Back to Life, Back to the Future

So, it has taken me, well, years to return to my thoughts. To allow myself the time to focus and reflect, and then time to document that such things actually occurred. This is the first blog I've written in so long that as I mark the return to The Tenth Room, I also need to mark my return to my home state and all the changes that have taken place. Since I've last visited, I've gone through a rocky and wonderful pregnancy, an extremely tumultuous move and another move and finally another move. I've also embraced the amazing world of motherhood to multiples. I'd like to say that life is completely unrecognizable, but I think it'd be more accurate to say that I think I'm finally living my life. I don't know, things are wild, but make more sense than ever before. God has done amazing works in my life, but along with the miracles, He's taught me plenty of lessons. One being patience (still a work in progress) and another being why I want to invent the time machine.  In the past few years, I've gone through more life lessons that I could have ever imagined. The process wasn't easy and the lessons have been lasting, but there are so many of these precious times that I wish I could pop open a little time capsule and see them all over again.

Both a gift and a blessing, I've been aware of how quickly time passes since a very young age. That ability has allowed me to savor moments that most people at certain ages might have washed away with all the trends they obsessed over. At the same time, it's caused me to feel overcome with desperation to hold on to fleeting moments that I know will flood my memory bank. I've learned that children make nearly every moment one of those "desperate, clawing, SSSLLLOOOWWW DDDOOOOWWWNN" moments for me. It's not that cliche motherly stuff you read on every other meme on Facebook that gets me. Before children, I've loved deeply and find myself frequently daydreaming of some of those "good ole days." I have a wonderful family, an absolutely amazing husband, and a few fantastic friends that carry pieces of my heart everywhere they've ventured around the globe. While my children have taught me many things, they have not taught me to love or even to cherish heartfelt moments.

My children have taught me about hope. Not just the Hallmark version of hope, but the fall on your knees, thanking the Lord hope. They have taught me to slow down and focus. I've always appreciated my multitasking abilities, but that's not what our lives are about. It's handy to get through the day to day that we humans have decided is just sooo important. Kids aren't like that, they put everything into exactly what they are doing whether it be inspecting a blade of grass or learning how to crawl. They put every ounce of energy and get genuinely excited about whatever "little" thing they are doing, without remorse, criticism, or judgement. They have taught me to live for today. I've noticed that I've never felt satisfied with my achievements, always feeling like they were meager and so small compared to what is still needing to be done. Then I look at my Jonah and Jillian, fighting, crying, pushing to do something like roll over or climb on the bed. When they finally do it, there is such honest satisfaction and enjoyment on their faces. They don't do these things with the burden of knowing that one day they are going to have to audition for first chair in the band in high school, or get their college degree, or land the perfect job, or complete the Boston Marathon. They just want to get on the damn bed!  I guess they are still teaching me to appreciate the small things. Most importantly, they have taught me to love with everything, all the time. It's not a new love, I've loved them long before I even knew I could be the vessel of such miracles. It's just that they are adults in the making, just like you and me, that I just happen to have invested every bit of myself into without even a thought. People are suppose to grow, gain independence, and move on. It's just crazy to see the metamorphosis right before your very eyes. I'm learning that I am utterly in love with every stage they have been in and it is a very conflicting emotion for me to celebrate their graduation to another stage and still want to push their little butts back down and swaddle them. I wonder if my parents think that about me! I know one day, both of them will be adults and not remember the excitement of these "little" accomplishments, think about how fascinated they were with my nose, or feel the urgency for me to hold them (do you still remember feeling that way about your mother?), but I'll never forget that. That is the hard part of parenting. I don't think one has to become a parent to realize these things, but I never would have if I hadn't become one, I know that.

It's not hard to figure out why humans have had such an obsession with time machines all these years. Moments can be so moving, so life-altering. Pieces of time are held in your memory just a touch too faintly to satisfy the craving. Sometimes you just long to have it again. So, until I can gather enough Plutonium from the Libyans and get my hands on a DeLorean, I guess I'll continue to pack away these precious memories into my time capsule, I'm sure there is room for a few million more. And maybe I can get back to putting some of these thoughts and memories into my blog to give my memory a little break!

