Reprise; To Being Understood

The idea that when a person dies you're allowed to let them have it--you're allowed to tell them all the things you never told them in life. And then if you've got breath enough, you can tell them you love them. Doing that in life would never work; it was just create rifts. Because after all the hurt, love never heals anything. I envy them that: that they write the way they feel. Am I really so different from anyone else on this earth? If only I could say the things I think, the way I really feel. To every person But I'm twenty-two now, and old enough to realize what should not be said, what should not be voiced. But as time passes I feel rifts growing inside of me, as they all stack up against me: the things I never say.

I'd tell you that you've paired me up with someone irresponsible--again.

I'd tell you that old age shouldn't mean you've forgotten what it means to be human.

I'd tell you I hate you passionately and love you dearly at the same time.

I'd tell you I'm afraid of my life turning out your way.

I'd tell you that you're a hypocrite.

I'd tell you that you're beautiful.

I'd tell you that I can see right through you, even when you think you're hiding.

I'd tell you that you hurt me more often than anyone--the person I love best.

I'd tell you that I'm afraid, but I think I can make this work.

I'd tell you I'm afraid of hurting you.

I'd tell you about the value of tact.

I'd tell you to give me a chance.

I'd tell you that you have no right to speak to me the way you do.

I'd tell you that you simply do not matter to me.

I'd tell you the things you think matter, really don't.

I'd tell you there are things I want, and then there are things I need, and you just don't understand the difference.

I'd tell you that I need to know you're real.

I'd tell you I still have a temper.

I'd tell you that you made me feel more insecure than I've ever felt.

I'd tell you that your impatience infuriates me.

I'd tell you that all I need is for you to tell me I'm fine just the way I am, the way you used to.

I'd tell you thank you for holding on to me.

I'd tell you to respect me.

I'd tell you that I'm human.

I'd tell you I admire you.

I'd tell you that I shouldn't have to convince myself I matter.

I'd tell you that nothing scares me more than thinking, 'Maybe, I don't.'

I'd tell you to take out the trash.

I'd tell you I'm afraid of doing this alone.

I'd tell you to put your phone on silent.

I'd tell you not to sing.

I'd tell you that you're the best man I've met.

I'd tell you that you are so very wrong.

I'd tell you to tell me everything and anything and just to speak for hours and hours and let me listen.

I'd tell you to trace my hand on a piece of paper.

I'd tell you, I wish you'd done it too.

I'd tell you that all I want is an apology.

I'd tell you that you never did anything wrong, it was just timing.

I'd tell you that you should have taken my side, because I would have taken yours.

I'd tell you that you should have treated her better.

I'd tell you to stop smoking.

I'd tell you that you waited too long, and missed your chance.

I'd tell you frustration is still my most common emotion.

I'd tell you not to pressure me to be like you.

I'd tell you to care.

I'd tell you that you made my life unbearable.

I'd tell you you're the best friend I've ever had.

I'd tell you if I could have sat out under the stars with you on your lawn all night I would have chosen an eternity of it, just to have you the way I remember you.

I'd tell you I'm letting you go.

I'd tell you . . . I'm so sorry.

I'd tell you I wish I was different.

I'd tell you that you were unfair.

I'd tell you, 'So was I.'

I'd tell you to listen to each other.

I'd tell you to let it go.

I'd tell you that you could have been more adult about it.

I'd tell you that you're forgiven.

I'd tell you that even when I'm with you, I'm so very alone.

I'd tell you I think you're an idiot.

I'd tell you that I rarely think that of anyone.

I'd tell you that you take yourself too seriously.

I'd tell you that you're worth every thing you think you've lost.

I'd tell you you're right.

I'd tell you that you're not as smart as you think you are.

I'd tell you that I really mean nothing at all in the grand scheme of things, but you--you mean the world.

I'd tell you that you're missing someone who is right in front of you; that she's what you need, that you're not looking.

I'd tell you I wasn't right for you; maybe I'm not right for anyone.

I'd tell you that you are everything; that I look to you in all things; that I belong to you more than I belong to anyone else.

I'd tell you that I'm blind, and I'm happy you have what you need.

I'd tell you thank you.

. . .

I'd tell you. I'd tell you. I'd tell you.

I'd tell you the truth.

I'd tell you I love, love, love, love, love you.

The Economics of . . . Being Who You Are

I’m taking Econ 110 this term. It has got the worst reputation as one of the hardest classes at BYU. I put it off for almost four entire years, although not taking it was hardly an option, because I was afraid of having to work hard. Haha. Yeah. That was the reason: I was afraid of failing. But here’s the hard truth I’ve come to: I really like it.

