talking about religion sometimes, but when it's essentially inseparable from my being, it's kind of impossible. God didn't "speak" to me. I didn't have some enormous revelation or realization that all of a sudden whisked my problems away and gave me a clear purpose in life. All I did was stop caring so much about those stupid, petty things that took up so much of my existence.

My heart is burnt, ashy, deformed, hardened, and so easily broken. I'd been squeezing so tightly that it had stopped beating. One day, I looked at my clenched fist, at the blood seeping through my fingers. My brain told my hand to open. It sent out neural signals to my muscles, begging them to loosen. And I couldn't understand why I was unable to relieve the pressure. Basically, I let myself build so many walls, mortar so many bricks, that I couldn't remember where I'd put the door. Or if I'd left room for any door at all. I knew that what I needed to do was give my heart to God. That's what was going to begin to fix the ugliness and the despair. But I couldn't give him all of it. I could only show him pieces sticking out through the holes where other people had tried to break through the walls. Where other people had tried but had failed. Had gotten tired and left.

Since I've been back at school, I've been going to Mass and adoration frequently. Praying for God to take my heart, to make it his and do whatever he wants with it. I've been begging him to make it better. To bandage it up and stop the blood from gushing. But I wasn't really letting him. I was still holding on to things, and to people, that I desperately needed to be free from. It wasn't until that final "shove" of dirt in my grave woke me up that I figured it out. That I understood. God is preparing me for something amazing. He lets the hurt and the horror happen to my heart because He knows something even greater will result from it. I was finally able to give Him my heart because I realized that even with Him holding it, it's still going to bruise. He's not going to magically make it impervious to pain. But He's going to do a lot better job of molding it and healing it than I ever will.

I tried to give my heart to God out of desperation. Because I had tried everything else and had failed at everything else. It wasn't until I offered it to Him with my new-found understanding that I was able to actually give every piece over. He holds my heart gently and lovingly. I know that suffering will endure. But I know that in His hands, my heart will remain open to the love of life, the world, and of Christ, instead of violently removed from everything inside the cruel cage I had starved it in. In the last few weeks, I went through a lot of plain ol' shit. And I found exceptional beauty in God's love for me. In suffering, we are brought to a new level of intimacy with Christ. God loves me so much that He allows me to be hurt so that I can know what it means to love Him even more deeply. I finally let God hold my heart, and for the first time, there is no caked blood on my fingertips. No inescapable pressure in my chest. My heart and soul can breathe again. For the first time in a long time, I can feel the pure and simple beating of a living heart.

Batter Up

There are a lot of moments of which we don't take advantage. The pitch leaves the glove and time stops as we watch the fast-approaching leather sphere near our oblivious state of mind. We see it coming but we are completely unaware of its significance. Moments like this pass us by daily. When we refuse to be aware of life's opportunities we miss out on crucial, defining moments. Most of us don't get second chances at things. We come to a point in our lives where a decision really does affect us permanently, and it's impossible to get a do-over. Attempts can be made to redirect the consequences of our decisions, or lack thereof. We can try to be more attentive to our actions. We can try to be more watchful for those little and big moments and opportunities that reshape our lives. 

It's not fair that certain things are out of our control. We can't predict how fast the ball will come at us, or which direction it will take. We can't dictate when the ball leaves the pitcher's glove. And we can't always expect to hit a home run. But we should never strike out looking. We should never just sit back and watch as life's opportunities whiz past at lightning speed. 

You're at the bottom of the ninth in life. The game is tied. The count is full. The crowd waits, perched tentatively on the edges of their seats. Everything in your life has led you to this moment. The whole world is watching you. Relying on you. Waiting for you. So swing with all your might. And, for the love of God, don't miss.

"This Is Just Therapy"

"Loneliness and solitude are two things not to get confused. Because I spent my solitude with you." Therapy, Matt Thiessen (Thumbs up for Relient K?)

There is such an incredible negativity associated with solitude. Often times, we look at others who are constantly surrounded by people, and we may think, "Gosh, they're so lucky. They never have to know what being lonely feels like." I'm sure by now we've all realized, however, that being surrounded by friends (or random strangers) doesn't mean a person isn't alone. I know that personally, I feel most alone and detached when I'm doing nothing but being around people. If I don't get my self-prescribed alone time of the day, I actually feel completely distant from those around me. I need that portion of the day where I'm by myself. Whether I'm in my room, sitting and reading, driving in the car, or in adoration (the last one especially so). The truth of it is that I'm actually an introvert. I hate that I am. I try and put on this idea that I'm actually insanely outgoing. This idea that I adore being around people ALL the time and that I "super duper looooooove" doing stuff constantly. But I don't. I get physically, emotionally, mentally, and even spiritually exHAUSTED when I'm around people 100% of the time. Because my body just can't take it. My soul is nourished by the time I spend alone. If I don't nurture that need properly, I get wrung out, irritated, and end up not being an enjoyable person to spend time with. I've come to realize the truth of this during the summer. And I've come to realize that I'm okay with it. I'm okay with no longer pretending like I enjoy the company of others. That sounded really mean. . . . .