Infusion

I'm sitting here on a cool August night sipping tea and savoring this privilege to contemplate. This is a lovely moment. Usually life is spinning so fast and changing at warp speed that I'm afraid stopping would cause a colossal domino effect to the natural order. It's such a rare opportunity to appreciate all that has happened, is happening, and will happen. It's even more rare to have the ability to stop taking it all in and just sip tea. This is as close as I get. It's a little embarrassing to admit, but the tea I'm drinking is very mainstream and Americanized. It actually came from a bag, in paper packaging from *mumbles* the grocery store. I know, I know, this is a travesty to all that tea should be and a blatant mockery to the history and delicate beauty of true tea, but it was there and I was curious. Somewhere there is a jar of beautiful jasmine pearls with my name all over it, but this will do for now.

The tea, in all honesty, isn't the point though. I'm just in awe of where I am. Not just physically, although watching the sun set from this terrace is amazing, but just where I am in life. It's overwhelming. When life takes me to the pinnacle of possibility, I feel as if I am in a free fall; and in one respect I am. Life is and should be a series of steps into pure faith. No one, I do believe, truly lives that way, or at least recognizes that they do. We live in a world of statistics, basing so many decisions on chances and odds, never fully accepting that life isn't within our total control. When I'm driven to moments like these, I'm scared to oblivion naturally, but I'm so extremely grateful that life isn't within my complete control. There is no way I could have planned for beautiful moments like these, or imagined the turns life would take that have led me to the wisdom I've gained from them, and there is absolutely no way I could find the appreciation I have now. So, after stepping off the ledge, I'm reminded of many things that keep my faith afloat and my heart and mind from drowning in fear. I'm not concerning myself with the odds that are for or against me because for each and every person that every statistic is based on, they had their own individual battle of fear and faith. Life isn't about numbers, it's about our own journeys. I would never want to look back at this time in my life and think that I really beat the odds or how much of a chance I had a different outcome, I just want to look back and know that I was lead by God, being completely and utterly blessed.

Transience

I'll say goodbye tomorrow, to the faces I long to see;

Move through a sea of faces that mean nothing to me. 

Searching for a warmth I can hold dear,

But it fades to a cold façade the closer I draw near. 

Why can't I float along and grow as a dandelion where I land?

I long to fall back in place, once again a flower in your hand. 

This journey moves us all forward whisking through this transient life.

All seem to seek refuge beyond the worries and strife. 

We bid goodbye too soon to the ones we wish we knew

And to the ones that we knew well, the sweet dandelion that we blew. 

I will take tomorrow and all the mysteries it brings,

As long as I can keep my yesterdays, their remnants blowing in the breeze.

Goldilocks

This may start off a little familiar. I have written about a similar topic not too long ago, but in light of the post-holiday, return-line season, I found myself, yet again, being challenged to find the right fit. Sometimes when I go shopping I wonder who came up with sizes and why these are the ones that stuck. At what point did society decide that all women must  fall perfectly within these 24 (or so) numbers and decide to start mass producing everything under the impression that there are only 24 different sizes in all of the female population? Well, I'm here to tell you that there are at least 25, because I happen to not fit perfectly in anything. Not even shoe sizes come easy; each pair is always a little to wide, or small, or shaped funny. As I sat in the shoe department recently surrounded by a bunch of boxes and shoes that didn't feel right, I was reminded of an old fairy tale. Then I did what any seemingly happy-go-lucky shoe-loving woman would do, I started thinking about this situation existentially: do I really have a proper fit anywhere? Life should be custom made for each individual, yet here I am living in housing that was created to fit the "average" military family, getting paid based on "average" income, taking classes based on "average" student populous, and trying to find a job in the "average" economic market. I'm not typically the rebellious type, but I can see that this is another situation in which I am not a good fit. I've tried to squeeze into a city that was too small and fluff up my ego to fit a bloated steroetype, but it doesn't work. I am who I am and it has taken me a long time to grow comfortable with the ever-evolving person that I am. It might be a battle to find my place, but I am secure enough to know that this isn't it.

