recent nightmares

I finally mentioned to my counselor that I have nightmares. I overlooked telling him before, because to me they are rather commonplace. I have had them consistently for four and a half years now, so I forgot there is something unusual in waking frightened and sad from lengthy and vivid dreams at least three times a week. So my counselor asked me to start writing my dreams down; he wants to find a pattern and thus fix my broken subconscious. I told him there is no pattern to my dreams anymore, though there used to be. This is not entirely true. The last week I have noticed that in all of my nightmares I am lost. I cannot find my way to where I want to be. Familiar buildings have suddenly unfamiliar layouts, rooms I cannot navigate. I haven't reached my destination yet--too many fearsome things prevent me from doing so--but I spend a lot of the night running. I am unsurprised by my discovery; these are the same feelings that overwhelm my waking hours too.

five years ago today

Five years ago today, I became friends with April over a parade. I had an ankle the size of a small melon, and she and I walked (or limped) to ninth east to watch the homecoming floats idle past. Our status as roommates became something more. That day alone I learned that she loves anything innocent and childlike. She hops when she is giddy. And she makes friends easily. I do not. I'm glad I went to that parade.

Five years ago tonight, I had my first date with Kevin. It was his birthday, and he and I doubled with another couple for game night on campus. I remember I wore boots to support my ankle, and I had a terribly difficult time talking with strangers. I always do. He didn't ask me out again until February.

For five years I have loved these two people. For five years I have had the same conversations with April about Kevin, first while she and I sat on the vanity in our apartment and then via phone from across a continent.I have been grateful everyday that I know them both. They have shaped my life in the years since I met them. They always will.

When I had to register for the GRE, I picked October 11th because, call me superstitious, but the date had a nice auspicious feeling to it. I am glad of things that happen on this day.

zebras don't change their spots

I recently decided that chick-flicks annoy me. Part of it is the glamorization of womanizing. I just watched Made of Honor, which besides being a hodge-podge of every obnoxious movie plot, made me hate romantic comedies. The main character is a slut, never sleeping with the same woman twice in a row. We accept this because he is a man, and his father has taught him to be this way (and in other movies it is adorable because his promiscuity is a result of a broken heart). And somehow we as the audience are supposed to hope that he gets the girl in the end. He's completely commitment phobic, but now he's in love with the best friend that he marginalized for a decade. We're supposed to find it romantic that he loves the one he never slept with, that now he's changed. That's what chick-flicks promote: the romance of love-inspired change. It's a testimony to how much the guy loves the girl that he could give up his wicked ways. Then it doesn't matter that he is a slut, or a drinker, or a gambler, or violent. He'll change because, girl, you changed him. Feel blessed, feel loved, and feel confident in his continued fidelity.

Bull. Shit.

My first question is, how do you know that you're the one he really changed for or the one he can't change for? In every chick-flick there are multiple failures before the happily ever after. This is true of women as well as men. The same example of Made of Honor is that she was completely in love with this Scottish Duke but then made a split-second decision at the altar to be with the New York Slut instead. I admit, Patrick Dempsey is hot, but the twist annoys me. Why is this one supposed to work, when the previous attempts have failed? What changed? The answer: nothing. The only difference is that the movie is over. That's what cues the actors and the audience that the happily ever after has arrived. Take any romantic comedy, and the actors are in previous relationships where they think they have found "the one" until something comes along to hurt that, nothing that is the protagonist's fault, of course. So, given their previous security and bliss, followed by utter ruination, what's to say that this time won't be exactly like that?

Cynical you say? Maybe.

There is an answer. The reason you feel secure is because you establish a new pattern. You have to judge the future based on the past. Because of this, some people are afraid to get hurt again, since that is their pattern, but others find the ability to trust someone else based on the pattern of their behavior. That's what John Cusack movies use to help him get the girl: he has a pattern of being hopelessly devoted. If you fall in love with John Cusack, you are safe. So see, I am not against romance; I am against idiocy. I am against choosing the slut, the adventurer, the workaholic, the married man, the liar, the flake. Yet protagonists, fictional and real, do it, because their egocentric attitudes tell them that they are the ones these profligates will change for.

