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.

 

What are you waiting for?

Sometimes life is just easier to understand when you use metaphors, at least for me it is. If I can find something to relate my current crisis to, then I can usually find a way to approach it or at least find more insight than trying to face it head on as it is. One place I find myself relating to often is a waiting room. The type of waiting room varies by what I feel like I'm waiting for. I'm the kind of person that enjoys living life far more than waiting for life to find me, but there are times when I know I am needed to observe and not act. The problem is, no one likes waiting rooms. Waiting rooms are places specifically designed to be temporary and you always want your stay to be as brief as possible, but sometimes you are there for a longer period of time than you expected. What do you do then? Waiting rooms aren't designed for extended stays! The chairs are uncomfortable, the magazines are few and often out dated, the walls are are bare aside from a few generic pieces of poorly matched artwork. I've been in a few waiting room where the only interesting item in the room was the state licensing on the wall. I've never gone anywhere in which I was looking forward to spending time in the waiting room. Your outlook and patience, however, can vary depending on what you are waiting for. If you are waiting in a doctor's office, your mind can be in several different places. If this is a check up, you might bring a book, settle in a chair, and wait for the whole thing to be done. You know what to expect, you know the nurse that will be calling your name, and as long as there aren't any tornado sightings while you are changing into your gown, you can assume that the mundane experience will be brief and life will proceed as normal. Other times, you may be waiting for relief. You may be feeling ill and dealing with symptoms you couldn't heal on your own with over-the-counter or holistic medicine. You are anxious and uncomfortable and you probably feel like everyone in the waiting room is repulsed by you, hoping they don't catch what ever you have. You are waiting for whomever to call your name and lead you to a cure. Occasionally though, you may be waiting for something else, maybe results from a recent test or to undergo surgery. You might be in a waiting room you've visited several times, but now it seems different. Time seems to have stopped and even though you are anxious to go, you understand that life may be completely different once you are called through the doors.
Doctors' offices aren't the only places with waiting areas. Maybe you are meeting friends at a restaurant and you are waiting to be seated. They might give you a menu and offer you a seat at the bar, but all you really want to do is start your dining experience. Sometimes I go to a restaurant and know exactly what I want. I have a specific craving for a tried and true recipe and I know it'll hit the spot, but most times I am up for a surprise. I like to try new adventurous places, read the menu thoroughly, ask the waiters advice, and try something I've never had before. At those times, I am so excited and can hardly wait... will it be an inventive new sushi roll or maybe even the habanero curry I've been wanting to check out?
Sometimes your house can feel like a waiting room too and that can be the worst! You might be waiting for the phone to ring or waiting for a friend to return after a long absence, you might be waiting to feel better, or waiting for the popcorn to finish popping. Maybe your waiting to yell "surprise!" or waiting to confront a problem that is long overdo. When you are waiting at home, all the walls feel like they are closing in around you and there is nothing within your possession that can occupy your mind. You can't get the house clean enough, or do enough jumping jacks to exhaust your thoughts, and the silence is often too deafening to endure.
Right now, I feel like I'm in all kinds of waiting rooms. There are plenty of things I'm anxious for, but I know that, at the moment, it is my time to be patient. I think I am here right now to gather the grace to accept whatever might come, whether it be the phone to ring, medical results I've waited years to hear, or a big spicy bowl of habanero curry.

One Size Fits All

According to several web sources I have found, the average American woman is 5'3.7", 152 lbs., and has a BMI of 26.3. While I do feel somewhat accomplished that I fall short of all these statistics, I am very aware of the challenges of finding clothes, shoes, and styles that are flattering to my frame. Like most women, I am burdened with the chore of sorting through aisles of clothing and daunting trips to the dressing room only to leave downtrodden and vowing to never eat anything other than celery again. Every week, without fail, I will succumb at least once to trying on so many articles of clothing and changing that eventually the amount of clothing piled on my bed far outnumbers what is left in my closet. I will then resort to pouting in my robe until I settle on the lesser of my attire enemies, but the cats will have at least triumphed to a well-deserved nap upon the mound of cotton, silk, and polyester. I have learned that I am not the only woman that spends a good amount of time, washing, ironing, and hanging loads of clothes only to find she has nothing to wear. I am also not the only woman who waltzes over to the bathroom mirror in what she feels may be the winner only to have the mirror beguile her, "Hello, hi. I'm Fatty McWrinkle and apparently I can't dress myself." Why are we so critical of ourselves? Is it vanity? Is it low self esteem? We are all so different and even though the average American model is something like 5'11" and 117 lbs., I don't really want to be like that, they face their own challenges (however, I certainly wouldn't mind trading for a day or two.). Have you ever bought a "one-size-fits-all" article of clothing? They are almost always too wide, too long, too something, because one size could never really fit ALL or even most for that matter. I do feel that clothes can certainly enhance your confidence, but nothing can truly make you feel good if you don't feel comfortable in your own skin. No amount of makeup or crunches will compensate for what you truly see when you look at yourself. So maybe the issue for me isn't a new haircut or finding the best type of top to flatter my figure, but maybe some soul searching is in order. Although there will always be times when I'll want to burn down my closet and all it's contents, I know that neither this or a lavish shopping spree will result in a gratifying image in the mirror if I ignore what needs the most improvement, and no I don't mean my thighs (although that couldn't hurt :) ).