I love my friends, and I adore my family. But it's actually pretty exhausting forcing myself to pretend like I'm not exhausted sometimes when I'm around them. It's draining to push off my urge for solitude and don the facade of the extrovert. This is an integral part of my personality and something that I do want those close to me to realize. I love all of you. But I also love being alone. I love thinking. I love finding a quiet place to ponder. It's my own personal type of therapy. I want to be completely honest. And I want others to be completely honest with me. I hate pretending. And I hate the idea of others pretending around me. I want people to tell me what's important to them. So I'm telling you what's important to me. Being lonely is not the same as being in solitude. Loneliness is feeling void of interaction. Solitude is choosing to void yourself of distraction, so that you can focus on the self. That's all I want. Time set aside to focus on me and to focus on the things that will make me a better me.

Now all I need is a secluded cave in the side of a mountain and I'm ready to start living the hermit life.  . . . Are there McDonalds on mountainsides?

Outstretched Hand

I’m lying in the dirt, on the side of a crooked road. The sun is beating down on my face, and sweat soaks the thin clothing that barely covers my body. I feel it drip down my face, stinging my eyes. I taste the salt in my mouth, willing myself to swallow the acrid taste. I do not know what is wrong with me. I only know that there has been something terribly wrong with me since I was very young. Other people move to the opposite side of the street to pass me by. They are afraid of me. They are afraid that they will catch my sickness.
        I manage the strength to prop myself up on my elbow, slowly dusting the grime from my face. Someone is coming. Someone important, it seems, for there is a large crowd following. People in front and behind. The sun is so bright, I must lift my hand to my eyes to shade them so that I can see. A cloud of dirt precedes the people. As it clears, I can barely see a man in their midst, clothed in black. He is apparently someone of significance. Immediately, in my chest, I feel a wrenching; like the sinews of my being are threatening to stretch me to infinity. Is the man in black causing this? No, it must be the blackness inside me, the awful disease that slowly sucks my life away.
        Yet, there is still a horrible tugging inside me. Why am I so drawn to this figure? My body seems to think he is a cure, it urges me on so. He walks over to me, and as his sandals come within reach, I stretch my arm out to touch him. But he passes by, slowly. I try to grab his cloak, forcing my voice to hoarsely call out for mercy. My mouth is so dry that only crackling moans escape. Still, he walks on. I feel his cloak between my fingers, and I hold on tighter. Still, he walks on. I drag myself along, painfully trying to keep up with him amongst the crowd. Sweat runs into my mouth, moistening it, and my voice escapes clearly this time. Still, he moves on. He does not turn. He does not look. He walks away.
        I need this figure, desperately. At least, I think I do. My body craves him. Whatever this man has, I want it. I feel as though I might die without it. Finally, I muster the strength, and call out loudly, “Stop! Why will you not look at me?!”
 The crowd hushes. The dust clouds settle. And the man turns. My tongue catches in my throat. My face is frozen, wide-eyed and horrified. The man has now fully turned around, and his lips are formed into a sneer. My own face looks down at me. The man I tried so desperately to gain the attention of, whose essence I craved, is the evil that I have produced.
        It is my sin that looks at me, I realize. All the horrible, dark things I have committed throughout my life laugh in my face. Still, my body stretches itself thin; it wants it, still. My flesh craves it. My double looks down on me and continues to laugh, as if to say, You could never survive without me. I alone am what keeps you together. Without me, you would be nothing. Worthless. Already, your sickness destroys you. With me, you gain pleasure. Happiness. With me, your body feels alive.
        I stare down at my hands. They are stained with blood; the blood of my appalling sinful life. Could these hands ever be cleaned? Is there anything that could possibly wash the muck away?
       Silently, at a whisper, I barely hear his voice above the laughter of the crowd. Somehow, the word reaches my ear. Yes.
       That simple word. My head swirls. Still, the crowd laughs, and my sin laughs with them. But I heard it. It was there. I painfully turn my head to look behind me.
       I do not see him at first. He is not surrounded by a large crowd, but stands by himself. Yet there is something about him that commands respect. Something that causes the crowd to be hushed, without him saying a word. He lifts his head and tears stain his smiling face. I hear it again. Yes. and this time, I know it comes from this stranger. Slowly, he lifts his hand, reaching it out towards me. I look at the distance between us, and know there is no possible way I can cover it.
       I’m right here, you know, I hear from behind. I won’t make you drag yourself to me. I won’t make you suffer. Look, I am so much closer to you. It would be far easier to take my hand and come with me, than the hand of a man who would make you suffer to reach him.
       I look up at his outstretched palm. So very close to mine. Simply a fingertip away. The easiness of it appeals to me. I lift my hand, and as I do so, I hear a sigh. Again, I turn my head around, and see the stranger with his shoulders sagged, as if he is sorrowful at the choice I am about to make. But still, his hand reaches out.
       Even though my body begs me to take the hand in front of me, there is something deeper calling me to drag myself to the stranger. I begin to use my skin tight arms to pull myself along the sand to the opposite side of the road. Behind me, I hear gasps. And someone tugs at my feet. I turn around, and see the cloaked man, my past, holding my feet and trying to prevent me from crossing. I kick out viciously, freeing myself. Persistently, and painfully, I drag myself to the other side of the road. Dirt and grime cake underneath my fingernails and in the grooves of my skin. The stranger, clothed in purest white, still holds out his hand. He smiles down at me. Again, I wonder if even this man could take away the blackness from my body. And again, I hear, Yes. With one final gasp, I reach up to his hand and grasp it with mine.
       Immediately, my entire body is shaken, and something burns underneath my skin. The stranger is shining in a light so bright, it blinds me. As my hands become weak, unable to hold on, his grasp stays strong, lifting me to my feet. At first, I stumble, but then I feel a strength in my bones, and I see my sickly flesh become new. When the light stops burning, I look at the stranger. His face glows and radiates joy. He points to my hands. Where once there was blackness and blood, there is now soft, golden skin. I look behind me, scared that my double is close behind, but I see nothing. Nothing except green grass and a radiantly blue sky.
       I face the stranger, knowing now that my Savior stands before me.