Prove it.

I am not against change. I believe that it can happen, that it can be a true sincere change. And I do believe that love can be the catalyst. I just think that it doesn't happen as much as we would like to believe. Nor as easily. Maybe I am basing this on my patterns of behavior: I fall into the same rote time and again, and it is damn hard for me to break my habits, especially when it comes to how I related to others. Sometimes, I make a really good start, a determined sprint, and then I lose the drive, motivation or ability. When the change is real, it comes slowly, painfully and with conscious effort and attention to the small things. It's like diet and exercise: the grapefruit juice diet leads to binging, while walking a couple blocks a day is likely to stick. I believe in small changes.

I would still hedge my bets.

I don't approve of saying when..., as in, it will be better when... I will be happy when... That's the current code of my life, because I have been so unhappy, clinging to the idea that this will go away when... and that's where I get pissed off. If I am not happy now, I will not be happy when.... So while changes happen, even big changes, common sense dictates that you do not bet on them. The pattern shows that he is faithful and kind, as opposed to, he will be faithful and kind when...

Some patterns are easy to recognize. There are some easy color or number patterns, where you can see 2,4,6 and 8 are going to lead to 10. Correlative patterns are harder. She becomes irrational and moody every four weeks :: she is a werewolf. Maybe his bad mood coincides with BYU football losses and it's not the fact that you brought up bills. So, yes, I do believe in situational factors. Maybe he is distant because there is more stress at work and he really will be better when... But again, to know this, one has to see the pattern that suggests he is usually very much attentive when he is not so burdened. Because maybe he is just distant and nothing is going to change that.

I said that I am good at seeing patterns. And I am. But sometimes in my own life, I cannot see as clearly. I am going to counseling for this reason. I keep journals and reread them so I can better see the patterns in my life. I also get an earful of it from my friends. When several friends offer the same criticism or advice, I begin to see a pattern in their concern, a concern that might be worth noticing. Right now, their concerns seem to revolve around the same thing: my stubborn blindness toward certain patterns in others.

to be continued...

i hate

• the glamorization that commitment-phobic, womanizing megalomaniacs receive in chick-flicks
• being in limbo
• the idea that the best laid plans are wrong
• not having a plan
• not being able to just take the life I want
• nightmares
• having slow people start walking in front of me when I have to be somewhere
• failing
• not having the guts to try when I think I'm going to fail
• settling
• the way chick-flicks show a complete turn-around at the end that goes against the premise
• sitting through stupid classes
• not being able to write even though that is the thing I most want to do
• money
• having to tell myself that my dreams are not likely to come true
• the scars on my elbows
• spending hours on my hair and having it look terrible
• first semester freshmen
• walking through Target and putting things back that I can't afford to buy
• wearing glasses
  
• the drive to have more stuff as if stuff makes life better
• working out
  
• the ten pounds I've gained this year
• waiting
• not being able to say things they way I had it planned in my head
• secrets
• that getting better makes me fall apart along the way
• my walls
• the go-go-go mentality that makes life crowded and frustrating
• watching tv
• feeling like I will only be worth something when I have a degree
• comparing myself with others
• having to get a grown-up job once I graduate
• debt
• being angry all the damn time
• swearing
  
• people
• Nazis
  

my rendering of aslan

In art class today, we went to the Bean Museum and drew animals. We had to do sketches and then one final picture. I felt no passion for antelopes or beavers, and I wanted to enjoy the project; so, I sat myself in front of a lion--not an eating or pouncing lion, but a stately lion, looking proudly and serenely down over his nose at me. I couldn't use charcoal or graphite for him, heaven forbid, so I used a clay-colored crayon. I fell in love with him as I drew. I felt worshipful of the subject and careful with my copy. I thought of CS Lewis. Families came through and many stopped and watched me work. One little boy told me that I "drew that nice." A little girl informed her mother that she "wants to draw one of those." Mothers told their children to practice so they could draw like that one day. One woman told me that my work was beautiful; another said it was stunning. I felt gratified by these compliments, of course. But I was most pleased that in the end it came out exactly as I pictured it. He looks like a King.