Bearing Good Fruit

I hate to become a cliche, but moving to California has certainly fueled my wine-tasting desire. It annoys me to no end when I see something with such a long history turn into a media-fed trend. The art of wine seems to be one of Hollywood's latest victims which will inevitably be an attempt to dilute even the richest of cultures. I guess those of us with real appreciation will still be sipping long after the bandwagon passes. I was interested in wine long before we moved here, but being surrounded by vineyards has totally enthralled me in viticulture. The science, passion, and history of grapes (and wine) is very inspiring. I've gone wine tasting many times in various places and each time I always find myself interviewing the bartenders and listening attentively as they go in to detail about their art. One interesting fact I learned on my last wine-stained outing was how long it takes to mature a vineyard until it is suitable to produce wine. That particular vineyard needed to age for ten years before it produced adequate grapes for wine. Ten years! I can just imagine feeling so anxious to start this amazing new adventure, being filled with passion, and finally committing to this new way of life. Then have to toil for ten years completely unsure of what the outcome may be. This must take so much faith in what you are dedicating yourself to. I can consider all that I've been through in the last decade, the commitments I've made, and how many times my faith has wavered. I wonder how many vineyards fail in that time, unable to see it through all the rough patches like droughts and storms, or how many people realize that their dreams of becoming a winemaker was not to be and that they must regrettably reap their young vines and start anew. Maybe they were too hasty in their endeavors and failed because they started out the wrong way. Perhaps some winemakers might make it through those rough years, so anxious to taste the literal fruits of their labor, but still be forced to wait patiently as the delicate juices ferment in their barrels. By this point, the winemaker may be physically exhausted, mentally drained, and desperate. Should he just crack open a barrel to taste at the risk of ruining what would have been a truly fine wine? Should he rush off and sell it because he is struggling and needs to support himself? Or should he continue to wait patiently, faithful in his hard work, his commitment, his passion; wait to see what miracle is being created within and what the future holds for his beloved vineyard? Occasionally after time and effort has been exhausted, some vineyards just don't make it and that's ok if it were never meant to be, but as I sipped the ten year old prize-winning sample the bartender graciously shared at the last winery I visited, I was grateful for their patience. There is nothing wrong with younger wines, but the complexity of an aged wine is incomparable. Unlike newer wines, this wine had no bite, no bitter aftertaste. The flavors were distinguished, I would even say confident. It tasted rich and balanced, not tannic. Wines that are aged properly, absorb the delicate flavors of their surroundings and become better with time. Ten years for a quality red wine is still relatively short in the aging process, but still the taste of time made an amazing difference. Although I was a cynic to aged wines truly being all they are made out to be, I've learned that some things are definitely worth the wait. So, here's a toast to patience, a toast to faith, and for some, even a toast to looking up your old address (whatever that means).

Chocolate or Vanilla

"Look to the cookie, Elaine. Look to the cookie." This is a bit of advice from Jerry while eating a black and white cookie on The Dinner Party episode. While I recognize that this was about race relations, I can't help but think about the Black and White cookie when I consider 2009. The biggest reason for this is moving. We literally spent half of the year in one state and the other half in the other. I can't help but compare the differences sometimes. Since I'm not discriminatory to vanilla or chocolate, in fact I'm quite fond of both, I'm not comparing this year in terms of pros and cons; it's simply a comparison of differences. Like the cookie, my foundation is the same: my values, my personality, and my nature, but it really amazes me how contrasting things are with opposing surroundings. Some may say Wyoming is simple and boring and while I can see why, I learned to appreciate the simplicity of it. When we left for California we had the highest of expectations. We were leaving plain vanilla for the Wild West. California is known to be exotic at times and beautiful. There are so many different ways to experience California and we couldn't wait to try it all. Since my first visit, I loved California so I was anxious. It's been six months since we moved and it hasn't been a let down, but it has been curious. Sometimes things can look so much different then they actually are and like many things in life, sometimes it's just better in smaller doses. Now that we've moved on to a new year, I'm excited for what this year has in store. In the end, Jerry's black and white cookie caused him quite a bit of angst, and there were certainly times when I was in the middle of conflicted sides during the past year and I questioned the outcome. I'm thankful that it ended well and I can't wait to savor another.