Impatient for the Sunshine

I'm upset because I haven't heard from him. I'm sick of being the first one to initiate communication. I refuse to put myself out there anymore. Obviously, the feelings I have aren't mutual. Or he doesn't have any idea. Or he does and is choosing to ignore it because he's hoping I'll take the hint. Either way, I'm tired of having feelings for people who don't reciprocate them and for people who turn out to be horrible. I keep having doubts about these feelings, maybe because I want to convince myself that I don't. Because, that way, it's not as painful. I pretend like I'm someone who's not easily affected, and someone who doesn't open up easily. But the truth is, I wear my heart on my hypothetical sleeve. I give everything too quickly and put my whole self into things too soon. I think it's because I'm so desperate to have something to be happy about. That's the problem with him. I've put myself, my whole being, into these feelings. Feelings I'm not even sure he's aware of. And I keep hoping this stand-still situation will turn into something. When it keeps disappointing me, I turn on myself. I analyze who I am and who I'm not. I pick apart my actions, berating myself for not being the person he'll want. Scolding myself for caring so much for a person who will only ever see me one way: as a friend. Eventually, I talk myself out of the emotions. Convince myself that I need to focus on me, and my relationship with God (the only thing that should matter). I allow myself to forget that there was never any potential. Forget that I imagined any possibility of there being reciprocation. Forget why I had the feelings in the first place. And then, after I start to believe that I'm past it and that I've moved on from this ridiculous hormone-induced state of emotions, it happens. He does or says something that makes me remember what an amazing person he is. Makes me remember why I cared about him so much as a human being. Makes me fall back into the continuously vicious cycle of annoying brain chemistry that simply will not allow me to move on. All my work is undone and I'm left feeling foolish at square one. (HEY! That rhymed!).

I feel foolish because I'm nineteen. Nineteen year olds don't "fall in love". Nineteen year olds are children. Too young to fully grasp the concept of a love born of a sacrifice. It's childish to feel this way about someone. Because, realistically, will they even matter ten years from now? But I see other people who "have it". Why them and not me? Maybe I'm just not ready yet. I've tried before and it's never worked out. Maybe I actually need to trust God and take a hint. He's got something ( and someone) amazing planned for me. But I, in my childish and human impatience, refuse to be patient enough to discover the path. I insist on just chopping down the forest to get to the sunshine on the other side, instead of slowly traversing the thin, crooked dirt road while taking in the beauty all around me. It's something we all do. We all try to sprint to the finish line. We all attempt to get to our goal as quickly as possible without experiencing the hardships of failure and disappointment. My impatience is a horrible vice. It's a downfall. But I'm trying to overcome it. To let God work as He will on me. To let my life stretch on in front of me. But, irregardless, changing the hormone levels of my brain is impossible. So I'll continue to allow myself these irritating and pointless feelings. Keeping in mind that they'll one day lead me through the woods, to the sunny clearing He's prepared for me.

A Silent Shoulder

This past week, I realized how much I hate seeing people cry. I hate the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that accompanies the intense need to help. I loathe not knowing what to say, and being terrified that what I say will make the situation worse. I am terribly afraid of contributing to an already depressing, and sometimes despairing, situation. Recently, one of my best friends had her heart broken. I sat with her for over an hour, trying to figure out how to make it. . .well, for lack of a better phrase, suck less. There's confusion, there's resentment, and there's an overabundance of tears. I used to think I was good in these situations. I used to think I was good at giving advice. Good at comforting. Good at knowing what to say. I realized, however, that I was just as clueless as the poor girl I was trying to help. Sitting there, and not knowing what to do, I felt an immense anger wash over me. Anger at the person responsible for her sadness. Anger at myself for my inability to fix it. Anger at myself for being angry instead of doing everything I could to help. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to say? It was out of my control. And I couldn't figure out how to rein it in and make it better.