fiction: an exercise in creation

I have cried my way through the last five episodes of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and then the movie The Family Stone. But it was especially during the former that I felt truly attached to the individuals and invested in the unfolding events. When the characters were praying, I felt like I ought to pray too, for their benefit. It was then that I had an epiphany.

I want to write fiction. I know, big surprise, right? But I want it more than I want almost any of my goals in my life. I want to be able to mold universes and characters, to draw people in and convince my readers that this world really exists. I want to use fiction to persuade and teach and inspire. In pursuing this thought, I wondered whether I have a theme or pattern to my writing--you know, the purpose that is driving me. For Ayn Rand it was the proselytizing of capitalism; for Tolkien and Lewis, Christianity; for Pullman, atheism; for Austen, gender-equality; and for Danielle Steele, sex. So I thought about my projects, and asked about each one, what is the theme?

I have six novels simmering in my brain, each ready to be written, were I to take the time to put pen to paper. (Like I have that time!) In each and every book, my theme is redemption--redemption of self, of relationships and of society. The characters in my book all purposefully shape the world they are in, constructing it consciously, in an effort to make it better. They build society, their relationships and themselves as they want them to be, with the underlying value of redeeming the past by creating a better future. There is also a personal redemption for the main character, as there must be, wherein grace enters and blesses his or her undertakings.

The personal ability to shape the world, to manufacture of it what one wants it to be, this is the common thread in all of my stories, and it is also the reason that I want to write. When I write, I control the character's growth, the relationships' progression and the shape of their world. I make life into whatever I want it to be. I can ensure that everything works out as it should: there is justice where none was before, hope, happy endings. My writing is my way of using this creative power, to make things better, and the way I make things better is by empowering individuals in my story, and perhaps someday out of it.

So this is my ambition, my long-cherished wish. I want to write.

There are, of course, obstacles in my way. The first being that I am not published. This makes it difficult to finance sitting at home and writing. It is not profitable to spend one's time that way until it is lucrative...which of course it cannot be until one has written. So, there it is: I will grow old stealing minutes at an ancient lap top, until I can finish a single project, whereby I may be judged and deemed worthy of writing openly.

art for communism's sake

Maybe I was overreacting, but I was very offended by an art project that I had to do recently. I knew beforehand that I would find it distasteful, because my teacher said we'd be doing something fun. She first had us each draw various body parts, enough for anatomical correctness but still separate images. Then she had us pool all of our work, which she doled out randomly. We each ended up with the correct number of each feature or appendage, but none of them matched and none of them belonged to the original artist. We then had to make a picture using our new pieces by cutting, pasting and drawing in the missing body structure. If you think this sounds like fun, then we cannot be friends.

I object to the project on principle.

I drew well. My pieces looked good. But the pieces I had to use for my project looked like crap. The legs especially: I had to replace my Princess Diana shapely heel-clad leg with something that resembled a four-year-old's interpretation of a tree. And the dim-wits who produced such atrocities received my carefully shaped and shaded features. Yes, I was angry that I had put in so much effort in return for crap. I am angry that I had to put my name on their work and that they could put theirs on mine. I feel that I got punished for doing my best. This is more than a dumb art project. This is communism in practice: from each according to his ability, to each according to his need. Am I overreacting? Is it "just an art assignment"? Evil on any level, macro or the very insignificant micro, is still evil and must be resisted as such. To punish virtue and reward vice is corrupt and immoral.

Another immorality she supported is putting one's name on another's work. I believe that is called cheating and is frowned upon by the Honor Code.

