Wednesday, December 21, 2011

All You Need Is...

I love and I love hard. I love, and I love big. I don't take things in my arms and say, "hey, I'm gonna do this halfway." I take things in my arms and I hold on until I can't possibly hold on anymore; I hold on until there is nothing left to do but let go.
I am by no means saying this is the right way to love. There is no right way to love.

And there is no right way to let go. Sometimes we just let go because we have to. Sometimes people just slip out of our arms and there is no way to pick them back up. Or sometimes you try to pick them back up and just break your back in the process. And in the end, is it worth it?

Love is not forever. I know all those songs and movies go on about how love is everlasting and so on and so forth. And in a lot of ways, it is. The concept, I mean; love as a tangible thing. I think in this very blog I have written numerous times, "love will outlive us all." And it will. But love for one person, that does not last forever. I think it's possible to love and then let that love go. Or love from a distance, at the very least. I think we always care for the people in our lives, the people from our past. I think there are very few people who play major roles in your life that you eventually feel apathy for. And after all, isn't that the real opposite of love?

I don't really know what I'm going on about. I've been watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy and it makes me feel, but the outcome is almost always nonsensical.

Really, I think all anyone really wants is for someone to love them. And I think all anyone really wants is to love. But then there is the exception for every rule...

But... what else are we built for? People are made to nurture, to care for one another, to procreate. Not just people. Almost all mammals give birth and then raise their young. We care for one another. What is life without the ones we love?

People matter. That's all.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Chocolate, Tissues, and Issues

The other night I had a conversation with an old friend (of the male sex) that touched on the fact that women are rather odd creatures. In fact, the term he used was "baffling". This friend is rather intellectual and philosophical (whatever that really means) and so finds himself to be rather insightful (you can imagine each italicized word being said with a sarcastic, yet slightly jealous, air.)
In fact, I believe he said something along the lines of, "Women are the most incomprehensible subject I've come across, actually maybe the sole one. Your gender baffles me because (I think) your thought processes are, generally, so drastically different than mine."

To which I replied, basically, I agree.

Women are so completely ruled by their emotions that we are, I'm sorry, incredibly irrational beings. And I don't mean to generalize, because I'm sure there are so many of you out there who are strong, independent, rational women who would never ever let someone bring them to their knees, but, and this is in my experience only, even the most intellectual women can support the stereotype.
I can admit right now, I am not exempt. I am as crazy as they come. Sure, I talk a big game, and I'm so good at pretending to be rational. I can walk away when I know I absolutely need to. And I can think on my feet. I can take away from every experience, and I'm pretty good at moving on and (eventually) seeing things in perspective.

But I would be a liar if I said I haven't let my emotions completely rule my decisions. I've thrown temper tantrums. I've slammed doors. And this past year, I've learned to really raise my voice. I know what it's like to feel crazy, to even know that I am acting crazy, but feel as though someone drove me to that point. I'm not justifying it, (but I mean, I am) but is it really my fault? Even the tough guy act stems from some insecurities drawn from my irrational emotions. But who cares? Maybe women are … the way we are… to make up for all that men lack. I really doubt that all men think about is sex, but let's be honest, we all know at least a few, especially under the age of 30, who honestly only think about sex. And that doesn't mean he is a bad guy. He can still be nice or genuinely interested in what you have to say, but at the end of the day, he wants in your pants. Because he's a guy.
And once he's not thinking about sex all the time, he's probably thinking about money, or work, or just success in general.

I don't know. I'm emotional and crazy and completely irrational at times, but with all these feelings, at least I know I have a big heart. So whatever. I'm a stereotypical woman. It could be a lot worse, I could have a penis… I mean come on. Have you seen that thing?

So pass me those Ghirardelli chocolates and a box of tissues, because I'm about to settle down for a nice rom-com and have me a good cry.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Oh Darling Don't You Ever Grow Up

Last Christmas I wrote to Santa and asked to help me stay young for just a little longer. I had no idea just how little follow-through I would receive... I had to grow up - move into a "big girl" house, pay bills, go grocery shopping. But I guess I didn't have to grow up, I decided to. If I really wanted, I could move home, back in with my mom, go to school and work and not have to deal with all the responsibilities that come with keeping a house. I wouldn't have to go grocery shopping or pay rent, or worry about the utility bill. I could go back and though I can never be a kid again, I don't have to be a grown up yet either.

I turned 20 this week. I know in the big scheme of things, I'm still very young, and many would scoff at my "responsibilities" and concerns on "growing up". But twenty is significant. I am out of my teens, done with those confusing years, and on to preparing for the so called real world. I'm getting into the classes that deal directly with my major, I'm getting out of the habit of sleeping in, and I'm becoming financially responsible.

But tonight, I'm sitting at the table in the house I grew up in, talking to my mom and letting myself be consumed in the smells and comfort, even the lighting, of home.

And it's nice to know that if I decide to buy myself some time, I always have a place to do it.



“It’s harder to talk about, but what I really, really, really want for Christmas is just this: I want to be 5 years old again for an hour. I want to laugh a lot and cry a lot. I want to be picked or rocked to sleep in someone’s arms, and carried up to be just one more time. I know what I really want for Christmas: I want my childhood back. People who think good thoughts give good gifts.”
- Robert Fulghum, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

I never liked the color pink

I think people only see what they want to see.

That's not me being cynical and pessimistic, it's what I honestly believe.