The thing is, there's nothing we can do to fix these things. Certain aspects of life are completely out of our hands. Being helpless is actually helpful, in the long run. It allows us to admit that we can't do everything on our own. It allows us to branch out and ask others for assistance. It allows us to relate to other people in a way that strengthens relationships. By not being capable of dealing with everything on our own, we allow room for others to step in and give us a shoulder to lean on. My friend couldn't deal with the situation by herself. She needed someone. But not someone to tell her what to do. And not someone who would say all the right things. Because, sometimes, all we need is someone else's physical presence. Sometimes, all our human heart desires is to know its not alone. Sometimes, the best thing we can do for another person is simply exist in the same general vicinity.

Overall, the situation still sucked. It's a horrible thing, seeing someone you care about in pain. But it's a gift knowing that you don't have to be perfect in order to help. It's a gift, knowing that a silent shoulder can be more powerful than all the right words. And it's a chance to practice being okay with not having it under control, whether you're the one with the broken heart or the one with the comforting shoulder. Sometimes things get muddled when too many words are said. More often than not, it's better to listen. It's better to just be there. To be, for a short while, a quiet constant in someone's world of upheaval.

The Dark Night Rises

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." - Terry Pratchett

Sometimes at night, I think about darkness. About how it's all encompassing. Completely and totally powerful just by being what it is. And it seems like the light has to work so much harder to be known. It has to try to shine brighter than ever to beat that ever lingering darkness. And why? Because the dark will always try to put it out. The black abyss will always try to encapsulate any vestige of light that tries to penetrate its despairing lack of clarity. How can any hope possibly slip past this seemingly impenetrable wall of blackness? It seems fruitless. Pointless. Hopeless. With so much darkness dampening down the light, what does this mean for the future? Why was the darkness made? To make us feel terror? To teach us that the way of the light is impossibly difficult? No. There is darkness because its existence is essential in order for us to understand the meaning of the light. In order for us to fully grasp the significance of the light that does get through. It seems hopeless. It seems like the world drowns in the darkness of despair. Like that's all we're ever able to focus on. But the struggle of the light is never fruitless. It will always burst through the gateway of the night. It will always catch our attention, even when the darkness seems to overcome it.

Because that's why God made darkness, you see. So that when the light shines, it's all you notice anymore.

Breathe

Sometimes, we miss the little things. The most important things.
We miss the rain drops racing on the window.
We miss burying our feet in the sand.
We miss jumping from couch cushion to couch cushion.
Today, I found the place where I lost those memories.
I found a place to hide.
I found a place to cry.
I found a place where silence speaks.
Where tears fall freely.
Where a heart can beat unceasingly.
Where thoughts can roam without restriction.
I thought of you today.
I thought about your laughter.
I thought about your kindness.
I thought of you in the place where silence speaks.
In the corner of my mind where I found my memories.
The memories of bliss.
The memories of happiness I thought I'd lost.
You were there.
You roamed, and made my heart skip.
You caused the tears to fall.
Like rain drops.
Racing on a window pane.
Today, I realized the importance of breathing.
I realized the impact of oxygen.
I realized how hard it is to keep it flowing.
When I'm thinking of you.
When I'm caught off guard.
When nothing else should matter.
I want to do nothing.
I want to drop everything.
But I can't.
But I should.
And I will.
Because, sometimes, it's okay if you let your mind go blank.
Sometimes, it's okay to forget.
Sometimes, it's okay if the only thing you did today
Was breathe.

Part Two: Women Are Mental

We've already established that women are crazy. And that's nothing that we women should be ashamed of. We are passionate creatures. We feel things insanely deeply. Every emotion is a whirlwind of intensity that is experienced to the fullest. This isn't always a beneficial aspect of being a woman, however. Previously, I talked about how men need to watch out for how they behave around women, because women are easily susceptible to the charms of chivalry. I also mentioned that the way we women behave is usually much worse than anything guys are capable of. And here's why.

Women are mental. Men are physical. Guys have a problem, they punch something. Women have a problem, and you never hear the end of it. There's plotting. There's diabolical scheming. And it's all in our heads. There's a reason that girls are stereotyped as alien beings that men can't seem to understand. We don't even understand ourselves. But how does this tie in to guys not being too nice and 13-year-old girls going crazy over texts? The thing is, as I've said, women are over-thinkers. We take every little action and blow it out of proportion, making ourselves go crazy over all the possible meanings of said action. When a guy is just honestly being a nice guy, being thoughtful, kind, chivalrous, and gentlemanly, women can often misinterpret this as something more. A guy tells a girl she looks very pretty. The girl thinks it means he's in love with her. Not immediately, though. This conclusion is the result of many nights of ruminating over "what he meant". Due to the over-thinking, the girl has played out various scenarios in her head and has convinced herself that she is in love with the guy who complimented her. (This is somewhat of an exaggeration).

Obviously, guys aren't the only ones who have things to work on. Girls need to work on taking steps rather than sprinting to a hypothetical finish line in their heads. We need to see things for what they really are instead of jumping from point A to point B at the drop of a hat (or at the reception of a text). It's unfair to guys who are just trying to be the the gentlemen that God created them to be. Guys just attempting to be kind and virtuous. And it's unfair to the friendships that we women can form with these men. If a guy has to worry that every single little thing he says will be taken differently than his intention, he's not going to want to keep up that chivalrous, thoughtful personality. A personality that keeps getting him into awkward situations with his female friends.