In addition, the final product looked terrible. Every single one of them. Granted, I put no effort into improving the failures of others, but some people tried very hard to correct the mess they were give to work with. None of them looked at all good. My teacher thought this was funny. I thought it was a sacrilege, a blasphemy to the name of art. We didn't start with a blank canvas to be shaped by our skill. We were given a chaotic muck and held to the same standard of creative production. Our only options were to accept a poor product by doing no work or twice the work, but the end result was ugly, no matter what we did. It wasn't even art for art's sake, because we wasted talent on carnage, the murder of art. Calling such ugliness art is a crime.

I really think that the project was an exercise in communism. So just remember kids: communism results in ugly misshapen people.

dispassion

I am trying desperately to maintain a facade of dispassion this week. The difficulty arises that my own nature fights against it. I heal too well.

Last week, disinterest hung around me like a cloud. It was my shield, my armor. It worked a little like shark armor: I could still get crushed but not ripped apart. I made it through the week, and I can give my shield no higher praise than that. On Sunday, I made a full 24-hour fast just asking for strength to get through one more week.

I have handled my responsibilities with admirable efficiency. I was disciplined and focused. I just had to shut off my emotions to do so. I couldn't fight a two-front war. I'm not going to repeat Germany's errors. My detached attitude allows me to focus, to use my strength where it is needed. My strength really is quite priceless lately. It runs out as evening sets in, and doesn't stretch far enough for trivialities. Nora is annoyed, I think, that I attend fewer social activities. I still go to things, but I cannot go to everything. I need my evenings in order to reboot. Sleeping does not do it. Eating does not do it. Careful destruction and reconstruction in a quiet environment, that's what does it.

I'm worried, however, this morning by my almost cheery attitude. Usually, I cannot be unhappy for long (There have been exceptions, and I was beginning to think this was one). I'm annoyed, because it's a wasteful use of my energy. I am still remarkably un-invested emotionally. I don't care for the most part, but rays are peeking out around the clouds. In other words, I am not being dispassionate. There are chinks in my armor, and the sharks are still about.

rejection

I rarely check my Gmail account, because I have only sent three emails with it. They were three submissions to literary journals. I have received two rejections, and I keep waiting for the third. I wonder when I'll finally get it so I can stop waiting. I think receiving bad news is better than anticipating it.

dances with wolves

I had a nightmare Wednesday night that left me shaken and depressed all day Thursday. I had more energy for hiking because of the fierce self-destructive drive pushing me forward. I had no appetite when I got home, and I preferred laying in bed to doing anything. I kept my mind away from replays of the dream by reciting poetry, scripture and song lyrics. When I finally went to bed, I felt calm, if not happy. Then a random scene from Dances with Wolves popped into my brain (the scene where the soldiers shoot the wolf) and I sprang up in my bed and began sobbing, bawling hysterically over a fictional even that I wasn't even witnessing. I finally hushed myself and lulled myself to sleep by imagining that my bed was rocking in a breeze. I think I'm cracking up.

wednesday's dream

I dreamed a dream
that changed my life,
not a vision but a sight.
I woke convinced
my mind had shown
truth that needed to be known.
His face with hers,
how they touched hands,
shattering well-cherished plans.

How does one continue on,
not knowing if all hope is gone?

homesick

A week or so ago, looking up an Austin zip code, I went to Google Maps and typed in my old address. Not only did the map pop up, complete with missing zip, but so did a picture, panoramic, obviously taken from the median of my street. I had a full view of my apartment, the parking lot, my bus stop. I felt a wave of nostalgia. I could practically see myself waiting at that bus stop, reading a book and constantly checking and rechecking the bus numbers as they drove past. I can see me confidently and tiredly dismounting the bus at the end of the day. I could see myself skipping across the parking lot to visit Vivian. From that picture on Google, I saw my life there in Austin, and I missed it with a throbbing pain.

