Tuesday, December 11, 2007
ugh
Thursday, December 6, 2007
thoughts on love
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Falling in Love (Jodi Picoult)
~Jodi Picoult
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
voice of truth
"Voice of Truth"
-Casting Crowns
Oh what I would do to have
The kind of faith it takes
To climb out of this boat I'm in
Onto the crashing waves
To step out of my comfort zone
Into the realm of the unknown where Jesus is
And He's holding out His hand
But the waves are calling out my name
And they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times I've tried before and failed
The waves they keep on telling me
Time and time again.
"Boy, you'll never win!"
"You'll never win!"
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
The voice of truth says, "Do not be afraid!
"The voice of truth says, "This is for My glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
Oh what I would do to have
The kind of strength it takes to stand before a giant
With just a sling and a stone
Surrounded by the sound of a thousand warriors
Shaking in their armor
Wishing they'd have had the strength to stand
But the giant's calling out my name
And he laughs at me
Reminding me of all the times I've tried before and failed
The giant keeps on telling me
Time and time again.
"Boy you'll never win!"
"You'll never win!"
But the stone was just the right size
To put the giant on the ground
And the waves they don't seem so high
From on top of them lookin' down
I will soar with the wings of eagles
When I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus
Singing over me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
praise you in this storm
-Casting Crowns
I was sure by now
That You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say “Amen”, and it’s still raining
As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
“I’m with you”
And as You mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes awayI’ll praise You in this storm
And I will life my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
Every tear I’ve cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm
I remember when
I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry
You raised me up again
My strength is almost gone
How can I carry on
If I can’t find YouA
s the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain
“I’m with you”
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away
I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
random thoughts.
(for a pessimist, I'm pretty optimistic)
I never wanted to say this
You never wanted to stay
I put my faith in you, so much faith
And then you just threw it away
You threw it away
I'm not so naïve
My sorry eyes can see
The way you fight shy
Of almost everything
Well, if you give up
You'll get what you deserve...
Why don't you stand up, be a man about it?
Fight with your bare hands about it now.
(hallelujah)
Somehow everything's gonna fall
Right into place
If we only had a way
To make it all
Fall faster everyday
I wish I understood why people settle for a life that they aren't happy in -- with a person that makes them miserable. I wish that I understood why people don't value themselves anymore. I'd rather live my life alone, unmarried, than settle for someone who isn't the right one for me. I believe in soul mates, and I believe that there's one person out there that was concieved, created and made specifically for me. And if I don't find that person, then it wasn't meant to happen. I'd rather fill my life with my students, my animals, and all of those other things that bring happiness to my life than settle for the wrong guy and be miserable. I'd rather hurt and be in pain than be stuck in a marriage or relationship that makes me unhappy. I hate complacency -- when people get too satisfied with their lives and they just figure, well, this is it. Guess what, it's not. Complacency is akin to boredom. We were put on this earth to be extraordinary. We've been given the tools to be as such. I can't stand complacency. We should be reaching, all the time, to get out of our comfort zone and be better than we are.
also from Natalie Grant... this song when I first heard it, seriously brought tears to my eyes. it's called "Held".
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.
This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hand opens slowly to lillies of the valley and tomorrow
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.This is what it is to be loved.And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we’d be held.
We'd be held....
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know, that the promise was when everything fell, we'd be held.
This is what it means to be held.
Monday, October 22, 2007
..Quotes and such...
my favorites. I know that pain is a part of life, that hurt comes with taking chances. I know that some people won't remember me at all, and that others, I'll be someone they can never forget. In high school I was forgetable, 
except for the few who were my friends. I was satisfied with that. And in college too, but I don't want to be come just a memory for some people. And I don't want to be easily forgotten either. I am, however, irreplaceable. There isn't anyone in the world quite like me. That's not concieted or self-absorbed; it's just simply the truth. And this quote's very true -- everyone WILL hurt you, but who is worth the pain? It's up to you to decide because only you can decide who is worth it all, who holds that power over you. I think alot about being different, being "weird". 