I realize that many people may have no notion of what I'm talking about. This isn't everyone's experience. Personally, I've seen a lot of this type of thing happen. And it's sad to think that men and women are prevented from a genuine friendship because of flirtatious niceties and over-thinkers, on both sides. We women need to slow down, stand back, and evaluate things for what they really are, not for what we want them to be. We need to stop jumping to outrageous conclusions and stop mentally behaving like preteens at a Jonas Brothers concert. We need to thank God for wonderful men who go out of their way to make us feel special. As women. As friends. Guys who will do those nice things for us without expecting anything in return. We need to stop being mental, and start being real.

To be continued.....again.....

Part One: You've Been Lied To

"WHY WON'T HE TEXT ME?! Was it something I said? He seemed like he liked me....so does he? Why are boys so complicated?! Forget him. Just forget him. He's obviously not worth it if he can't take the time to even- OH MY GOSH HE JUST TEXTED ME! I. Am. So. In. Love."

Guys, just skip over the next few parts. It might cause your uvula to twitch.

Okay, girls. No matter how much you tell yourselves you're NOT like this, you are. Underneath whatever facade you force onto the world, you are that little, 13-year-old girl whose easily broken heart jumps every time that cute boy says hello. Or, maybe that isn't quite you. Irregardless, you've gushed, you've obsessed, you've "wondered why he didn't (insert communication response here)" you back. You wondered the why's and you pondered the if's. "Why won't he talk to me?", and my personal favorite, "If only I knew what he was thinking!" Ladies, I've recently come to realize that we're all a bit crazy, eh? We're over-thinkers, to put it plainly. We stand on the precipice of insanity, just barely keeping ourselves in the land of the sane.

What guys don't understand is that girls don't just take something at face value. We never see or hear things as they really are. Listen men, when you send a girl a sweet text, I can guarantee you within 5 minutes of her receiving it, she's already got her wedding dress picked out. Don't let this scare you. Let it frighten you to the core. Be afraid. Be "holy crap my mom said my dad will deal with me when he gets home" afraid. You may not realize it, but you have an insane amount of power that is effortless in use and impossible to control. Because it's pretty much anything you say and do. If a girl likes a guy, she will start to see anything nice he does for her as an admission of unconditional love.

Alright, so guys have something they need to watch out for. You all need to watch your behavior. Be careful how you say things and how you act around women. In an age where chivalry is very nearly dead in appearance, we women will cling to anything that ever so slightly resembles it. We have an inherent need to be cared for. And sometimes, an extra caring male friend can over step boundaries without really realizing it. Without knowing he's done it, he's sending out signals to a hyper-receptive receiver, just by being a nice guy. So just watch yourselves. Make sure that if you don't have feelings for a girl, you make it clear. Be a gentleman without being too gentle. There's a balance. Like I said, girls are looking for anything that resembles a true man. And sometimes, being friendly can come across as flirty, if you're not careful.

Any woman reading this is probably nodding her head in agreement. Well, it's your turn now sweetheart. I'm sick of all the crap guys get about their "behavior". I'm tired of listening to talks that are used to bring home the point that men are senseless pigs who don't understand anything about anything. And I'm so done with the whole "women are the crown of Creation; far above anything else. Something men must chase after. But men are too incompetent to know how to treat their women like a true man should." Granted, not everyone thinks this way. But more often than not, I find most "relationship" talks to be similarly repetitive in nature.  I hate having my gender placed on a pedestal of something impossible to live up to. Men, you've been lied to. Because we have just as many issues and problems as you. In fact, we're worse.

To be continued. . . . 

Let's Get Naked

First, I pluck my eyebrows until the color of the skin around them resembles a cherry tomato. Next, I use a thin brush to carefully apply a small line of green eyeshadow as an eyeliner above my eyelashes (because I'm too lazy to go out and buy actual eyeliner). I gently brush a layer of brown and then gold to my lid, and finish with mascara on my upper and lower eyelashes. It takes about 8 minutes and 52 seconds (my roommate timed me once...). What I have just described is the routine that I must follow before I allow myself to leave the house.

The application of makeup. Some days, I sincerely believe I can't live without it. If I leave the house without it firmly plastered onto my face, I feel gross. Bare. I say all the time that it's stupid when girls feel that they can't be pretty without it. But I'm just as guilty as anyone else. Honestly, I don't use a ton of makeup. I use some on my eyes. But even the little that I do use seems necessary and imperative to my appearance. I look at myself in the mirror sometimes when I'm not wearing it, and think, I'm so glad man created artificial enhancements. 


Okay. If you're a girl, and your internal operating system agreed with the above statement, then there is something intrinsically wrong here. If women are at the point where they rely on artificial means in order to feel good about themselves, then we're just that much closer to a futuristic Skynet paradigm. And trust me, after years of smearing powder, creams, and paints onto our faces, our natural beauty will most certainly not "be back". (If you haven't caught the reference yet, please excuse your uneducated existence and go watch more movies). But in all seriousness, how can we look at ourselves and NOT see anything but pure loveliness? How can we glance at ourselves in a reflective surface and say, "I need to cover that up." In the words of Magneto from X-men: First Class, "Have you ever look at a tiger and it's stripes and thought you ought to cover it up?" Yeah. I just went full on nerd.