I will be visiting in August, and I keep dreaming in anticipation of seeing everything again. One disappointment is that Elizabeth will not be there. She will be in Provo. While I am glad to live in the same city for a semester, I still wish she would be in Austin for that week. Elizabeth is part of my love of Austin, a very strong draw for that place.

Another force pulling me there is Vivian. Only, I just found out that Elizabeth is selfishly trying to convince Vivian to move to Provo too! I'm outraged. They and Jared are my staples. They cannot leave me. The city would regress to the strange town it was when I moved there the first time around. There would be no inviting warmth. I could grow to love it again, but it would not be like returning home, as I have so long anticipated. Nothing has been decided by any of them, but already I am feeling torn in two. Provo is digging in its heels to get me to stay and Austin is giving up the fight.

cell discretion

I have decided that there is one very nice thing about cell phones: nobody knows when you are obsessively waiting for a call, because you, like everyone around you, have your phone on your person constantly. It helps a girl retain some pride.

under my umbrella

I have taken to walking to and from school with an umbrella. I carry it rain or shine, most especially shine. I got really sick of the perpetual sunburn on my arms, neck, ears and nose. Not only do I hate my nose being red, but also with the red comes the pain. My skin constantly hurt. And no, it does not turn into a tan. Ever. It stays burned. So I am taking a page out of Scarlet O'Hara's book and carrying what my friend John calls a parasol. I call it an umbrella. It's a plain black, no nonsense, umbrella that certainly doesn't fit the description of anything so feminine and decorative as a parasol. I like it because it looks functional. I'm not trying to make a fashion statement, or to draw attention to myself; I am trying to be comfortable.

One of my biggest fears, no joke, is sunburn. It's right up there with fears of abandonment and failure. I get physically ill when I see a sunburn, and I cringe in direct sunlight. I have been traumatized by sunlight.

When I was little, the rule about swimming was that I had to wear spf 50 sunscreen and a tee-shirt, or I had to stay in the shade. Even then, I always came away burned and often carried blisters for days. These were not innocuous blisters but mean inch-long pulsing beasts raised half an inch off of my skin, covering my shoulders and back. I've sat in baths of ice to ease the burning, which continued from the inside out, cooking my legs after a day at the lake. I needed blessings for healing after an afternoon at the pool. I've borne scars for months, delineating exactly where my shirt ended and my neck began.

That's not the worst I've ever experienced, however.

In August of 2003, I went on a road trip to California with Alyessa. We spent three hours on the beach, applying and reapplying sunscreen often. To be safe, I donned jeans after an hour to further protect my legs. It didn't help. The next day I woke up paralyzed, my legs bent at the knee as though I were crouching. The skin looked like maroon leather and the muscles underneath formed strange hard lumps, shriveled up from the heat. Alyessa had to physically stretch out my legs, a little at a time, until I could stand. The pain was horrendous, the tearing and burning that no medication could mask fully. We had to repeat this process every time I needed to walk. On the two-day drive home, I shuffled with my legs crouched under me, in the same position they had been in as I sat, whenever we stopped at a gas station. At home, I had to remain in bed, face down, while antibiotic cream and aloe were applied to the wound. My legs swelled to a uniform cylindrical shape. Joyce said I had "thankles" (thigh-ankles). When I began walking, I used my dad's cane and crouched, so as not to tear the shriveled muscles. I began to stretch them slowly, but two weeks later I still had to use the cane and walk very slowly.

My roommates don't remember my first three days in our apartment when I used a cane, and they never saw the scars. But anyone I have lived with knows my rather extreme reactions to witnessing sunburns. I preached sunscreen and deplored tanning. I kept aloe on hand, ready to dole out at any provocation. I never swam in daylight, though I had no issue with wearing swimming suits. I wore jeans no matter how hot it got.

Some of these things have changed. I still think tanning is stupid, and I advocate use of aloe. But I do wear shorts now, and skirts, quite often. It's the only thing that makes the heat bearable. But I haven't lost the fear of the sun. To compensate I carry my little black umbrella, and I smile at the sideways glances tossed my way. I don't mind looking foolish: I'd rather be practical and appear foolish than vice versa. And while a parasol may be a little silly, my umbrella is nothing if not practical.

tact

The following is a true story told by my professor about his friend.