As I grow older, I become increasingly aware that being weird is not such a bad thing. And I'm reminded of a quote from the film, Practical Magic ("my darling girl, when are you going to learn that being normal 
isn't a virtue, it rather denotes a lack of character"). I'm not normal -- I've never claimed to be as such and truthfully when most everyone else my age was going through the "I just want to be like everybody else" stage... I didn't really get into all of that. I was and am comfortable in my own skin. I am the kind of girl who's perfectly happy with a quiet night alone at home. My dad says that I walk to the beat of my own drummer... I hear a different strain of music in my head. I don't have any desire to be "typical." And I'm a.ok. with not being like everybody else. 
And I love this one. it's one of my favorites too ever since it circulated via email a few years ago. I think that too many people settle for something less than what they deserve and that we forget sometimes to be patient and that it takes time before our "one" comes along. The best ones are at the top of the tree. I'm hanging out at the top of the tree. I hope that you can read this one. It's one of my favorites because it's very true, at least in most respects for what I want put in a very simplistic way. Anyways. I had fun creating this blog entry. It was neat to try and find different image-quotes that I like. These were taken from http://www.freecodesource.com/....weekend...
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
5 secrets women don't tell men...
(1) Everything a woman buys for herself -- from shoes to skirts and even shampoo -- really costs 20 percent more than she tells you. Maybe, although for me personally, I don't think that I habitually do this.
(2) She is just as nervous about commitment as you are. Absolutely.
(3) She may be modern and independent, but she still wants you to be "the man." A whole-hearted yes... may feminists everywhere strike me dead... I am very independent and I can do alot of things on my own, but I still want my man (nonexistent as such) to be "the man".
(4) She wants you to be jealous -- but just a little bit. I'm not crazy about jealousy, although I've been known to have been struck by the green monster a time or two. And I'm not talking about that crazy-stalker kind of jealousy. I think a little bit of jealousy is a good thing, sometimes and within reason. But none of this crazy stalker jealousy.
(5) She tells her girlfriends more than she will ever admit to you (but less than you fear). Sure, and sometimes I tell her more than you fear too, but also I know when to keep my mouth shut, when I don't want to talk about it and when sometimes all I want to do is have someone listen and not say anything. But I dont' talk about my problems all that often so maybe that's just me.
I don't know. I think sometimes that I have a strange perspective about relationships. I definintly don't have the I-just-turned-25-and-I'm-an-old-maid mentality. I believe that if marriage is in my future then it will happen when it's in God's plan for my life and until then I'm going to do whatever I want -- finish graduate school and start again, live in the Smokeys for the summer... have a career and teach and finish graduate school and I don't have to be tied down to someone who makes me unhappy... I just think that most of that is tied up in the Southern mentality of barefoot and pregnant. I don't mind the barefoot part so much, but the pressure of marriage is heavy enough in a relationship without outside pressures. Everybody wants to know when you're getting married and if its serious and why aren't you engaged yet. I have the rest of my life to be married.
Monday, October 15, 2007
The Wicker Swing
The Wicker Swing
I knew for sure that I was in love with my best friend, Lucas Williams, the year we turned eighteen. The day that I told him that I loved him was the last time I saw Lucas. I should have kept it to myself and hoped that it went away, but I didn’t. We were at the cemetery where Dusty, the coon dog that had been as much my dog as it was Lucas’, was buried. It was the last real time we would have together before both of us left for college. Mostly we would come here without a reason; sometimes he would pick me up in his blue pickup truck and just drive out, away from town, towards Highway 82, where the cemetery was and we would sit and talk or just sit on the concrete table and not say anything at all. But I haven’t seen or talked to him since then and I knew he wouldn’t be here today. I called Mama to make sure before I left Flagstaff that he wouldn’t be in Haleyville.
I left the town I grew up in, Haleyville, to attend Arizona State University on scholarship in Phoenix after graduation from Monroe County High. I went to work for the Flagstaff Daily News when they offered me a job after seeing the photograph of the wildfires on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon that I had taken and sold to the Phoenix Sun. Mickey Rossman, a guy I went out with twice in my junior journalism class, was a helicopter pilot for Grand Canyon Heli-Tours. He flew me over the North Rim so I could get some shots of the wildfires. I wasn’t a great photographer. I just happened to be in the right place where I could catch the wildfires at the right time. Although I loved photography, the freelance gig wasn’t my real job; at least not until last week when the Flagstaff Daily newspaper dropped my last check on my desk along with a nice note telling me that they no longer needed my services as a full-time photographer. I knew it was coming; a larger newspaper group had bought out the paper – the same that owned the Phoenix Sun and all of the photographers had speculated at the odds of us keeping our jobs. Out of the seven of us, the four who were asked to stay all had been at the paper for at least ten years.