Maybe I’ve said this before, but my whole life consists of searching for ways to make more sense of the world. I thought Econ was math. And science. Numbers. Graphs. Typically, I have a very difficult time with connecting these things to the world I live in. It’s not that I don’t know they connect for some people, or that they connect at all, but that I just don’t see it. So I’ve always stayed in a nice place over in the corner by the art and the literature and the history. I like it over there. Economics is those things I mentioned, vile as they are, but it’s more than that. It’s another way of thinking of the world, of connecting it together. Dipping my toe in this other pool of thought has caught my fancy, and I’m dreaming in economics now.

Simultaneously I’ve been taking French 201, taught by my roommate’s fiancé, one of the coolest guys around. I love French. But it does not come naturally. I have a difficult time with conjugations and grammar, and understanding what I’m hearing because—did you know this—like NONE of the last SYLLABLES of words are pronounced in French. A lot of the words sound identical to an untrained ear. So I can understand Sarah—my roommate and long-time “Pourquoi pas parlons en français ensemble?” partner because I’ve spoken to her enough and because the pace she speaks at is normal (as in she takes infinitesimal breaks between words and breaths between sentences). Anyway, this is not easy for me. (Which is another funny aside: I knew it wouldn’t be easy, I was pretty sure I’d be worse at it than I am, but I really really wanted to learn the language. Like really. Which gives me another perspective on the whole, ‘I fear having to work hard./I fear failure.’ bit. I’ll have to re-think that one.)

Point. Right. My point is 1.) I’ve been thinking in a new way, given this economics class, my mind is being stretched. I really like that. 2.) French is not easy, but I do it anyway. (*See ‘Senior Year of High School’ chapter if this seems like a difficult concept to swallow—What? Jennifer do something that’s hard for her? Pft.)

The reason why these two things go together is because in 1 year (approximately), I graduate. Which means I need to do something useful with my life so I can go off and sculpt the Pietà by the time I’m 25. This is important to me. So, I’ve been thinking about succès—that is, success. I mean, how in heaven’s name does one become successful? And—the clincher—what is success, anyway?

Money.

MONEY? What the heck? I mean, honestly—is that…?—yes?—why?—that doesn’t—oh. Right. Money.

Conundrum #1. Nothing I have done up until this point (that is . . . 21 years of age) has been for money. None of it has been with the end goal of money in mind. I do not know success in terms of a dollar value. Maybe you say that’s a good thing. I say . . . we’re in America, folks, and money is kind of how you get around. If I don’t want money to be the measure of my success, well then I’ve got to have enough money to do the things I want to do while I’m not making money so that people will notices me for it. Point: I can’t write the Declaration of Independence if I’m working 40 hours a week, have got a wife (er…husband), and 10 children running around, now can I? No. I’ve got to own Monticello. Also, I’ve got to have slaves (so maybe the 10 children will work out for me). Also, people need to think I’m a genius. Also, I have to be a genius. THEN, maybe, I can write the Declaration of Independence in my spare time and people will be amazed. (Also, Thomas Jefferson was the President for a while, and kind of lived out of his own pocket-book while doing it. Can anyone say, Thank you? Instead of hating the man for . . . . I don’t know, not being perfect, maybe we can be grateful that he gave valuable years of his life to the origination of this country. JUST a thought.) So back to money. I don’t understand money. Maybe you clear your throat and say, “You’re taking an Economics class.” I say: “This makes the problem more pointed, not answerable.”

You look at me again, clear your throat again and I roll my eyes and look down into my Econ book and see the word, “Specialization.” Wow. Econ really does provide answers to life.

You see, specialization in economics is . . . (I wanted to use the term ‘the bees-knees’ here, but just couldn’t do it) vital. When people specialize in making or providing a particular good, everyone is better off. The people/companies who are best at what they do continue into the 21^st century (especially if they also get government subsidies and bail-outs, which is a nice plus to existence) and those who aren’t . . . well…that’s economics. In general, if the apple orchard owners are off making computers and letting all those apples get eaten by worms and birds—not specializing in what they’re best in—then the entire market is worse off for it.

Am I a part of this market?

Yes.

I sigh. Does this mean I have to specialize?

If you want to be successful.

Oh.

Conundrum #2: I want to know everything.

Conundrum #3: Learning everything takes a long time. It also takes a lot of—you guessed it—money.

So what you’re saying is, if I want to learn everything, I need to be successful, and if I want to be successful, I need to have money, and if I want to have money, I need to specialize. Then, when I’ve specialized enough, maybe I’ll have money enough, so I will be successful and then I’ll know everything. (Haha. What I mean, of course, is that I can use my money to further my goal of knowing everything.—Another thing that will be hard to do, but hey, I’m willing to work at it.)