A young woman and her date arrived at a formal ball, the entrance of which required the descent of a long flight of stairs into the middle of the room. Her date wore a tux and she wore a gown and together they prepared to make a graceful appearance. At the top, the girl extended her foot to take a step, but she snagged her shoe in the front hem of her dress. She tumbled head over heels the entire way down the curving staircase, her date running beside her, futilely trying to catch her. When she landed at the bottom, she rose immediately to her feet, uninjured but extremely embarrassed. All eyes were on her. Before she could recover herself, her date fished for his wallet and pulled from it a twenty-dollar bill. Handing it to her, he said casually, "Well, I admit, I didn't think you had the guts to do it."

My professor told this story to demonstrate the idea that interpretation of a situation changes its meaning, as well as Goffman's definition that tact is the protection of another's performance.

Bravo, to the stud in the tux!

man of my nightmares

I had a nightmare last night unlike I have ever known, different not in form so much as in the experience of it. There was violence, danger, frustration. I was only blocks from my McKinney home but couldn't get there. I couldn't rescue friends from impending drawn-out death. Even petty aspects of nightmares, awkward social situations, assailed me. But I felt calm. As long as he was there, I felt calm, beyond the reach of the pain, fear and frustration.

I don't know who he is. In my dreams, people remain faceless, but still I can discern their identity. For instance, though I never saw the details of them, I knew that Kevin and my high school friend Angelica were there. This man's identity was as shadowed as his face, yet I felt more familiar with him than anyone I have ever known. I was as much myself with him as I have ever been alone; no, I was more natural with him than without.

The times in my dream when I could no longer distance myself from the events of the nightmare were when his fingers slipped from mine. When we struggled through the collapsing building to save the wounded woman, he pushed me to safety. Away from danger and without him, in the moments it took for him to follow, I gasped with the most personal fear I've known. The second he touched my fingers again I felt as though no fear had ever existed .

Even though I never saw his face, I felt certain that he was someone I knew, loved and trusted. What's more, I felt the same emotions coming from him in regard to me. I didn't --couldn't-- question his love for me. Even when impediments arose and reason argued for us to part, he didn't leave me. Staying together felt right, like the rational solution to a logical problem.

The moment I woke, the first thought to assail me was the only important question, which had been so ridiculously unimportant while I slept: "who is he?"

I am still certain that he is someone I know, though obviously not in the same capacity as in the dream. Maybe he is a fictional character, perhaps even one of mine, that I know well. I just cannot put my finger on it. I have been trying to reason through all of the hints I have of his identity. He was dark --swarthy-- and well-groomed. His shadowed head bent solicitously over mine, making him 6 to 8 inches taller. He is broader than I, naturally strong through habitual activeness but with a layer of softness, as though disinterested in purposefully sculpting his body. He took commitments seriously and so hesitated to commit. He was almost carelessly loyal, indifferently moral and lazily graceful. I don't know which parts of him were fictionalized by my brain: perhaps his character is real but the figure of my invention, or vice versa. I'm still tied too firmly to the dream: I still feel certain that finding him will make things right.

I am waiting to wake up.

weighty

At the dinosaur museum I played with childlike abandonment in sandboxes and hands-on displays. I wasn't in the proper insecure-adult-female frame of mind when I jumped on the scale without my defenses in place. Due to this, the numbers struck me like a back-handed slap to the face. My jaw dropped. When Dad's turn came, he pronounced the scale accurate. I groaned with disappointment:

I am heavier than I have ever been. I know that it is completely unfeminine to discuss one's weight. So sue me. I weigh 162 lbs. I once vowed never to weigh more than 155 lbs, the weight at which I began my college career. Even 150 makes me cringe when the little red needle on the scale swings that high.