With this epiphany comes another potential problem that Wayne's been calling "the grass is greener" syndrome. I do not want to keep chasing this mirage of paradise simply to find that no matter where I go, I'm the problem that I run into. My solution for this is not to follow Goldi's footsteps and eat blindly from whatever bowl I find more appealing at the moment. Every place I've been so far might not have been the right fit for me, but it was worth it to try on. So, whenever the time comes to make a decision to leave, I want to cautiously consider all aspects. I think I've reached a point where I want the comfort of a perfect fit without feeling like I'm settling into a place that belongs to someone else. Also unlike the coifed towhead that we are familiar with, I am unable to just hop about trying to find the place that is most suited for me. I am not alone in the search and we have obligations that we must consider. It's also important to be realistic in the search for the right place. I've lived in places that were always too hot and always too cold, but I think the worst is living in a place that is wrong in all the other aspects. Not to say weather doesn't play a role in comfort, but just because something has a perfect facade doesn't mean it's the right place for you, right? It's a matter of understanding what compromises you are willing to make. I'd rather deal with shoveling three feet of snow everyday for nine months out of the year or sweat while I blow dry my hair every morning than to wake up in the most beautiful place in the world knowing that I'm not home.

The story of Goldilocks is about a curious girl that finds herself in the wrong place and instead of trying to understand how she got there or (more importantly) how she can create a place of her own, she creates a disaster in a place that doesn't belong to her and runs away screaming evading a certain "breaking and entering" charge.  I may be blonde and I'm sure this process will include putting up with a lot more than a bowl or two of subpar porridge, but I promise I won't fall into the same mess as Goldilocks.

Palm Reader

 Over the past couple of months, I think that I've endured just about every emotion known to man. During this time one memory has struck a chord so deep within me that every time it crosses my mind, my eyes swell with tears. It isn't of one particular moment in my life necessarily, but one of many times I remember: My mom was talking to a neighbor outside and tenderly stroking my younger sister's hair. This was one of countless memories of the summer evenings we spent outside, but the intensity of the memory is what captures me; the way my sister listened intently to the conversation, the smell of fresh cut grass, the voices of the neighborhood, and most of all, my mother's hands. Twenty years later, we've far outgrown those carefree summer nights, but I remember her hands and the love they provided. So long ago was that time, that I've since seen my younger sister caress her own daughter in that same comforting way.

My dad and I recently discussed the idea of writing a biography on our hands: the places they've been, the jobs they've done. I haven't been able to stop thinking about this concept. As l look at my own hands, I think about the positions they've held, the words they've written, and all the times they've broken my fall. As new chapters in my life unfold, I wonder where these hands will take me.  I often feel the things I've done are insignificant, but everything I've done has led me to where I'm going. My hands have donned perfect manicures and coffee burns. They've been cut countless times by shears and while preparing dinner. My hands have held the promise of my wedding vows, the fragile hands of a dying loved one, and my niece minutes after she was born. My hands have carried moving boxes and many many tears. My hands have shaved my head, opened bank vaults, and signed my first speeding ticket. My hands have also been stained with blame and guilt over the years, but it's all these things and so much more that have shaped my life. One day soon, they will hopefully hold the key to our first house and my college degree. They may even find a cure or save a life… One day my hands will hopefully be the loving touch that brings comfort to our child in the same ways my mother brought comfort to me. I'll never know what the network of lines on my hands stand for…whether I'll have financial fortune or simply notoriously wrinkled hands. I don't believe that my fate can't be read in my palm, however I do know that it's mysteries are within my grasp.