Conundrum #4: Because money was never my goal before, neither was specialization. Which means I’ve spent the last 21 years going straight for the ‘I want to know everything goal.’ WHICH MEANS I’ve been spending my time doing things like learning French even though who knows if it will ever do me any good, and becoming an American Studies major which is the exact OPPOSITE of specialization, but is actually what we call a ‘General Education,’ and taking ‘History of France,’ even though that doesn’t even go toward my major, and going on a Study Abroad to London because I thought that’d expand my horizons, and you know watching every movie under the sun, and really enjoying the books I’m currently reading, and writing about who knows what, and starting a movie blog with one of my best friends, and baking (Look me up when I’m 86 because my apple pies and cinnamon rolls will be perfect by then), and otherwise cooking, and having conversations with people, and creating collages on my living room wall. Oh, also, I really enjoy this Economics class I’m taking. AND LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING: THIS IS NOT SPECIALIZATION.

I could tell you that in all of this I’ve been trying to FIND what I’m best at. But THEN I’d have to tell you that I haven’t found it.

My father said something very profound a month or so ago, he said, “Because, you know, the nature of being good at everything, means you’re not great at anything.”

. . .

So is this my lot in life? I’m to be a well-educated, well-rounded, interesting conversationalist who can make the witty comment now and then, has seen a lot of movies, read a few books, can bake cinnamon rolls with the best of them, cares deeply about the state of American Politics, Economics, History, and Culture (but who knows random things about France’s History and also knows a little bit of French), has been to London, Paris and Rome, but in general isn’t great at anything?

Looovveely.

Conundrum #5: I actually like being a well-rounded person. I like that I can talk to anyone apart from a bigot or a hard-core conservative and be genuinely interested in what they have to say, and know enough about what they’re saying to talk with them about it. I like that I’m an American Studies major who really really loves learning French, and who wants to learn Greek, and Italian, and Romanian. I like that I spent four months of my life in London. I love that the only thing I ever had on my bucket-list—to see Versailles—has been crossed off. And now I want to see Caravaggio’s The Conversion of St. Paul and I want to stand near the Parthenon because it’s a building older than Jesus Christ, and I want to know where the library of Alexandria once stood, I want to hear the call to prayer in Cairo, and I want to go to Damascus. And I like that maybe those things will happen. I like that I want to know everything. I like that close to nothing bores me. I like that I’m willing to give anything a listen, a taste, or a thought (apart from drugs, cigarettes, tongue of cow, and squid). And I like that at the end of the day I don’t think I’m worse off for being open-minded.

I was reading in my Econ book, and it talks about human capital: “the accumulation of investments in people.” Education. The more knowledge that’s in my head, the more I’m worth. It’s a signaler. I mean—it signals to people that you can do something. That you can finish something. That you believe in your own worth. That you’re willing to invest in yourself. I’ve been wondering not what I’m willing to invest in myself, but what I’m willing to invest myself in. I wish I had the answer. Maybe 10 months from now when I write in my blog again, it’ll be a post about that very thing. For now, I think what’s on my mind is: what do I want to be great at? And—is what I want enough for success?

22.

Every year I write this post.

I'm twenty-two, which in general makes me rather unhappy.

The list of things I want becomes longer and less compatible. I'm about a month from 22 and birthdays are usually catalysts of the year that remind me I'm getting older and I haven't done any of the things I planned. But a few things have changed this year that are important.

1. Marriage is Plan B.

2. A Masters is necessary.

3. Publishing is possible.

4. French.

On Writing pt. 1

Writing is an experiment of persuasion. It starts with an idea: something you just have to get outside of yourself. Sometimes it hits you, sometimes it floats in beneath all conscious thought, sometimes you have to search for it, but suddenly its there and the only way to give it any real credence is to put it into words.

I would argue that all ideas are worth having—even if simply to be humored, analyzed, found wanting, and cast out—but which are worth writing about? Any careful experiment first requires an understanding of the basics, research, in depth analysis, and development. These steps are the ‘refiner’s fire’ for an idea. But even the best ideas are refutable at first, and Charles Dickens has a point: you must humor an idea a long time before it develops. And once it develops, it’s time to begin persuading

Persuasion is a fine line. It’s not about finding an idea that is impossible to argue—those are called facts—and persuasion is not equivalent to conversion. To persuade your audience is to help them see as you see—even if for only a moment. They need not walk away converted, for good writing has the power to communicate a vision, and insofar as your audience understands your idea the way you do, you have succeeded.

Our Sacred Tradition: A Christmas Post

Christmas morning, my father’s voice is deep and resounding but he is not the one who wakes us.