Putting on makeup isn't an inherently evil thing. That's not at all what I'm trying to get at. There's nothing wrong with adding some minor adjustments to yourself to enhance the natural beauty that's already present. The problem occurs when we women genuinely believe that we don't have beauty without it. We define ourselves through appearance on a daily basis. The clothes we wear are usually an outward manifestation of our inward personalities. The shoes and bags we buy are to enhance those fashion choices. The way we do our hair, the jewelry we choose, and lastly, the makeup we apply, are all ways we present ourselves to the world. And there's nothing wrong with presenting ourselves in this way. There's nothing wrong with loving clothes and shoes and makeup. But there is something wrong with becoming our clothes and shoes and makeup.

I'm not even going to try to touch on the subject of the social media. We all know how it affects our self- esteem. But let's take our self-esteem back. Let's show ourselves that we can be beautiful without relying on artificial means. That we can be lovely and feminine without being fake. Even if we only prove this to ourselves. Don't worry about the impositions of humans on this planet. As long as you can look at your reflection and be more than satisfied with what you see without being covered up. Which is why I'm issuing a challenge.

THE CHALLENGE
Pick a day. Any day. As long as it's within this star date. Look at your makeup bag. Now back at this blog. Now back at your makeup bag. Look! The bag is now non-existent. Look back at this blog. It is filled with unending encouragement. Now look in the mirror. What do you see? Keep looking. Your reflection is the most beautiful thing in the room. And I sound like the Old Spice guy.

Okay, here are the parameters of the challenge. You must pick one day and go an entire 24 hours without applying even the slightest bit of makeup. Not even that teeny bit of mascara that makes your eyelashes just that much longer. Or that little bit of concealer to cover up that pimple. Nothing. Accept yourself as utterly gorgeous and fantastically beautiful. Allow your face to be naked. Because you are fearfully and wonderfully made. Maybe a lot of you will find this challenge easy. Some of you definitely won't, and some of you won't even consider it. It just breaks my heart to see so many lovely women cover up their beauty in the hopes that they will become "beautiful". For me, after going a couple days without reaching for my safety blanket of eyeliner, I find it much easier to stay away from it altogether. To use it sparingly. To not completely rely on it.

Girls, ladies, women. Let's remove the facade of artificial beauty and push away our insecurities. Let's stop worrying that our eyebrows aren't shaped a certain way. That we have too many freckles. That our eyes aren't the right color. That our lashes aren't long enough. Let's metaphorically cast off the shackles that we use as "safety blankets" against the media's chilling expectations. Let's remove any doubt that we aren't society's glimmering gems. Let's bare it all.

Let's get naked.

Brain Spew

I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing. With anything. But specifically, with this "blog". What is my goal for this? What do I hope to get out of this? Why even bother figuring out things to write about? Even right now, I'm metaphorically slapping myself, trying desperately to come up with something interesting, attention grabbing, and deeply philosophical that will leave the reader speechless at my level of creativity and talent. So is that what this is for? Attention? That's pretty lame. I hope I'm doing this is for reasons better than that one. When I first thought of the idea of doing something like this, it started as a "journal" of sorts. Just some files on my computer that I would sporadically save things in. I most definitely did not intend for people to view anything in said files. Like, seriously. I would have thought that I would have shot myself to prevent that from happening. Now that I think about it, if ever there were a time machine....

The thing that bothers me is this: I was attempting to challenge myself. I wanted to do something that made my clumsy feet step over the caution tape of my cordoned off comfort zone. Something that made my insides want to be on my outsides because I would be so uncomfortable sharing what I had to say. Even though it hasn't even been a week since I started this, I already feel as though I'm eons away from my initial reasons behind beginning it. I guess I was hoping to see myself in a raw light. Totally strip away anything that covers up the pale flesh of my psyche. Bare it all. But even now there's a curtain. A facade of sarcasm and run-on sentences that I subconsciously hope will keep prying eyes away. I want to be honest with myself. But I guess you have to understand yourself before you can understand what honesty is in relation to yourself. But what does being honest with myself entail? Eventually, I hope to find out through constantly getting all my thoughts out onto virtual paper and organizing them until they make some kind of sense.

So, yeah. I don't really know where I was going with this. It's just some late night brain spewing. But we kind of need that once in a while. Just a typed out stream of consciousness. Something that flows like a river in our heads, but like play-dough when it gets to paper. Something that only makes sense to us. Something that we can call ours, even if what we're calling "ours" is a personal struggle or problem. Anyway, to sum up, I don't know what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. I'm figuring things out as I go along and trying desperately to be true to myself. 

Whatever that means...

The Importance of Spelunking

"For if, in time, we come to the end of one journey and find that our lives once more intersect, then take me with you on your next adventure. I'll be a good-hearted companion, an optimistic soul, and a joyous friend. Happy to have the chance to travel with you once again."