Soledad

There's a long road ahead and she slips into the driver’s seat.
She doesn't know where she's going,
but she's headed for a place where her heart and her head meet.

Driving away, she’s driving away.
No destination in sight,
but she'll find her way.

Warnings were there, this time, she knows.
Feeling the pull of the road
and the push from here for her to go.
There’s more here, don't go, but she's gone.
He stands with his guitar, hallow breeze,
and he waits until dawn.

Driving away, she’s driving away.
No destination in sight,
but she'll find her way.

Trying to call out, trying to remind her each mile she gains.
Her eyes are ahead, no looking back. This hurt will wane;
letting go of the pain.
Her tears aren't fuel, but its working. Memories aren't company, but keep her on her way.
Too far gone to turn back,
do you hear the words I say?

Driving away, she drives away.
No destination in sight,
but she'll find her way.

Snapshots on the visor fade, letting go of the loss that she's always feared.
Hope is a breeze blowing through her hair.
Love is a whisper, but she's not there.

Driving away, she drives away
No destination in sight,
but she'll find her way.

Quarter-life Crisis: ✔

It's no secret that I have some quirky OCD habits and that I am a compulsive list maker. I love making lists! Christmas lists, grocery lists, goal lists, even spice lists! Pen and paper is my equivalent to a security blanket and list making is my little way of gaining control and perspective on situations. So, maybe that comparison to Joanne from Rent wasn't so far off, but I'd consider myself more of a Type A hybrid than a total square. I just hate that feeling of being "typecast" with certain expectations even if I have a few characteristics here or there. Life is full of expectation without much consideration for gray area. It seems to start when you are are school-aged, what crowd you fit into, what clubs you belong to. By the time you graduate high school, you are literally wearing your label in the form of a Letterman jacket. My whole existence has been spent in the gray area, never quite feeling like I've accomplished all those expectations. Now, I'm teetering the edge of my twenties (gasp), and I'm looking at that quintessential "Twenties checklist," and knowing that, once again, I have unfulfilled expectations. Everyone in or beyond their twenties has one of these lists whether they acknowledge it or not, and I personally believe that is one of the reasons hitting the 30 mark is so difficult. For some, the checklist is completed in perfect order, and by the time some turn 27, they can take inventory with a sense of accomplishment and bright-eyed naivety at the wonders that lie ahead in the next few years, others aren't so lucky and they may feel rushed to meet the deadline at the back-end of their 29th year, and still there are others that see the the list ahead, appreciate the few checks they have scattered on the page and wave the white flag of defeat that they have failed. What happens when you fail? Is that what drives once beautiful and perky young women to moo moos and beehives? Or once prospering young men to Bermuda shorts and moth balls? Let's take a look at the list. In our generation, our twenties are mainly spent establishing the type of person we want to be and hitting all the big spots in adult life, i.e. degrees, career, marriage, children, mortgage, credit card debit, travel, etc. (Reference LIFE, the board game, if you have any questions). Maybe I played house too much as a child, but my expectations for my twenties didn't veer too far from the list above, just add a little creative detailing. What went wrong? I've given it all my effort, but as I gain speed on the downhill slope to thirty, I feel incomplete and I feel that I have failed at my twenties. I know my life hasn't exactly followed the proper order of things (I'm pretty sure life-threatening disease was suppose to be a little further down the road), but I am struggling to understand that while these things are suppose to naturally progress, I have plateaued at such a young age. It's like a relay race, and people five years younger are speeding past, but I haven't been handed the baton. How do I respond to the questions: "What is your degree in? Do you own a home? When are you guys going to finally have kids?"...all I hear is, "You're how old? You haven't met our expectations. You haven't completed your twenties checklist. What's wrong with you?!" So, here I stand with my worn, yet incomplete list inching towards the front of the line for the inevitable 3-0. Will I be able to meet those expectations? Venture off into my thirties with 2.5 kids, a healthy career, and white picket fence? Or will I raise that white flag and adopt a few more cats? Maybe I'll just cross-over and give Maureen a try.