We sleep, huddled and crowded, too close for California nights, even in winter, but it’s the only way to make it feel like Christmas. It was 75 degrees last night, but we had hot chocolate all the same; it’s tradition. The small bedroom has only ever gotten smaller with each addition to the family, and it cannot accommodate three: clothes scatter the floor because putting them in the hamper is just too hard, books and papers from the semester not being quite over are merely litter, and every drawer or container is in some state of having been opened, or not having yet been closed. But the three of us would not have it any other way. Who would we be, if we were not us?

Rachel’s deep breathing makes it impossible to sleep until staying up any longer is simply not an option. Time ticks, and I use my iPod to listen to Nat “King” Cole—the voice of Christmas—to keep me thinking of how it feels to be back home with these, my favorite people, for just a moment of the year. Then, as Caitlin, who sleeps beside me in the bed, turns over one last time, I finally fall asleep with the knowledge that this will be over too soon: the mess, the hot blankets, the cramming of three bodies into two beds, and what it feels like to be here again.

The white door sticks as it’s opened: like paint not given time enough to dry, though it’s been dried since we repainted the room years ago. It wakes me up, because my music has stopped, and I wonder what time it is. It is still dark—too dark to gauge time by. My mother’s voice comes through the curtains covering Caitlin’s bed—the bed I share—and she tells us what time it is. Softly. On Christmas morning, her voice is soft. And without seeing her, I can imagine her dark, straight, peppering hair and the cherry-brown eyes she gave me, and the freckles she earned from a childhood out in the sun.

It takes a moment for Rachel’s slow, deep breathing to puncture as she wakes. The lack of steady breathing wakes Caitlin, and my heart flutters—a flutter I’ve only ever felt Christmas morning. Suddenly, we are cold, and we drag our eclectic array of blankets out of bed with us: blankets have always defined us. Rachel’s is one-side floral, other side blue fabric covered with punctuation marks, something you could only be given for free; Caitlin’s is a soft brown blanket, stolen from its intended use in the living room; mine is a worn lilac and off-white down, which has lost everything useful apart from its sentiment of familiarity. We creep as silently as we can—reverently—to our parents’ room. This we have always done—a sacred tradition—until we are called from their bedroom to the front room.

My father is in the living room, putting on his favorite Christmas music: the Roche’s “We Three Kings” CD, which we know by heart, and coincidentally is a singing group of three sisters. We’re warm again, but shivering from excitement. Then his voice comes, and it echoes in our hearts—the only sound that could or ever will. “Alright now,” he says. And we slowly make our way from our parents’ back bedroom to the front room. Before we round the corner, with ‘Star of Wonder’ playing in the background, we can smell the pine tree—another sacred and unbreakable tradition—and it smells just how Christmas ought to smell, and its scent is clean, and fills every piece of us. I push Rachel and Caitlin ahead of me toward the living room because I am oldest, and this is the way I have always done it. I imagine the living room, adorned for Christmas with two-decades-worth of accumulated decorations, enough for ten rooms, but only put to use in one; the curse of a small home.

Wrapped in our blankets, my father finally sees us round the corner and he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t speak again until later. But we wait for when he will. And as I take my place in our family circle—we begin our Christmas tradition. And I think, looking at my family, that perhaps a moment, no matter its end, can be enough.

What I've been thinking about lately.

Western Humanities is doing terrible things to me.  It makes me want to leave again--go somewhere (anywhere).  Who in heaven's name could be ready EVER to start life, when there is SO much to see?

Let's Talk - Written August 3rd, 2010 and re-posted due to Lisa's prodding

The sun is setting again, as it always does. The living room is pitch black, except for my computer screen,the light coming in through the window, which only gets half way across the room, and the few things it reaches which are illuminated: a slight silver.

A few moments ago, the clouds in the sky were a nice hot pink. My Dad likes when the sky lights up at sunset. He also likes the moon at any time of the day or night, and whenever I'm away and we talk, the first thing we discuss is the weather. There's something comforting to knowing that we'll discuss the weather first, and always--like an English ice-breaker before any real conversation. It's the most important thing, discussed at length, and then pressed to the bottom of the rest of our conversation, like padding.

In high school, a friend of mine told me that I made conversation an art form. It was his way of saying I could create a conversation out of anything. He was right: I can. It's meaningless to me whether it was a compliment or merely something to say (I've ruled out that it may have been an insult, as Josh Tarquinio was never one to insult people--least of all to their faces.) because it helped me realize it. But in high school, I wasn't fully aware of it.