There's nothing more fulfilling than a well-needed excursion, an exciting escapade, or a spontaneous adventure. And there's nothing more vital to these than good company. While the occasional lone journey for the purpose of reflection and self-exploration is always good for the soul, there's something special about experiencing travel with companionship. I'm not talking about some long, drawn out journey through mountainous terrain or a cross-country drive from Maine to Southern California (although, now that I think about it, bucket list?). Sometimes, all one needs is a late night trip to Sonic for slushies and greasy appetizers. Or a midnight venture to a playground swing set. Or a decision at 7:30 on a Saturday night to have a barbecue at 8 by the lake. Possibly even a long walk to a field full of stars. But any of these "adventures" are meaningless and pointless without wonderfully fantastic people to take with you.


Fellowship is an integral part of our basic human needs. Companionship with people we respect and admire is something that sets us apart from every other organism. I love good times. I love having good times with good people. And I love having those good times with those good people for the sake of saying "Yeah, that's right. We did that." When was the last time you woke up and said, "Today, I'm making a freaking fantastic memory. Today, I'm gonna climb a tree, scale a wall, jump in a puddle, and see how many marshmallows I can fit in my mouth. I'm gonna build a bonfire. Cruise around town in a beat-up car. Make a cake and get covered in flour. And I'm gonna do all of it by myself!" Yes! Wait, what?


I crave the chance to do all of this. But by myself? I want to be surrounded by good company! No one wants to do memorable things by themselves. I have an inherent need to share adventures and experiences with others. I want to do epic things with epic people. Or completely mundane things. Even a seemingly boring trip to the grocery store can become insanely spectacular when you're with the right people (and when you have way too many grocery carts...). Adventure is everywhere. All you need to see it is the right pair of aviators.


Sometimes, however, I get a little too preoccupied with making future memories that I forget to enjoy the ones I'm living. I want to be able to soak in the present and exist in just one moment at a time. But I also want to get through and do as much as possible in the shortest amount of time. I don't want a single day to go by wasted. The challenge I face is taking it as it comes. There's quite a bit to the art of spelunking. It's not as simple as some people would believe. Everything in moderation. And location, location, location.


So go do something exciting. Fill up your gas tank and just drive. See how far you get before you run out. Take a turn onto a road because you like its name. Pick up a few people on your way. Allow your life to intersect with those around you. Be someone who people don't want to do something without. The kind of person of whom others will say "It's not an adventure without them!"


Just don't forget your aviators.

Temporary Home

An explanation.

Leaving college and freshman year behind for the summer was the most heart-breaking thing I'd experienced all year. I sat in the airport waiting for my flight that was delayed for ANOTHER two hours (is Southwest ever actually on time?) when I couldn't handle it anymore. I couldn't take the fact that I was leaving home.


But wait, I thought to myself, you're not leaving home. You're going home. 


And that's when I realized that if home is really where the heart is, then I must have some genetic deformity that leaves its host with two blood-beating, life giving organs. I felt split in space and time. I had two homes. Two places where I was welcome and comfortable and loved. Two geographical locations that I found I could miss simultaneously. After thinking on this for a bit, I fired up my computer, waited twenty minutes, and wrote myself a little poem. (It was a twenty minute wait because I felt that the 86-year-old woman with two hearing aids listening to a book on tape deserved the power outlet more than I did. Plus she was listening to Lord of the Rings. And you don't interrupt that. But I digress).

Tapping my feet
Anticipation welling up
Inside of me, heart pounding
As I await the metal bird
That takes me home.
Leaving my second skin
In the middle of the desert plain
And traversing the cold blue heavens
Of white and blue
That lead me home to you.
But inside
In the back of my mind
Like a dark cloud
Hovering, sneaking up behind
Is the sorrow as I leave
This place of mine
Where friends reside in laughter
And bittersweet happiness.
It’s a strange feeling
Tears and smiles
That leave me bursting with emotion
So strong, so quick
I can’t control
When or what I feel.
Goodbyes were said
Memories reminisced
And now as I leave this second skin
To slip back in
To the old one
I’d thought I’d lost
I realize that this place is more
Than just a temporary home.

Dubstep Diaries

A refrigerator being crushed by a T-rex giving birth to a humpback whale while in the next room over Thor is releasing the Kraken. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you dUbStEp.

A lot of people are intensely into this new-ish genre of music. And there's an equal amount of people appalled by the fact that we list this "noise" under the heading of "music". As with every other form of self-expression, there's bound to be some controversy. I wasn't really all that into the metal-crushing sound of despair hitting a ceiling fan. Until I realized it was absolutely beautiful.

When I hear the term "self-expression" I think of a person painting a masterpiece. Or writing a poem. Or singing from their heart. I think of creativity coming from the inner sanctum of the soul. A room held under lock and key. A place with golden knobs, oriental rugs, and colorful furnishings that we're afraid others will disapprove of. When I think of self-expression, I think of a specific location inside of a person that's bright and airy; and when a person unlocks this hidden room, shining bits of beauty meander out towards the rest of the world. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Well, it's wrong. It's wrong on so many levels. It's horridly, horridly ignorant. It's also wrong.