I glanced in my rear view mirror held in place by a shred of duct tape on my navy ’89 Ford Bronco and adjusted the static on the radio for the fifth time that day. I smiled, embarrassed a little at the state my truck was in after a cross-country drive and seven states later. I had bought the Bronco my senior year at Arizona State, just after my first freelance photograph sold to the Phoenix Sun newspaper because it reminded me of the car my father once had. He used to drive it around our land in north Alabama to check on his tree stands and the salt blocks. I bought it on impulse, after seeing the For Sale by Owner tag plastered on the windshield.
I tuned the radio to 106.1, my favorite hometown station. Then I rolled the window down and released the clip from my hair, letting the weight of it fall down way past my shoulders. It was the same haircut I’d had since the 8th grade and truthfully, I was a little tired of the heat of it during the summer against my neck and back but I wasn’t going to cut it. Everyone had always liked my hair long. I turned up the radio and tapped my fingers in beat when an old Conway Twitty song came on. The small, weatherworn sign on the right hand side of the road was nearly invisible, made from the same bark of the pine tree that it was nailed to. It marked the entrance to the cemetery as it always has.
I dropped my backpack to the ground and from it withdrew my Canon digital camera. Instead of raising the camera, I looked at my surroundings with the critical eyes that so often looked at the world through a camera lens. The concrete table just ahead was dark with retained moisture; the fall leaves on the gravel crunched beneath my boots and disturbed the air with the finality of sound. I sat for a moment, looking around oak trees that stood strong on the edge of the wood. The fall leaves scattered on the ground in colors of green fading to reds and yellows. It always amazed me that time had stood still here for the past fifteen years when everything else around had moved rapidly along with age.
Mama wanted me to come by the house as soon as I got into town so I could meet Tom McKinnon. He owns a farm on the outskirts of Haleyville and had been dating my mother for three months and five days. Or so she told me excitedly when I talked to her yesterday, somewhere near the Oklahoma/Texas state line while she jabbered on like she was fourteen and completely enthralled with her first crush. But my mother is happy, probably for the first time in a long while. Mama still lived in the old Victorian on South Meadow Boulevard that my younger sister, Louise, and I grew up in. While I lived here we had fifty acres of land that belonged to the family. But then my father died in a motorcycle accident when I was fifteen and ever since then she had been selling the land off little by little until now all that was left was the half-acre that the house sat on, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to sell that too. Tom had asked her to move in with him – the excitement in her voice when she told me kept reverberating in my head. My jaw had just completely fallen and I couldn’t help thinking that they had only been dating for three months. What on earth was she thinking?
The house looked the same as it always had when I drove by this afternoon; the gingerbread trim, wrap-around porch, and the white wicker swing where I spent most of my time, all in a desperate need for a paint job. I used to sit there with my dad at night in late spring and early fall when the weather wasn’t quite so boiling hot. We’d sit and stare at the stars above us and talk about things like heaven and God and how my sister ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches rolled up, mashing the ingredients together in a swirl of yellow and brown. That swing was where my mother told me of my father’s accident, where Louise said she was leaving Haleyville and not a one of us could stop her, and where Lucas sat with me after my father’s wake. It was also where I told Lucas that I didn’t think I could be friends with him anymore, where he held my hand after the funeral, and where he said goodbye to me for the last time. It was suspended from the chains that attached it to the ceiling, the formerly white paint peeling and cracked with age and time and I was surprised at how old it looked. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had expected it to stay the same as the cemetery had, constant and as concrete as when I was growing up.
Through the edge of the clearing is the actual gravestones and cemetery, away from the small gravel drive that leads back to the highway. The sun peeked through the trees and gave just enough light to the dirt and clay pathway between the pine and oak trees. The quiet that surrounded those trees and still branches became eerie in the falling light, with a little more than a half hour to sunset.