My senior year in high school was a miserable experience by and large. One part of it was the insecurity I felt about my body. I had gained ten pounds the previous summer, and I was just generally awkward. Instead of wrestling my body into submission, I accepted my feelings of inferiority. Part of the reason was Joyce's clandestine bulimia. I couldn't be the victim in a war with my body.

I lost the weight naturally the first semester of my freshman year. The ten pounds faded gradually as I walked around campus daily and as poverty limited my consumption. I've maintained a fairly steady weight with brief fluctuations of up to five pounds as holidays come and go; my body perpetuates the status quo without too much difficulty. I have typically worked on my feet, walked about town and spent little on food.

But now the driving, studying and Cafe Rio of the past six months have added up. The sum: approximately fifteen pounds. I am appalled.

The weight gain is unprecedented, and so must the reaction be. Heaven help me, I will diet and exercise. I commit myself to it here in writing. I give myself to the end of the term, 50 days hence, to lose fifteen pounds. Wait, on second thought let's make it ten: I'm new at this. That comes out to a pound every five days. Is that doable? I don't even know. Physically, I am sure I can make it, if I can discover any shred of self-discipline among my limited virtues. But I am rather interested in the emotional toll. Cognitive dissonance is practically a guarantee. I have prided myself on my amity with my body (see blog entry "self") and now I must focus on disliking my current shape and appearance. I must grant attention to my failures and insecurities. I chose to limit my diet to 50 days for this reason, and I intend to approach the experience as a scientific observation. We'll see how it goes.

I'm just a little sad that the numbers written across my mirror are counting down in reference to a diet and not for something to which I am looking forward.

ode to joyce

Joyce is home! She arrived back in town yesterday, and I wanted to squeeze her until she popped, which isn't entirely out of the question, given her condition. Her softly rounded tummy is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Unless she think that I love unborn Owen more than her, I'll say my favorite part of having her back is her hugs. It's true, too. Talking to Joyce is never uninteresting. She has a million things to say and most of them are quirky enough that no one else will ever think them, much less say them. It leaves her listeners with the distinct impression that she is irreplaceable. She's tons of fun. She is going to come to the dinosaur museum next week, and she always knows the weirdest movies. She's beautiful too. Her gentle sprinkling of freckles across her face makes her look vulnerable, even when paired with the piercings. Her hair is always the height of fashion, and I have wished before to be as cool as she is; but even if I had the clothes, the makeup and the haircut, I would not know how to use them the way she does. Joyce is a strange combination of punk kid and a mother. This was true even before Owen was a twinkle in her eye. Joyce takes care of people: she brings soup or ice cream as situations dictate. She has always been the mother figure to her weird friends, and I know she shielded me many times as we grew up, though I was the older of the two. She's going to be a wonderful mother come November. She's already making baby blankets and buying onesies. I can't wait to be an aunt. And in the meanwhile, I am very excited to be a sister.

dreams

I have simple daydreams. I envision them again and again as I fall asleep in all their intricate detail, but they are simple. Humble. I do not want palaces. I don’t even picture myself being rich and famous. I don’t want power or prestige or ease.

I imagine children and books, kitchens and gardens, and a husband.

I want to play with my children, skip rope with them, color in coloring books. I will read aloud with all the proper voices, and we will experiment with recipes. I will cuddle them and tell them I love them, and I will panic that I am failing. I want my home to be full of loving chaos: too many faces in and out, too many bicycles on the lawn and too many shoes at the bottom of the stairs. They’ll bring their friends over for rowdy games and family dinner. I want to hear first words amid indecipherable gurgling. I want to smell them after baths. I want to take too many pictures and watch them sleep on nights when I’m restless. I want to teach them to waltz, to take them hiking and to cry at their baptisms, weddings, or graduations. I want to be a mother.