Be our guest

This is an odd confession, but I have to admit that the idea of a guest bedroom still kind of eludes me. Maybe it's because I grew up in a small house with two siblings and we never had a room designated for guests. When someone came over to stay, we just converted one of our bedrooms to the guest quarters. Since Wayne and I have moved from Texas, we have had a second bedroom reserved for guests and often extra things that we don't have a place for otherwise. Currently our guest bedroom also holds our vacuum, my wedding dress, sweaters, purses, military gear, Wayne's uniforms, and our fur babies. I do get a little sad having this bedroom, complete with a bed and chest of drawers newly refinished, because it's unoccupied. It's strange for me to have this part of my home that I rarely use and go days without even entering it. I would like to have another name for this room other than "guest." Maybe "The Billings' room," or "Kandy and Brooke's room," or possibly one day "Baby's room." Not having a true designation for this room makes it feel so hollow and vacant. I feel like the rest of my house is pretty much in order, well lived, active, but this whole section is longing to be used. Our house is small and one story, this extra square footage could be great some where else, but it is where it is and I like having this room; I feel like it is destined for something other than to be a generic "guest bedroom," only used on occasion. The times when we have had friends and family over, our house has a much homier feel and I forget about the desolation of that room. Every inch is filled with luggage, pets, toys, LIFE. During those times our house has no void, no space that isn't used. Along with these visits, however, is the ending and once again I'm left with this space, only this time, it feels even more lonely. I often walk by this room (after all, I have to if I wanna get to my bedroom or a bathroom) and I think about the visitors we've had stay there before and those possibly to come. The quiet of that room is sometimes more than I can bare and it's those times I wish there was someone to fill this space more than ever! I still clean this room on a regular basis: vacuum, dust, wash the sheets. It's always there, prepared and waiting. I guess that's the purpose of a guestroom, a special place in your home, reserved for what's, or should I say who's, to come.

Stowed Away

Vacations, traveling, and visiting friends and family have been a big part of my life the past two months. Vacations are great whether they have been planned for a year or if they are a spontaneous weekend getaway. Lately, my life has been all about coming and going; so eventful and exciting! Now that I finally have the time to sit and organize the pictures from these recent events, I'm finding so many moments I'm grateful to have captured. As we all know though, one of the biggest drawbacks to vacations is the packing and unpacking. No matter how conscious and neat I try to be when I pack, my suitcases are always a struggle to zip due to being over packed when I leave. Like any time in my life involving a scale, my fingers are always crossed when it comes to weighing, hoping I won't be over my limit. When I'm finally on my way, I always have the same fear, "Did I forget anything? Did I leave anything behind?" no matter how many times I retrace my steps those thoughts still linger. On the drive back after a wonderful weekend trip, I glanced back in the backseat at our luggage and thought about all the laundry and clean up I'd need to do when I got home, but something else occurred to me aside from the accumulation of belongings in the backseat, I realized that there is so much more that I am bringing back: I've got so many fantastic memories that I didn't have before. With these, comes all of the emotion I invested in each moment: the reunions, the surprises, the concerts, the dinners, the early morning rising, and all of the new places and people. With all of this, I still have that persistent fear, "Did I forget anything?" Unlike my packing concerns, this time the question is much more retrospective. I want to know that I made the most out of every second. Did I see everyone? Did I say thank you? Did I show enough appreciation? Did I say I love you? Did I make sure that each person knows how much they mean to me? Did I jump at every opportunity?... whether it be to dance around the living room in a tutu with my niece or bang on a cowbell off beat in front of 200 people while my best friend sings. Knowing that my time is limited, I am a sponge and I make sure I leave without regret. All of my experiences condensed to heartfelt memories preserved in my mind. Safekeeping and fuel to get me through a long stretch without my loved ones near. I cherish each piece I take with me from every visit and hope that I don't forget anything.