The cemetery was getting darker now. The golden hues of light stream through the trees, giving way to the purples and pinks of the sundown hour. I looked over my shoulder at where the gravel drive had gone to dirt and where my truck was parked. In the back of the cemetery, closest to the edge of the wood, is where Dusty was buried. Dusty had been Lucas’ dog since Lucas was barely a baby. And since we had been the best of friends ever since kindergarten that made Dusty mine too. Lucas and I met at Englewood Elementary and we were put next to each other because of our last names – Williams and Wilcox. That very first day of school, I stole his crayon and wouldn’t give it back so he pulled my hair in retaliation. At recess, in full sight of the playground monitor, we fought it out. My mother switched my hide with the birch rod she kept by the stove and made me bring him a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies the next morning and apologize to both him and his mother. Between the two of them they came up with a pretty good punishment: play dates with each other. Every Saturday he would come to my house, or I would go to his. I refused to play with him for the first week and a half, choosing instead to sit by myself and then in the typical world of a five-year old, it was forgotten. We were best friends ever since. Out of my back pocket I pulled a photograph of the three of us: Dusty in the middle, lying on his stomach, looking out from underneath those large soulful eyes framed by tan and black. Lucas on one side, me on the other, our arms hooked about each other’s shoulders, grinning. I peered closer at the image and noticed that we were both missing our bottom front teeth. The date is written on the back: June 1989, the year we turned six. We would have two more years with Dusty after that photo was taken. The photograph itself, I noticed, was tattered at the edges, torn on one side and worn almost through in spots, a testament to how many accidental and repeated washings it had gone through, forgotten in the pocket of my blue jeans.
I put my hand to the necklace that Lucas had given to me on the night of my eighteenth birthday. He came over to the house after midnight. Mama and Louise were asleep but I was sitting on the porch swing, my feet rocking the swing back and forth. Out of his pocket Lucas handed me a small velvet jewelry box and when I opened it, I saw lying there was his grandmother’s antique oval filigree locket. He smiled at me wryly, took the necklace out, and when he fastened it around my neck, his fingers brushed at the skin on my nape. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around, kissing my forehead as a brother would. I haven’t taken the necklace off ever since the day Lucas had put it there. It was my talisman, my protection whenever I felt like the world was chaotic around me, and I was moving in slow motion.
I couldn’t stand it anymore; the feelings I had for him were so pure and innocent that I felt like screaming through town that I loved Lucas Williams. I had loved him all of my life, though I didn’t realize it until that summer. We had gone to every homecoming, Sadie Hawkins, and prom together and still never dated or had any kind of a romantic relationship, aside from the one and only time he kissed me, in the parking lot of our high school one fall night. He decided that we didn’t need to jeopardize our friendship by having a romantic relationship and I went along with him, because at the time I thought that was what I wanted.
He wasn’t like the other boys in my class; he was different. I saw him for the person he really was; his tendency to be stubborn as hell, hardheaded and then genuinely sweet at the same time. He gave me plenty of fits during our friendship, sometimes mean on purpose in an attempt to help me grow a backbone but he always came back and apologized. Usually at 3am I’d hear a pinging sound, then see him appear in my window. He’d climb through, sit with me there on my bed and tell me how sorry he was. I was still sensitive back then and usually would wind up crying, which he hated. There wasn’t ever anything untoward about our friendship, even in those early morning hours when he would sneak in and sit with me. How many times did he see me in my underwear and pajama’s? There never was anything impure about our friendship.
We met at the cemetery that day – it was the last time we would be there together – and suddenly the words were rolling across my tongue and out of my mouth before I could stop them. I had imagined, dreamed, and planned for that moment for months – hours – on end, fantasizing how Lucas would gather me in his arms and we would be together forever. But that was the fantasy. The reality was that Lucas ignored me. For a few minutes everything around us was quiet and still. Not a breeze dared to blow, or a chipmunk to dart through the woods. I finally gave into the temptation and asked “Lucas, did you hear me? I said that I love you!” And then he smiled, touched my cheek, and said, “I know.” That was it.