There are a lot of forms of talking. Mindless talking I've never been particularly fond of. I'm not very good at chatting. That's what people do in semi-large groups at bars, or before church on Sunday. 'Chatters' just want to know what's up, what you've been up to, and what you're planning on doing. I am not a chatterer because I don't really have anything to 'chat' about. I'm also not a gossiper. Gossiping is a form of chatting where people talk about other people, telling stories about them, (scandalous or otherwise) that are either true or false--either works. Although, I sometimes am intrigued by mindless gossip, I feel bad spreading it and so it usually ends with me. I'm also not a nervous talker. Nervous talkers are people who talks to fill the empty space. A rule of thumb: only the first of every four sentences out of a nervous talker's mouth is ever of any value, the rest are merely ways of restating the first. I do not pretend to have covered a comprehensive list of the forms of 'talking'--I'm sure you can think of more--but these are the ones that come to mind first.

Some people are great talkers: whether by chatting or gossiping. I am not. Try either with me, and said 'conversation' will last about 2 minutes. I will proceed by telling you that nothing is really new. Yes, I'm still working at the same place. No, I don't go back to school until August. Yes, Caitlin is going into high school this year. And then, I'm done.

But there is a higher art of talking: the art of conversation. I am a conversationalist, and thereby interested in anything that can effectively be brought into and linked to the conversation at hand. (Also, being a conversationalist means I am biased to thinking conversation is a higher art--you are free to disagree, which I would be glad to discuss with you.)

There are some wonderful aspects to full conversations. Those, I will discuss later. There are also some . . . drawbacks . . . to being fully convinced--as I sometimes am--that conversation is the only way to communicate.

To discuss this further, I must bring your thoughts back to chatting. Even as a conversationalist, I recognize that there is nothing wrong with chatting. This post is not a knock on those who 'chat'. I much prefer people communicate through chatting than 1.) not communicating at all, 2.) yelling, 3.) layers of repeated misunderstandings. And anyway, I think most of the chatterers I've met (who aren't simultaneously nervous talkers--which is a really really awful combination) are very interesting people. For as long as they enjoy talking about their life and the things they're up to, I genuinely enjoy listening.

Examples. My best friend is more of a chatterer than I am; I think it's what she learned how to do first. What with 8 siblings, I'm sure her family was always discussing what was new with everyone. It was necessary. And there's a lot of value in 'catching up.' If it were up to me (thank heavens it isn't), I would have wonderful conversations with people whose names I would never find out. Chatting is how you find out what people are doing in life. It's socially expected for you to chat with people. After spending hours with a friend, my mother will often question me on what's new in their life. Most of these questions I fail to answer, and in her disappointment and slight annoyance that I spent 7 hours with the person and can't seem to answer a single question, I realize, 'I spent 7 hours with that person and I can't answer a single question.' Their favorite cat could have died, and I wouldn't know. They could be moving to Alaska in 3 days, and I'd have no way of keeping in contact because I didn't even know they were moving. These are not favorable situations to be in.

I am also aware that some people just have more to say than I do. They lead more interesting lives. My friend Janice is one of the best story-tellers I know--she can make a full story out of almost any occurrence and make the third time you've heard it just as entertaining as the first. She always had so much to say to me, and apart from loving every minute of it, I was consistently interested in what she had to say. We weren't having a conversation, she was telling me about her life and there are a lot of important things about listening.

For a lot of people 'chatting' for hours on end becomes a bit meaningless. I mean, after all, what do you really know about a person when all you really know is what they've been up to? I think you learn loads more about someone by having a real conversation with them. Conversation opens up a lot of doors, but there is a sort of art to it. All conversations should begin with 'padding' or 'flow' material (also known as 'chatting'). You just can't start a good conversation with out a little bit of chatting. People tend to take advantage of conversational padding, and they often dismiss it as unnecessary--especially when talking to an old, or good friend. But it also acts like cream to a conversation, it keeps it thick, and full, but soft and flowing. My father and I start with the weather, or random pieces of unimportant information like how dirty the carpet at the movie theatre is. It gets things started, it even sets a mood. But you're not meant to stay in one place--the chatting is meant to progress. My friend Heidi, who is one of my favorite people to frequently converse with, is a question-asker. She can ask you what color your dining room walls are and soon you're having a conversation. Friends Melissa and Lisa from London are also conversationalists: Melissa enjoys conversing about people--not gossiping, there's a difference--she likes gathering her information from things she's learned about the people she knows and building off of that, so she might first talk about an interesting person she met; Lisa and I seem to gravitate toward literature or food and as conversational padding, we might first discuss what we've most recently read or ate. This is important: this does not mean that the whole conversation that follows is about people, or literature or food, or how dirty carpets can become. It is simply the padding for the conversation.

So what's the point? Well, I was thinking originally--what am I good at and why the heck does it matter? The only thing I'm very good at is conversation. At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter, but it matters to me because it's all I'm good at. Following? For me, having a good conversation is as therapeutic as a good cry (without having to use as many tissues) or sitting in a hallway (without the need for a hallway).