My home will burst at the seams with books. In my lavish dreams, I have a real library with a dark leather sofa and dim lighting except for the lamp. I could retreat there to gorge myself on books. I’d go back again and again to beloved classics, and I will buy books because of their cover art. The room will get a little dusty, but it will be quiet—the only quiet room in the house. Maybe I won’t have a library. Instead, books will pile toward the ceiling, some laying sideways on top of others on random shelves around the house. And I will write my own books, wedging myself in whatever available corners to type out the stories parading in my head. Characters will come alive through my words, words that will likely remain forever in the dark of my personal scribbles. That will be enough for me: knowing these worlds intimately, even if no one else every will.

I want to cook, to make my kitchen a central place for family gathering, not a secreted corner of utility, but a vibrant heart of the home. I will bake. If I am poor, I will discover ever new and ever more-creative uses of pastas and beans. I can make casseroles. I will make sandwiches and cut off crusts. I want to monitor the health of my family and fool them into eating what they need.

I want to dig in the dirt. Weed, water, trim, transplant. Surround myself with life.

I want to marry, to be a wife, to belong to someone. The faceless man I picture in my future is my best friend. He and I talk about things: sad things, happy things, serious lets-make-plans things, and goofy I-overheard-this-today things. We’ll be partners. I want him to value what I do during the day, what I think about the books I read, my opinions on joint decisions. I hope he thinks I am beautiful and sometimes can’t keep his hands off me. Our children will be embarrassed by our kissing. When we fight, I hope I want to be the first to make it up. I want him to be dedicated to God first, me second, the family third—those above all else. I want him to remember little things, just to reassure me. I need reassurance sometimes, and I don’t expect that will change. I want to remind him why I love him. I want to pray together.

I don’t know if I will ever have any of these dreams. The crossroad I face at graduation is unrelated to my ultimate hopes. But how can I say aloud what I want next, when saying makes me so vulnerable? I must make plans with the options presented to me .I may get a job, or go to graduate school. I hope to do the latter, to study a subject I continue to love. And I will get fulfillment out of personal growth, while I wait and work to make my real dreams come true.

letting go

I read a line in a book once that went something like this: it is not comfortable being a bridge. (Ten points to Ted if he can name the book!)

Human beings were not designed to be bridges. We cannot live in two worlds at once. We cannot believe two contradictory truths. Sometimes we have to choose, and then we have to let go.

Often this comes with inevitable mourning. We would rather tear ourselves in two then let go of what we've long held: it amounts to the same thing.

I imagine it's how I'll feel if Brad and Angelina ever break up.

Nothing remains in the end. Especially not if we don't make a conscious effort to carry it with us.

I have had to let go of many things in my life. Difficult things. Sometimes it required a paradigm shift, of which I was only capable after many years of work. Letting go of anger hurts like that. Long-held hurt feels good in a way, and removing it is like amputating a limb. It saves your life, you're better without it, but damn it is painful!

Letting go of love is harder. I've lost friends and romance. The times that I struggled to let go were infused with self-narcotization and despair. For a time, about four months in duration, I slept too much, ate too little and prayed in tears. I never wrote about it in my blog. Those months are relatively bare, and looking back the emptiness strikes me first. It reduces me to tears, although the words are not sad. I simply remember how I felt then, why I didn't -couldn't- write. I realize that I received a reprieve, and I understand if you think that means I had it easy. But never during a single moment did I foresee that respite, that clemency. For me, the darkness of the moment was real, and I can sympathize.

I know what it is to cling to the past like a breath, knowing that to turn my back on it would be to suffocate myself. I have deleted phone numbers from speed-dial,and destroyed letters at various times in my life. But it's not the release that hurts; it's the constant tug of war that comes before, like trying to bridge two ever-dividing shores.

I know that in the future I will again be forced to let go, and the mere prospect leaves me clinging tighter to those things I love. I would rather be stretched beyond my endurance, drawn until there is no semblance of form anymore; I would rather do that than to systematically cut away a piece of myself. Perhaps that is only because I lack inurement and proper foresight.

We were meant to be whole, not divided. So, be whole.