He came by the house again later that night. I was sitting in the same spot he found me the night before, knees tucked in close to my body, arms looped around them tight. I had one of those moments where everything is suddenly clear and you wish that there were a hole big enough for you to crawl into. When he spoke, I didn’t even look at him, just kept right on staring at the stars as if, if I stared long enough, the past seven hours could float away and I could forget about everything that happened. I don’t even remember what he said at first. When Lucas saw a problem, the innate instinct in him said to fix it. His brain was telling him that I was a problem, even though I never intended to be. I wiped a tear from my cheek, hoping that he didn’t notice. I knew he hated it when I cried. But he did notice and he sat down next to me and put his arm along the back of the swing careful to not touch me at all which only made everything a thousand times worse. He never would have hesitated yesterday in resting his hand on my shoulder, touching my arm, brushing a bang from my face. I hated that I had changed all of that and in that specific moment I regretted what I had said. I can still see the two of us sitting there in the moonlight when I think about that swing. And I can still hear the accusations that I hurled at him that night in my dreams. We were sixteen before I noticed how the other girls in our classes would stare at Lucas when he walked down the hallway, how they would whisper when he put his arm around my shoulders and glare daggers at me when they didn’t think I was looking. I got worried one time when he dated Katie Chambers. They started dating right after Homecoming our senior year and I had had the uncontrollable urge to mark my territory, in the same way that Dusty would have. And I made him promise that we would always be friends no matter who he was involved with. He just smiled in that secret way of his, took out his buck knife, and right there in the cemetery, carved our initials and the date into the tree directly in front of Dusty’s headstone. They’re still there, untouched by age and time. I raised the camera to my eye and focused in on them.
There was a slight breeze in the air, raising goose bumps along the flesh of my arms and shaking the fall leaves from their trees. One floated to a stop on Dusty’s headstone and without hesitation I rose and stepped three paces away from the gravesite. Brown, gold and red leaves had now covered the bed of dry grass and I tried not to disturb them as the camera whirred and clicked. Then, I pressed my fingertips to my mouth and then to the photograph where Lucas smiled back at me.
I walked quickly back to my truck because dark had fallen and I wasn’t going stay at the cemetery at night. I flicked my bright lights in my truck, watching for the deer and foxes that played chicken with the vehicles on the highway. Before I arrived at my mother’s house, I passed the turn for the Williams’ house on Old Seale Road. I tried to drive past but the legacy of that house and the history that was so ingrained in me took over and before I realized what I was doing, I had slammed the breaks and whipped the wheel to the left, turning the tires back towards their road. Lucas’ house was set way back on their land, a good bit away from the road, although visible from both directions. His parents still live there and had every light burning, even the driveway lights that followed the dirt road from the highway.
The Williams home didn’t have the quiet charm of the Victorian I remembered of my childhood, but it wasn’t a cold house either. I turned onto their road, driving just a foot inside the gate and stepped out of the truck, camera in tow. Out of the back of my truck I pulled out my professional flash and began to set up my equipment. I wasn’t sure that the exposure would turn out, but suddenly I had to capture that image of the Williams house, lit up brighter than Christmas, in the digital viewfinder of the camera.
Down the road nearly a mile and a quarter was my house. The lights were all off except for the lantern that hung from the hook near the front door. It cast a circle of light underneath it and for a while I just stared at the structure I had known all of my life. It looked different in the moonlight. There wasn’t a car in the driveway so I assumed my mother was with Tom at his ranch. I let myself in the front door without using the key – of course it was unlocked. My mother hadn’t locked the door since my father died, except only when we went to visit my grandparents in Kissimmee, Florida. The interior was the same. My mother had the same couch since 1973 – brown, gold, and orange. It was the ugliest couch I’d ever seen, but I know I’d miss it if she ever got rid of the thing.
The kitchen was as outdated as the couch was – the refrigerator, a strange yellow color that you would never see in a contemporary home. There was a picture of Casey, my sister’s daughter, held in place by a Goofy magnet and an announcement for the Haleyville Baptist Women’s Association monthly meeting. There was a note in the center of the table, and a newspaper clipped to it with a paper clip. I looked closer and noticed a very familiar smile, then read my mother’s note. “Julie – did you see that your old friend Lucas was gettin’ married?! Isn’t that just wonderful? Your sister called. She’ll call you tomorrow. Am over at Tom’s – see you in the morning!”