But besides that, conversations make you think. And hopefully they help you work things out in your head so you're ready to change, to be better. Some people, like my good friend Jake--who I criticized today for this--don't like my tendencies to prod for conversation. I do that to him, mostly because he's the most interesting person I've ever met and continued to find interesting after six years (apart from my sister, Rachel, who becomes more interesting to me by the day--in a good way). I think he fails to realize that my questions are not to force him to think (although, they are, actually--so, I take that back), but to start a conversation. I like having conversations with him because he's one of my favorite people. I like making him think because he says the most worthwhile things when he's thinking. Like nuggets of conversational gold. When and if I get these gold nuggets out of him, I physically smile. I criticized him today because, through my prodding, he told me he no longer wanted to think about it (he does this to me often--which is cruel--hence the unnecessary criticism). He said if he continued talking about it he'd thinking about it all day. My first thought was: why should I care? My second thought was: would that be so bad? My third thought was: actually thinking about things, getting to the root of them, is what I do day in and day out--its exhausting, yes, but it's what moves us to change. My fourth thought was: I'm ready for Jake to change. He isn't. Well point. He ended up telling me what he was thinking about, by the way, which I count as a win. Sometimes criticism works, but only if used sparingly.

Sometimes you meet people you just want to talk to for the rest of your life.

One day, the world will see the beauty in the art of conversation. Here I am, to begin pointing it out.

Bottom of my Heart

"Blue like the winter snow in the full moon / Black like the silhouettes of the trees / Late blooming flowers lie frozen underneath the stars / I want you to remember me that way." - Frozen Charlotte Natalie Merchant

--

I don't know.  Is there every anything to say, really?

I haven't been thinking about anything much lately, except feelings.  Those are dangerous--feelings, I mean.  And whenever I begin a writing session it turns into a long list of complaints.  Well, I don't feel like complaining

I'm ready to return to school, despite that I'll miss my family, and my friends--though at home they are few.  Going back to school is what I need to do, but I feel like I've made a lot of progress with some of my relationships at home, and I'm afraid that leaving them will be like abandoning them.  Most of the time, even when it comes to people, I want to keep everything.

I've let go of a lot of people over the years, realizing that I just can't have everyone.  But more and more God is teaching me that I can't really have anyone.  That's a hard lesson to learn; a harder one to accept; the hardest one to live.  You can't make anyone do anything, even if you want it out of the bottom of your heart, which I realized is a place that only exists in me for some people.  Some people never get 'bottom of my heart' material, you know?  This is one of those stupid metaphors that I see in my head to explain how I feel about things.  I'm sorry.

Your heart.  Capable of being broken, torn, shredded, crushed and blasted into oblivion a thousand different ways and by just about anyone.  Also capable of being heavy, or empty, open, or closed, devoid of all feeling, content, completely and utterly full, or, in some rare cases, overflowing.  Assuming your heart exists at all, in this metaphor, and that it is filled with love, opposed to dripping with hate, jealousy, or disdain, then maybe you can understand what I mean by 'bottom of my heart.'  There are some people you will dig to the depths of your heart to pull out grade A material for.  There are others who simply skim the surface.  And, lets be honest, some people--even most people, probably--who don't get any piece of your heart at all.  It's nothing personal.  Maybe you just don't know them very well, or maybe they just aren't the type of people who require heart--perhaps they only require time.

There are the people like me--born with an open heart, full with love, and ready to give.  I used to give heart to everyone, unaware that you could get by in life without being sincere all the time.  That, too, was a difficult lesson to learn.  But sometimes people take without asking, and over the years, I learned my lesson.  I've learned to close my heart and search for the people who deserve any piece of it.  Unfortunately, not many people do.

But there is always one person who slips through the cracks.

He got in before I learned how to close my heart and now I can't get him out.  For him, I don't just keep my heart open, but I dig down to the bottom of it and come up with some truly rare gems.  It's not like he deserves it, but I give it anyway.  You know why?  Because for him, it's the only place I feel anything, and I just can't be objective.  He's always got to the bottom of my heart, without any real consent from me.  And I don't think any of that is particularly romantic, because it's not a romantic kind of love.  Romance is somewhere in the middle of your heart: deeper than civility, respect, or even consideration, and not deep enough for this.  At the bottom of my heart is the ability to forgive.  The ability to see past weakness.  The ability to see potential, and greatness, and hope.  The ability to see good.  I used to do that for everyone, now I only do it for him and I take everyone else as they come.

There are certainly people who have gotten to the bottom of my heart the hard way, they've gone through all the layers and they earned their place down there at the bottom (as it were).  He never did earn his place.  So why did he get to keep it, while everyone else somehow got pushed out?  Is it because I'm stubborn?  Because I'm one of those girls who can't see what's bad for them even if it's staring them in the face?  I never thought I was.  Who knows; anyone can be bad for you.  But sometimes there are reasons you endure.