About Face

For some reason it is difficult for me to admit when I possess one of those typical girly characteristics. I'm not sure why, but it feels like I've succumb to weakness and must admit defeat. I may pull off a tough exterior, but alas, I confess: I love make-up. I do, I hate to pass up the counters at Macy's, I'm a Sephora junkie, and I'm sure that there have been times when the number of eye shadows I possess have outnumbered the dollars in my bank account. It's not that I am one of those that can't check the mail without piling on the rouge, but I do feel a little more confident when I take a little cosmetic time. I find it interesting that the act of applying make-up is often referred to as "putting on your face." Maybe it's because I tend to lean to the less is more side, but I just can't relate to that expression. I have had the unfortunate experience of having a makeover that, after 5 seconds in the Houston humidity, felt like my face was melting off, but I can't imagine wearing so much make-up on a daily basis that it actually defines my face. I know plenty of women that do though and when I have seen them sans their synthetic exterior, I actually notice their attributes that their make up seems to camouflage.

Cosmetics have had a pretty amazing history as far as what has been considered a beauty treatment and how it was accepted in society. Some of our habits these days may be tedious and even painful at times, but at least we've moved past bloodletting and applying lead to our skin to create so-called feminine beauty.
There have been practices traced back in history that make a face-lift sound like fun. I wonder how it all got started, where people (mainly women) started to feel that natural beauty needed to be enhanced. Why do I feel less secure when I face the world with my blonde eyelashes and pinkish hue?  Did it start with the unrelenting goal of beating Aphrodite out of the running? How horrible is it that the very idea of a "beauty contest" even exists? I guess it all goes back to some ideal people have about beauty being a social status, how else can you explain the ever-changing image of what defines beauty?

Not to disregard the creative side of cosmetics that I personally enjoy, but we literally spend millions (if not billions) of dollars trying to find ways to feel more secure with ourselves, be accepted, reverse aging, to just tolerate ourselves a little more! Why is aging such a bad thing anyway? I mean, there is truly only one way to stop it, and at that point, even the longest-lasting lipstick won't help you. My goal here isn't to inspire boycotting the cosmetic industry, but mainly to to reconsider allowing MAC, Urban Decay, Maybelline, Estee Lauder, Clinique, or Oil of Olay, to tell us that we are beautiful. Perhaps instead, we can gaze into those little compacts in our purses and find beauty in what we've faced instead of what is on our face.

Lost Love(y)

I resent you for taking my music, knowing that certain songs just belong to you.
I resent you for taking my sunsets because with you, I've shared some of the best.
I resent you for taking all my hikes; after all, you kept the cliff bars in your bag.
I resent you for taking my spontaneity; I wouldn't know it if you hadn't popped into my life.
I resent you for taking my dark sense of humor, because only you made me laugh when I wanted to cry.
I resent you for taking my cream of wheat, and all the wonderfully simple things brought to me by you.
I resent you for taking Halloween because with you I faced the scariest one of all.
I resent you for taking with you your wardrobe because I still hate the clothes in my closet. 
I resent you for taking away the beach because I was happiest when you were there.
I resent you for taking my writing because half of the fun was reading your response.
I resent you for taking away my love of cooking because without you nothing tastes as sweet.
I resent you for taking away the pleasure of margaritas because now I feel lonely in restaurant bathrooms.
I resent you for taking Wyoming, Colorado, and Northern California because I can't appreciate them without you.
I resent you for abandoning me on Facebook, because now I hate it even more.
I resent you for taking with you your cup because I can't finish the sake by myself.
I resent you for taking away the good trails, now where am I suppose to fall off my bike?
I resent you for taking with you karaoke because now I know there's no better way to ring in the new year.
I resent you for taking all the Indy theaters because I haven't been to the movies since.
I resent you for leaving me to make the stuffing alone because Thanksgiving  just isn't the same.
I resent you for taking away camping because I can't put up a broken tent by myself.
I resent you for leaving your bottle of Tapatio because now it's lost it's spice.
I resent you for downloading your pictures on my computer because now I have more reminders.
I resent you for taking with you your dog because I love her too.
I resent you for taking away the fortune cookies because now I don't know what the future holds.
I resent you for the good times because the bad ones didn't seem so bad.
I resent you the most for being there because now it hurts even more when your not.