I sighed heavily and took the engagement announcement to the wicker swing on the porch. As I sat there in the dark, my legs curled up underneath me, I read the announcement over and over. Lucas was getting married. And my mother was now involved with a man named Tom McKinnon.
I slowly got up off the swing and walked over to my truck, pausing to look up at the Alabama sky. The sky was full of stars – clearer than any other night I had seen in a long while. They were beautiful. I had forgotten how much I loved looking at the stars. I opened the car door, clipped the newspaper announcement to the sun visor, cranked the car and then slowly backed out of the driveway and into the road, and headed away from Haleyville and back towards the open road.
c. 2007, JBB
Saturday, October 13, 2007
October 2006-- revisited
I've been thinking lately how short and precious life is. It can be over in the drop of a hat, in the blink of an eye. There's a Phil Vassar song that talks about how fragile life is, and how in a moment they can be gone. The anniversary of Carter's death is rapidly approaching a year, and there are people who I've known in my short life who have passed on, recently and since the current posting of this blog this is the best advice I know to give.
I wonder what kind of unfinished business do we have on Earth. Do we tell the people we love them when we want to, no matter who they are or what pains they have inflicted? Someone said to me once that nobody could stop him from telling someone that he loved them. Do we realize that life, so precious and short, can be gone in a moment's time? Sure, maybe. But, if we realize that fact, then how does that affect our lives? Have we, in our individual lives, become too complacent and content, believing that we have all the time in the world and forgetting that there's always that chance, that possibility that you may not live to see tomorrow. Do we believe that we have all the time to tell that person that we love them or call up your old boyfriend from high school and tell them how you feel? And then I got to thinking... if I were to die today, what kind of unfinished business would I leave behind?
Who would I call, and what would I say to them?
Who would regret their own unfinished business with me?
Would Josh finally forgive me and put the past behind him, or would he lay a layer of guilt over the old argument over the fact that he's held out this long and he never gave into letting the grudge go? Would Kenil have been sorry that he's never come back and told me what happened? And what about those others that I have unfinished business with or them with me? If you knew you were going to die tomorrow... what would you say, who would you call?
Life is so incredibly short. It really is. We should live it to the fullest possible degree because it can, guys, be over in the blink of an eye. In a split second. We should live joyously, drunkenly aware of how short a time we have here on this Earth. Embrace every experience, try new things... kiss that guy for heaven's sake if that's what you want to do. Date who you want to... regardless of counter opinion. Do what's right for you. You can't be scared of life... of afraid of what's around every corner. You can't be scared of getting hurt, of living truly the way you want to and being the person you want to be. Don't put anything off... don't say "well tomorrow I'll do this, or I'll do that next week. I'll save this dress to wear for Christmas" or "that can keep until Spring." Clothes are meant to be worn, not hung in a closet in a place of honor.
Dreams are meant to be lived out, not just in the fantasy world but in reality. Do it.
But the biggest thing... oh, the biggest piece of advice I can give anyone reading this is to forgive those who have hurt you. Carrying around that kind of burden only weighs you down, not them. And tell people you love that you love them. Let go of old grudges. Keep everything that's important to you, letters... emails... old rose petals from past boyfriends. Throw away things that you don't care about.
Be happy in everything that you do... and always do things with happiness in your heart. By God, don't be afraid of love and don't begrudge heartbreak either. Both love and heartbreak make your heart stronger for the right person. Love, and loss, are a part of life, no matter in what form they come. Learn from your mistakes and try not to repeat them, but if you must, repeat with daring. Don't worry so much about being hurt in a relationship; the ironic thing is that a person who is afraid of getting hurt usually winds up being hurt more after they tried so hard not to be.
Surround yourself with people you care about; people who are good for you and won't cause you harm. Live every day. Let there be no regrets. And don't leave this world with unfinished business.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
from April 3, 2006...