I know I have a hard time letting people into my heart now.  Most of the time I even keep my family outside of it because it's just too hard to let them in, or to try to explain.  But that doesn't mean I want to learn the lesson--I still don't want to learn quite yet that no one is mine to keep.

But my heart--anyone's heart for that matter--is worth the fight.  Even if people steal from the bottom, skim off the top, or throw away everything you've ever given them.  I learn a little more every day what it means to give, or to feel.  When you can give from the bottom of your heart, sometimes you can just feel when people really really love you back, like you can see straight through them.  And it's hard to see through someone you love and know they don't love you back quite as well as you love them.  But if you really do love them, you'll give them all the time it takes for them to feel as deeply as you do.  Because, don't you owe that to someone who's gotten to the bottom?  Don't you owe that to someone who you've never been able to banish from the bottom, no matter how hard you've tried?

Because the moment you know they love you the way you love them is the moment your heart overflows.

And nothing's better than that.  Is there?

Turning 21

I turn 21 tomorrow.

In the last three-hundred and sixty-five days, here are some things I’ve done:

1. Skinny-dipping.  No real explanation needed.

2. Traveled to Europe on my own.  I traveled up to Scotland with Jackie and Julene, and out to Italy with Rachel and Elsa.  I also traveled around Northern England and to Paris with everyone at the London centre.  But to and from Europe, I traveled alone.  This was me, overcoming my fear of the unknown.

3. Lived in London for 3 ½ months.  This is part of a larger goal I have in mind for my life.  Before I settle down somewhere I want to live in several different places for enough time to get the feeling of the place—the pros and cons of living there.  I feel I can’t make an educated decision about where I want to raise a family or live out my life until I’ve experienced several different living situations and circumstances.  London was one such experience; one such circumstance.

4. Went to Versailles.  Ever since I learned of Versailles I’ve wanted to see it.  Because I never believed I’d ever go abroad, I didn’t spend much time thinking about the places I wanted to go or the things I wanted to see, but Versailles I can specifically remember thinking, ‘I want to see that.  I want to go.’  And I did.

5. Traveled to Italy. I wanted to go to Italy, of course I wanted to go.  But by the end of the London trip, I was ready to go home.  Everyone else was going home, but I was going to Italy with two girls I hardly knew.  It was a hard trip, and when I think back on it I feel I went it alone.  But I think of Rome; and I don’t think of much else with quite as much natural fondness.  I realize that while Versailles was the only thing I consciously mentioned to myself, ‘I want to see that,’ the Coliseum and Michelangelo’s Peita were two things that I haven’t been able to get out of my head since the day I saw them.  My heart wanted to see them, but my head never let me admit it.  Going to Italy may be the best thing I ever did for myself.

6. Started Running.  I’ve always hated running—always.  But I’ve proven to myself it can be done.  Just a short run will suffice, and I don’t have to hate it.   For several months I did it every single day.  Now I do it two to three times a week.  But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll call it the same: I’ve started running.

7. Began making Cinnamon Rolls.  Cinnamon rolls may be, hands down, my all-time favorite food.  I search for the perfect cinnamon roll everywhere I go.  But so far, I’ve yet to find it.  A while back it became a life-long endeavor to be able to make the perfect cinnamon roll and a perfect apple pie.  I know I’ve got my whole life to get it right, but I’ve started.  I’ve also finally been introduced to the making of an apple pie, which will be a longer and harder road, I fear, but one worth taking, I have no doubt.

8. Got my Driver’s License.  I know!  I’m turning 21.  I got it in May—almost didn’t make it!  But I did, and now I feel I’ve had it a long time.  A lot of things got in the way, but my right of passage has finally been passed.

9. Lost 10 pounds. This is, as of today at 2:45pm I finally lost 10 pounds.  I know it’s hard to believe with all the baking I’ve been doing, but I have.  I wanted to prove to myself it could be done, and I have.

10. Made Dinners.  I decided when I came home this year that I needed to be more useful than I’ve been and that we also needed to be healthier.  Not everything I make his healthy (see note about baking), but I made a dinner from a new recipe every week.  I’m expanding my repertoire, as well as giving my parents a break once a week.

11. Made Calls.  I used to hate calling people on the phone.  I mean HATE it.  I would do anything to get out of it.  Since I got my job where I was forced to call people constantly--banks, clients, other attorneys, etc.--I had to get over that fear pretty quickly.  And once I really started working at it, I did get over that fear.  There is one less thing in the world that hinders my ability to communicate.