Come Fly With Me

This will probably sound strange, but I love airports. I love flying, I love boarding, and I even love those moving walkway things. I don't love the food, but then again I'm not completely crazy. I love to see the planes come and go and I LOVE to people watch. People from all over the world coming and going, some rushing, some taking their time, some shopping, some eating, some grooming, some doing business and some getting settled for a long vacation. There are so many types of people feeling so many different things. This is what I love most. You can see people full of frustration and haste rushing to get from one gate to the next while checking their email, balancing their checkbook, and adjusting their stockings all at once. Others may be laughing and hugging, so happy to be reuniting with loved ones, even for just a few days. They are so excited about whats to come in this visit whether it be a holiday or a bachelor party. Other people you see may be sad after just parting, having to say goodbye again to a friend, to a child, to a parent, a piece of themselves that they don't want to leave behind. Sometimes I wonder if it's the energy of so many things happening simultaneously that draws me to the airport. Reluctant endings, hopeful beginnings, so much all at once. When I travel by car, I miss this anticipation. When you drive, you and all your emotion are contained in your vehicle. Like cells within the human body, everyone zooms by minding their own business, going here or there. You can't see or feel what the other drivers are experiencing (except on those rare occasions when certain drivers reveal their feelings through finger gestures, but we won't go into all that now :) ). The airport is where it all comes together, the heart of traveling. People still coming and going, but you see them as a person not just another hunk of metal speeding by. I guess it is a little odd that I am so fascinated by such a filthy, hectic, and stressful place. Perhaps the real attraction is because on a sub-conscious level, I'm just really excited to indulge in my superstitious and delightful combination of ginger ale and Twizzlers on the plane. What ever the reason, I can't wait for my next flight and be a part of the airport vivacity (as long as I don't forget my quart-sized bag!).

Reality TV

During my hiatus from society (i.e. a job or regular play dates with fellow military spouses), I admit to falling victim to daytime television at times. I never get trapped in it or lose touch with the reality that I am sitting alone watching reruns of outrageous scenarios of fabricated drama. I guess I turn it on for background noise while I'm cooking or doing laundry. I've never been much for soaps or talk shows; I prefer the brainless and trivial humor of sitcoms. As ridiculous as it sounds, I've considered at times what it would be like to actually have friends like these, although I know people like that couldn't really exist. TV land is the only world in which you can wiggle your nose and turn your husband's boss into a monkey or afford a high rise apartment with a view as a waitress in a cafe. Life would be easier, I think, if things got too rough to handle, you could just add "to be continued..." and walk offset for a week. Characters in these shows never have to worry about going to work when something more interesting is going on and they can travel anywhere at anytime so there is never an episode of homesickness or feelings of loneliness. There is always a friend walking in the door and a perfect punchline to every joke. There just isn't enough time in a 30-minute episode to see Grace worry about how she will pay rent for her downtown office when she hasn't had one design job in the past two seasons or see Jerry deal with relationship issues bigger than his date having "man hands." I think this is one reason I can never get wrapped up in t.v. and commit to watching a show on a weekly basis. I have a hard time relating and not thinking too deeply about the show. Sure, I've had times when I have had "Scrubs fantasies" and difficulty relating to my in laws like you might see on some shows, but unfortunately I can't blink an eye and make things go away (or reappear). I wish my worst problem was that my best friend went to Bloomingdale's with another woman. I wish all I had to do was talk it over a cup of coffee and turn the "applaud now" sign on. I wish I never had a fat day and I could walk out wearing the perfect outfit no matter what the occasion. I'd never have to worry about going to an interview with lipstick on my teeth and the camera would just switch angles if I was having a bad hair day. I wish I had theme music playing to encourage me on my jog or a whole audience say "aww" every time Wayne kissed me on the cheek or, in the very least, go some place where everybody knew my name! I might handle risky situations better if all I had to do was flip to next the page on the script and see that all is well in the world and that this episode was going to end with a good laugh. So, what will the next season bring? Will Wayne and I finally have our dreams come true? Will I be reuniting with a close friend? Or will my show be canceled? I guess we'll just have to stay tuned...