So in my typical geeky fashion today I found some old IM's that I had saved as a high school student. I don't know why I saved them, except that they documented important events and people and maybe some part of mew knew that six years later I would need to read them over and over again to remind myself of love and laughter and the friends I ran with all those years ago. Most of them were between myself and Josh, leading up to my graduation from high school and the eventual separation of two people who couldn't handle that separation in a mature way. Others were from exboyfriends (Brandon), and old friends (Brad and Ben and JP) about old friends (Andrew, Michelle and Dicko), and the hurts and wounds that we gave each other intentionally or not. That's all a part of life.
So is losing your first love, someone who will always hold a piece of your heart, long after the pieces are sewn back together. I'm amazed at the resiliency of the human heart... how it can be broken time and time again... smashed into a billion pieces and, strangely enough, crave and desire those feelings of love again. I certainly never expected to fall in love with Josh. For my first run out of the gate, I suppose he was the best possible candidate. I don't know if everyone else expected us to, because of how our friendship was or the way that we interacted. Looking back over those old instant messages (the technological age equivalent to letters tied together with faded ribbons), it's easy to see why I fell in love with him so many years ago, and why it ripped my heart to pieces when the relationship ended.
I have the unique point of view as the person who destroyed it. Everyone always has the story of someone who broke their heart -- the one who smashed it to smithers and destroyed all faith in love and joy. The truly ironic thing is, that person, was me. I destroyed it. I smashed (not only his heart) but mine too. I lost more than my first love that episodic day in late February.. I lost my heart and my best friend all at the same time. It took me a really long time to recover from that whole experience.
It's strangely prophetic how I said to him one day that some gorgeous girl would come along and be insanely jealous of me and break up our friendship, when what really happened was, I was the absolute epitome of the insanely jealous. I broke up our friendship because truthfully, it was our friendship that I valued most of all.
After picking up the pieces of my heart along the highway in between Auburn and Macon, I somehow remembered to live my life joyously, drunkenly.. and absolutely, unequivocally unafraid of being hurt, a position which I have found myself in recently. It is, ironically enough, the exact opposite of how I lived my life with Josh. I took for granted the boy he was and now, the man he has become.
I'm that girl... the one who destroyed the heart of one good man... and the one I was fighting against on that day when this was originally written... April 3, 2006.
If I could have just one moment of selfishness... I promised Kenil that I wouldn't bring up the past in the brief moment I was allowed to obtain some kind of closure and end that chapter in my life when Josh and I had lunch together, just about three and a half years ago, after my graduation from college. But as (at the time of this writing), Kenil and I are no longer... and the actual odds of Josh reading this are virtually slim, here goes...
The biggest, and most important thing I learned with the Josh ordeal is that you can't be afraid. Life has to be lived joyously, drunkenly and absolutely unafraid to simply be. Love is an absolute blessing. When you've been deemed worthy to receive it once, you're more than lucky to get a second chance at true love. There are so many things are missed out on by being afraid. And since I seem to need to understand that fact again, because I've found myself in a similar situation... there are so many things that you miss out on by being afraid. The fears of my past absolutely cannot rule my future. I cannot be afraid. I only get one chance at life so what is the use in being scared? If I'm only afraid of being hurt... and usually the outcome is that you'll wind up being hurt, so it's sort of a sick, ironic twist. I gave up the best relationship I had in my life at that time because I was afraid of anything. I lived my life through fear. I couldn't -- and wouldn't -- take a chance on life, on love, on Josh and everything he offered me because I was, basically, stupid. Don't be like that. Friendship is the basis of every relationship and we should all be so lucky to have something or someone mean as much to me as Josh did. To be given the opportunity of love -- honest to God, fearful, painful, hurtful love -- is a gift that should be enjoyed, no matter what setting it comes out of.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not who I am today without the influence of the two men that I have loved. One was a boy, and one a man, but both, regardless, have influenced my life in such a way that (and to say this is completely cheesy and not very unique, but whatever) I could never have turned out the way I am without them. I realize that's a crappy way to end this, but that's all I've got. I'm different. And I know that eventually, as it did with Josh, the pain will subside, as it already has begun to. It's not a struggle every day to put one foot in front of the other.
And I'm grateful for that. I know that somewhere inside of me I have turned a corner, which I'm thankful that it only took four and a half months. Sure, sometimes it's more like one step forward and two steps back, but its still progress and constantly putting that foot in front of the other and moving on. My heart is healing, slowly, with the blessing of friends who just simply let me be me and make me laugh and forget about the dying pain that is still somewhere within the shreds of my heart.