Last year after turning twenty, I wrote down my goals for the year, or for life.

I wrote, “I want to write something quaint; I want to write a story that means something to people. Something that mends people, something that makes people think, something that gives them hope, something that inspires them to be better than they are.

“I want to get out of this routine, this rut, this inability to expand my personality—who I am, what I will do, who I will be. There are good things, things I don’t want to change about myself, but I limit myself too, and I think that’s unnecessary.

“Lastly, I’ve always wanted to travel. Whenever I told someone, the response would be, “Yeah, me too”—as if it weren’t really possible. But I’ve always felt that experience was necessary to the person I want to be.”

As for the first, I don’t know—I don’t think I have.  This year has not been a year for writing.  But it has been a year for many other things, and I’m beginning to get back into my writing the way I think I should, with a few added experiences and points of view.  And what’s important is that even though in some ways I’ve lost my desire to write, writing is still what I want to do.  It’s just not the only thing that makes me happy anymore, but it’s still the way I love to express myself; it’s still what means most to me.

I think going to Europe, and really working hard at making every day a little different and trying to find more things that make me happy has helped me get out of the rut I was in last summer.  And although getting out of the 'rut' that routine creates will be a life-long battle, it's one I intend to win. 

And the last—I have now done a little bit of traveling, and I was right.  The experience was necessary to the person I wanted to be—and I’m closer to that person now than I was before.  I think it was the most selfish thing I've ever done, and I always felt that being selfish was wrong.  But I also think it's one of the most worthwhile things I've ever done, and maybe I'm realizing little by little that wanting things isn't always selfish.  It's closing your eyes to everything else BUT what you want that's selfish.  And working toward what you want isn't wrong unless you refuse to see and help the people beside you.

--

I also wrote last year that “maybe all the things that I [had (or hadn’t) gone through] in the year of 19 were to get me uncomfortable enough to change, lonely enough to leave, and ready enough to get out.”  This I still think is one of the more insightful things I’ve ever realized about myself.  Why do I have to sink so low before I realize that it’s up to me to swim to the surface if it he surface is what I want?

I want to believe that I can accomplish whatever I desire to accomplish.

I want to write something worth publishing.

I want to learn French.

I want save up to go to Greece.

I want plan and save up to go on a trip to the South with my sisters.

I want to find a way to live in New England.

I want to find a career I feel I was made for and work toward it.

I want to read 50 books.

I want to draw design ideas for Marissa to create.

I want to bake/cook something new every week.

I want to keep in touch with all my friends—even when I’m away.

I have three-hundred and sixty-five days.

Ready?

Set.

Go.

Caring

I just needed to say something, but I didn't know what to say.

I think I write most when I'm disappointed in myself, and willing to admit it.  I can never feel good about myself too long before something reminds me of how imperfect I am.  To be completely honest, I probably wouldn't be comfortable in my own skin if I were confident or comfortable with who I was--who I am, I mean.  If things were bright and dandy all the time, I'd wonder what was going on.

I always think confidence is so attractive in people; I love people who are confident.  I gravitate toward them.  I think sometimes people think I'm confident.  Oh, they're wrong.  But I'll let them believe what they like.

Here's the thing: when I was in High School I went through this phase in my life where I cared about EVERYTHING.  I felt like if I cared about one thing I had to care about everything passionately, and DO something about it.  I used to care about my country, I used to care about my friends, about my religion, about making people happy and impressing them and doing something worthwhile and effective and constructive.  It nearly drove me out of my head.  As time went on, I came not to care about anything unless it was easy to care about.  And now I don't care--I don't care about anything.

Sometimes, when your head knows what it wants, it has to force your body to just go through the motions so your heart will care again.  I want my heart to care again.  I've let down a lot of people--especially my friends, and I think my family too, and I think God.  I'm working on the God part, and I think little by little maybe everything else will fall into place.  I just stopped putting any effort into anything and I felt like I needed saving until I realized that there's no one here.  No one here cares enough, or knows enough about what I'm going through to save me--and really, why should they have to?--so I told myself, 'You're just going to have to do it yourself.'  Funny.

I don't feel sorry for myself--I think I need to clarify that.  But you know when you're stuck in a rut and you feel like the only thing you need people to care about is the only thing they're not asking you about?  And you can't TELL them--that would defeat the purpose.  But, you know if they asked, you'd probably just cry.  I'm not ready to answer any of those questions right now, and I'm just not confident enough with myself to admit the answers anyway.  Or sometimes there are certain people you wished cared, and they just don't and it's like someone is trying to send you the message, 'They're not right for you right now' and you keep hanging on thinking, 'No, I can make this work.'  But you can't.

Well, that's what I've been thinking about lately.  I'm trying to make my heart care again.