BAMBOOzled

Here is a picture of my only plant. It wasn't even my plant actually, it was a gift. I'm not sure what I did to deserve it; I feel like it just fell in my lap one day and ever since that day I've tried to give it everything it needs to grow. I've never been good with plants, somehow no matter what I do to keep it growing, they manage to give up on me. I've had people tell me about this plant. They've said it looks like it's dying, it isn't big enough, or that their bamboo plant is doing so much better, but I've had faith in this one. Maybe it's just my perception. Maybe after having so many seemingly healthy plants die on me, I've just wanted this one to make it. The past few weeks, while all of the other decor in the house has been packed and my usual obligations are ceasing, this little guy has called my attention... despite my watering,pruning, and care, it hasn't responded. The leaves haven't perked up, the branches aren't standing taller. Would he be better if I just left him alone? Is he tired of trying to survive in a place that he doesn't belong? I always feel that things are brought in to my life for a reason, but what if his purpose is complete? What if he was just meant to be a pretty gift for a while and now it's his time to be let go? I hate the thought of giving up on him. I hate the thought that I failed again and that I'm left with the unique vase that it once thrived in (before I got a hold of it of course). Nothing else could fill that vase, nothing else would fit the same and quite honestly, I don't want to try to make anything else grow in it's place. I don't have a green thumb. This is something I've admitted, but I was given this chance. Maybe the reason it is still on my counter is not because of it's potential to thrive, but my selfish desire to hang on to it. I am facing a dilemma. Soon everything in the house will be packed and loaded into the moving truck. Soon I will be too. What will I do with this guy? I want to bring him so badly. I want him to be the showcase of our new home, perhaps even displayed on the coffee table, but is that what's best? I could read more about how traumatic changes of climate are for houseplants, but I also know that this one is different. This one might absorb a better atmosphere and grow bigger than I could imagine. Is this the product of faith or is this just a green dream? Should I let it go now? Leave it in the only place it knew and move on with my life. Is this the end with my little friend?

A little here, A little there

As I get down to the countdown before we leave, I'm finding myself writing several mental diary entries a day. I don't really have the time or focus to jot (or type) them all, but my mind seems to be in this constant state of contemplation where nothing is as simple as it seems and everything is symbolic for something. I think it's the finality of where I'm at right now so I'm trying not to read too much into things; I just feel so dramatic. I'm seeking a constant where there can't be, and desperately searching for a stable place to turn to whether it be in a friend who wants that closeness, or simply an effective workout routine I can look forward to... everything seems to be changing. I suppose that is just where things are suppose to be right now. I'm back in the waiting room of life again. Waiting to be needed, waiting to be trusted, waiting to settle my roots and grow. For once, I would like to be an active participant in the changes in life, for my voice to stand out enough to create a positive change, but that seems to be a role I'm not destined for. How can I expect to be silent and watch everything spin out of control? As long as I can remember, God has taught me that he knows what is best for my life, while frustrating at times, He really does a better job of running it than I do so I'm not struggling with that aspect as much. I do pray that he uses me to touch others in my life so that I can be a tool to create a positive change in theirs. So often, I feel like the opportunity is open, but I fail to let Him work through me. It is these times more than any other, I feel like I have no true place. I'm on unsteady ground and sent back to the waiting room to flip through boring magazines until my true purpose finally calls.

My old friend Teddy

I have been called neurotic and I think it's probably true. It's a personality trait that has been with me since early childhood. I do have a need for balance, a need for closure, a need for completion. I think there are worse things, but this has certainly been a curse at times. Life is about learning, aging, closing chapters and starting new ones. I don't mind most things about life, but something that I never really learned was letting go. Letting chapters end and beginning new ones. I often think about my childhood. Well, thinking is putting it lightly. I have no problems with letting my mind drift back to moments when I was younger and just reliving them for a bit. This is something that I do to cope at times and it is a comfort to me. I have no desire to relive my childhood, adolescence was far too painful for that, but I love to sort of travel back in time to a place where things didn't have to make sense. Sometimes I think about my toys that I loved and the games I played. I remember at one point I had all of my stuffed animals on my twin sized bed. There was probably close to thirty or forty that I happily squeezed in the middle of. My mom would always tell me to move them, but how could I chose which ones to keep? They were all so dear to me. Each one from a different time, whether it was given to me as a gift or one that was made. They each told a story. I had a ritual to kiss each one making sure no one was left out, I didn't want any jealousy! Ok, so this is sounding more like confessions of early OCD tendencies, and maybe it is. The point is, there was something so comforting for me to have this completion and to know that no matter what, they were there. Of course as the years went on, some of my fluffy friends moved to the floor, some to a box, and some to those children less fortunate than I. I learned I had to let go, but some of them stayed. Some of them have even traveled across the country with me. My oldest friend still has a place on my bed every night (Wayne is so understanding!). Growing up, growing apart, learning to let go is not something I'm good at, but something I've learned to embrace. At the same time, I've also learned that somethings don't have to be let go. Somethings are meant to stay and be apart of you even if they aren't as big of a part. I don't carry my teddy every where I go, and I don't cuddle with him every night, but he's there. Friendships in life aren't as easy as toys. I'm not sure that they will be there the next day like all of my stuffed animals were. I don't know how to let go and when or if I should sometimes. I just hope that the ones that are there and hold a special part of me will be there.