And so I'm grateful to them too, and I hope that they know who they are, because names need not be mentioned here in this public forum. I have a wonderful cache of friends who are amazing in their simplicity and their ability to make me remember how to enjoy life and help me to get back to that stage of living joyously, drunkenly and just being thankful for the people that God has placed in my path.
...been awhile...
Hm. What else? I've applied to participate in ACMNP again. For those un-aware, ACMNP and their placement of me in the Grand Canyon in 2005 began this whole blogspot fun-ness. I'm hoping that they will keep me somewhere on the East Coast (I'm thinking Shenandoah, Smokey's on either side or the Blue Ridge Parkway) but I'll go wherever they need me. It'd be amazing to spend the summer in the Tetons. Anyways. We'll see where that goes... if I'm even accepted.
I'm working on a new "creative endeavor"... I was watching this movie tonight (Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants... loved the books) and the girls are seventeen and I got to thinking about me at seventeen. I have no doubt that I didn't think that seventeen was perfect when I was actually seventeen, but it was a pretty perfect age for me. I had amazing friends, a pretty decent boyfriend until he dumped me before Thanksgiving (thanks Bran) and a wickedly awesome senior class schedule. I had been accepted to Auburn University (on December 5th, yes I remember the exact day I had been accepted) and was super excited about attending the most fabulous university (for me) on the planet. So anyway, back to my "creative endeavor"... seventeen was pretty perfect, as far as ages go. So here's a little blip from that endeavor...
"Sometimes I wish that I could go back to seventeen. At seventeen I was a senior in high school, and the most pain I had felt was physical, when I was twelve and had my head split open by a run-away softball. At seventeen, I had yet to feel heartbreak. Sometimes I wish I could go back to seventeen and do it all over again. Senior year of high school, probably the best year of my high school career, the only one worth remembering. Senior year meant graduation, but it wasn’t just that. It was a year of lasts of course, but also of firsts.
Seventeen was before heartbreak, before college, before leaving this town behind me in the dust as I drove away on that Sunday a week before classes started. Seventeen was on the cusp of legal adulthood, just old enough but not nearly. Seventeen was perfect.
Nineteen was the year my heart was broken. It was not perfect.
Eighteen, the year before had been just all right, still in that planning stages of before-college, but not quite there yet. My first semester in college was spent at eighteen.
Sixteen was okay too… but I was just a sophomore, just a baby really. I had was coming out of a fog of losing friends, people who I believed, in that naïveté of sixteen, that we would be best friends for life. My how that pattern would continue to haunt me.
And then sometimes I wish I could skip twenty all together. Just wipe that year out of my head, out of my memory. Just forget everything that happened, everything that I did. I was stupid at twenty.
Twenty-one was a little strange. I don’t remember much about being twenty-one and that’s not because the year was spent in a drunken haze… it wasn’t. By that time I had let go of the mini-rebellion that had plagued my latter-half of eighteen. But still, I don’t remember twenty-one all that well. I remember being dropped from the Rose Court, and the old familiar naïveté that haunted me that year as it reared its ugly head. And I remember spending many nights at Wendy’s apartment, cooking out and having a grand time. Twenty-one was when Robert pledged Pi Kapp, and I do remember being propositioned by him a number of times, usually when the intoxication had hit another record high. And I remember being scared to death one night when Vince called me to pick him up from the fraternity house at 3:00 in the morning because Robert, in his drunken wisdom had decided it would be a good idea to strip almost naked and spend the night on the love-seat in the hall. Having seen the amount of drunkenness take place on that couch, I couldn’t let that happen and so off I went to the fraternity house where I had spent so many hours of my college career, in pajama pants, a sweatshirt and flip flops. I wouldn’t dare go without shoes. That would have been stupid, and while I had been stupid at twenty, I was not at twenty-one."
Anyways so it probably won't develop but the idea kind of intrigued me a little bit. It's not holding my interest though to develop anything further, because it doesn't really have a point to it or anything. Just something to hold my interest for half a second before my mind bops along to the next thing.
happy reading the novella I just posted. see ya.