We view the world - the people, places, events even - that surround us out of our own personalized rose colored glasses. We see the best of people, we see the worst of people, but do we ever see people for who they really are?
Whether we do it out of love or to maintain a selfish ignorance, we do it. We keep our expectations too high or too low, but do we ever really give people the benefit of doubt, or acceptance?

It's something that has been on my mind lately. I am not saying it's a bad thing. Maybe it's even necessary in our society, with as many issues as we have, and how self-absorbed we tend to be.

I am trying to keep my eyes wide open, as well as my mind. But those glasses tend to be hard to remove...

Monday, June 6, 2011

Frog Eat Frog World

Last summer I spent a few weeks at my grandparents house in a small town in Illinois. I spent most of my days lounging by the pool in their backyard, reading. One morning I woke up early, poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed my book of the day, and headed to my favorite chair overlooking their yard well before the sun reached it's peak. It was nice to just sit outside, enjoy the sounds of morning.
On this particular morning, as I sat by the pool, I noticed about six or seven frogs swimming in the water.
I know enough about this issue from when I was little to understand that the amount of chlorine and chemicals in the pool will kill those frogs within the hour. So I spent the next half an hour or so fishing these frogs out of the pool. But the frogs didn't want to be saved, they just wanted to stay cool. They would swim down to the very bottom of the shallow end and then coast their way along until they were 10 feet deep and skimming the drain. At this point, I was getting frustrated. The sun was rising fast and it was getting hot and I still hadn't finished my coffee. But I kept at it until the very last one was out, an hour after I started. I caught him after he stopped swimming and just sat at the bottom, slowly starting to float upward. I shook him out onto the grass and just watched him. He didn't move. He was a cute little frog, small and green, with a darker splotch on his back that looked kind of like Texas. I watched him for about ten minutes, sometimes picking up a leaf to poke at him or lay over him. He never moved.
I gave up, with a heavy heart. I couldn't save him. He was just a frog but at this point in my life, something about it resonated with me: I couldn't save him. I went up to change into my bathing suit, grab a bottle of water and maybe a soda because at this point it was too hot to even think about coffee, and head back down. The first thing I do is check the patch of grass where I lay my frog to rest. He wasn't there. I start searching, slightly panicked, when I find him sitting in a bush next to the pool. I looked at him. He looked at me. I shook my head. He darted for the water. This time it only took me ten minutes to fish him out. I carried him out to a bush a little further away and settled down to my book. It only took a couple of minutes for him to hop right back in the pool. I fished him out and this time I kept an eye on him, now concerned my little frog had a death wish. This happened four or five more times, each time taking a little longer to get him out - he was getting smart about avoiding my net. Finally, I'd had enough. It was getting to be late afternoon and at this point I would have normally finished whatever book I was reading, but that day I'd gotten about ten pages in. I'd had enough. I fished him out for the last time. I even went so far as to tell him that I was done, next time I'd just let him die. We looked at each other, both knowing I was full of shit. But I think he got it. I carried him out to the edge of the yard, where the backyard becomes woods and gives way to a little creek. I let him out as far as I could from the pool and turned back.
I didn't see him again. I guess he finally got it, or was just sick of the game. Or maybe he was just a frog and couldn't find his way back. Maybe I should have kissed him just to see what would have happened. I don't know. But I spent my entire afternoon fishing a stupid frog out of the pool. He was just a frog. But I spent all day out by that pool, never going indoors for fear that he'd jump in the water and be dead by the time I returned. I never stopped fishing him out of the water. I never gave up.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Author vs Writer

The other day my English professor asked our class if we would consider ourselves authors.
She said, think about it, now is the time we are doing more writing than we probably ever will in our lives.

That made me stop. Sure, I'm cranking out an essay a week, a research or exploratory paper a month, and I've got another forty hours of just English ahead of me... but God, I hope this is not the most writing I ever do.

The class debated for a while about whether we were authors, or just writers. And some factors included whether the writing was temporary - would only last as long as it took to graduate, or whether it was enjoyed, whether pride was taken in the flow of the words, the ideas, or even vocabulary. So many things to think about. What makes an author?

I think about the fact that I have two blogs going (somewhat) regularly, that randomly in class I will scribble pages of ideas for essays or personal writing, that I've been working on the same story for about six months and I think I'm finally getting somewhere...

Yes, I would consider myself a writer. Maybe even a budding author. Next semester I am taking two creative writing classes along with a class on nonfiction writing. I am constantly thinking and creating and scribing. I have plenty of insightful papers, creative prose and poetry.

And then I have my journals.

And even though I have enough papers ahead of me to fill multiple novels, I know this will not be the time of my life where I write the most. I know that is still ahead of me, and I really look forward to it.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

There are moments

I could close my eyes and find myself back in one specific moment in time. I can recall the thoughts, the smells, the sounds, the feelings, the words. Always the words.

I'm sure I have mentioned before that my best friend lives in Germany. As I like to refer to her, "someone I love".
Someone I love once wondered, what if everyone were naked all the time?
Someone I love once found beautiful old black and white photography when rummaging through drawers. Exactly the thing I adore. She mailed them from Germany to the United States. They now live in my room.

I am thinking back to the day when I first realized love will outlive us all.
And I honestly believe that. The way many people believe in organized religion and politics and that their vote and place in this world or their country will somehow make a difference... and I hope it does but in the meantime, I will be here, believing in love. And being lost in a moment that has long passed but still holds me tight.

Because I honestly believe that no matter what any of us do to destroy this world, there will still be love.

And I know one person, my person, who is proof of that.