I realized a short time ago that no one is that neat and tidy. No one's inner self is an unending field of grass where unicorns frolic in rays of rainbow sunshine. Life is messy and people are messier. The "inner self" is mixed with mashed up gunk that we don't know what to do with. Sure, we contain a beauty that is meant to be shared with humankind. But that beauty is intermingled with frustration, anger, resentment, fear, and just a touch of self-loathing. We are certainly not perfect. And there isn't a special place inside of us that is. Every single part of us is tainted by our fallen nature.

Like I said, usually when I thought of self-expression,  I thought of some kind of almost perfect beauty that emerges from the depths of our souls. Ya know, the usual philosophical jargon.  After my recent ruminations, however, I've come to realize that the completely perfect representation of what's really going on inside of us is dUbStEp. (Gosh, I love random letter capitalization). 

Everything that dubstep is, everything it sounds like is exactly how I feel. There's a mixed up musical emotion of deep bass, electronic whizzes and whirls, bells and chimes, squeaks and revving engines. But amidst the chaotic rumble of the refrigerator being crushed by the T-rex, there's an underlying order. A line of melody and timing that the machine of dissonance follows. It's like if someone took all the mixed up gunk and beauty inside of you and splattered it all over a canvas. The raw emotion blares uninhibited through the speakers. No words, just what seems like pure, unadulterated sound. That's the beauty of it. Because it's not unadulterated. It's been tinkered with and fixed. It's been played with until it's creator is satisfied with the product. But the perception of it is a chaotic one. How could there possibly be an order to this "noise"?

Well, how can there be an order to the mish-mash mess we attempt to self-express? It's almost a comfort to me. Like, I can now see myself (or rather hear myself) in dubstep. I see that it's possible to put into order what seems so decidedly disordered. But in a way that's so raw, it takes you by surprise and leaves you dumbfounded. I realize I'm all over the place, but I promise, I'm getting to the point.

My perception of myself has changed. I no longer believe that there's something wrong with me because my inner self isn't that beautiful land where unicorns reside. I always thought that that's what it was supposed to be. I always imagined self-expression to be a representation of something pure. But I've realized we're not pure. No part of us is pure. What's inside us is messy. And for me, through the clashing of seemingly randomized sounds, I find an order. Those times when I don't know how to get out the burst of energetic electricity inside me, when all I can think to say is "SHPLURGDEBURWESHXI". That's when I completely relate to the chaos of dubstep. It's messy, but beautiful.

Just like me.

Some Introduction

What prompts us to share ideas?

I love imposing my views onto other people. It's a horrible habit, and a vice I've been tirelessly working to eradicate. But, nonetheless, I love telling other people what I think and why they should think it as well. Why? Because it's fun. Because I get some sort of satisfaction from proving someone else wrong. Because it's human nature to argue. These are simply my best guesses. But the question still remains: why do we want to voice our ideas and opinions to other people? And why do we most often hide behind the safety of our internet to do so, since we are "obviously" confident in our claims of truth? I honestly don't know the answer. But I will admit that I am one of these people. Well, duh, I am creating a blog.

The reason for this blog.

Like I said, I like to share ideas, opinions, and thoughts. But I, like any other person, like to do so without being interrupted and outrightly challenged. What better place for me than a blogging site? However, that's not the only reason.

I can't possibly count the number of times during the day when my brain goes into daydream mode. You know exactly what I mean. You're sitting, standing, kneeling, crouching, back-bending, hand-standing, whatever it is you do, and your mind is completely somewhere else. I daydream and I philosophize, and quite often I have really fascinating ruminations about life, death, love, nature, brownies, you name it. But I never write anything down. I want to, because every time I do the daydream, I learn things about myself. I discover more the inner workings of what makes me me. And whether or not I decide to share this blog with anyone (or if I do, that anyone actually reads it), it doesn't matter. This is for me. For my peace of mind. And for the growth of my soul. 


Some random warnings.


1. I'm not an English major. I. Love. Sentence. Fragments. Run-on sentences make me giddy. Grammar usage is not my forte. If this is going to bother you, and make your inner grammar Nazi twitch with horror, LEAVE NOW.


2. While I don't usually intend to offend, offense usually happens anyway. Odds are that whoever reading whatever I write (type) won't agree with me on something. This is the internet. I'm willing to take that chance.

Wrapping Up.

Hopefully, all goes well and I actually enjoy this. Because, to me, that's the most important thing. If you don't like what you're doing, what's the point? We all need that outlet of creativity that helps to make us a well rounded individual, and I guess this is mine. However, unlike the great artists of music (Beethoven, Mozart, Liszt), art (Picasso, Monet, Van Gogh), and story (Homer, Dante, Dickens), the expressions of my inner self will most likely go no where. They'll stay here, never to be famous, quoted, or thought of again. Never to be immortalized or praised. And that's just how I like it. See, me and my ramblings, we're not here for eternity.

We're just passing through.