I'm scared. This world, our world, scares me. I am intensely discouraged that in the way our society works, it has actually become difficult to spend time with the only One who is with us all the time. Really, world? Really? It's only the One you were created by. The One all of us were created by.
We need to stop. All of us. For just a bit, at least daily. A minute an hour would be astounding, and should not at all seem irrational, but it does. I am terrified for what that says about our generation.
I think I just miss peace. It's been a long time since I felt it, in myself or in those around me.
And I fear. Many things. Probably too many things. But at the very least, I fear what is important. And I fear that it's being lost.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Twenty-Third
[written July 31st. posted now.]
I think in life there are only two things that constantly go on, and consequently always go together.
Choices.
&
Change.
It is the nature of life to never stay the same. Change is always in motion. Choices too. Something you choose to do can make everything that is going on with you at that moment. When a large change of any kind happens, you choose to react to it. Always. They are in direct correlation with each other. Always. Big or small, simple of difficult. One of the two is always happening. And some people forget, though they never should, that there is ALWAYS the option of both. Always.
What what you do with one when the other shows up, regardless of the order, says everything about a person, at least to me.
I think in life there are only two things that constantly go on, and consequently always go together.
Choices.
&
Change.
It is the nature of life to never stay the same. Change is always in motion. Choices too. Something you choose to do can make everything that is going on with you at that moment. When a large change of any kind happens, you choose to react to it. Always. They are in direct correlation with each other. Always. Big or small, simple of difficult. One of the two is always happening. And some people forget, though they never should, that there is ALWAYS the option of both. Always.
What what you do with one when the other shows up, regardless of the order, says everything about a person, at least to me.
Twenty-Second
[written July 31st. posted now]
I have a sort of secret. It's not a real secret, it's not hidden tucked away in a drawer of shame, I just don't talk about it much. In nature, I have a weird appreciation for when it smells bad. Awkward as it is, it's true.
I'm sitting in front of a junky little like on the border of Hanover Park and Schaumburg. I'm sitting by it's man made vent thing, which probably explains the waters creepy color, and I have geese to the left of me. There is funny, hopefully plant stuff on the water, and directly in front of where I'm sitting, there is semi recent goose poop. And it smells. There are signs of the grass dying, and I can smell it. It smells hard, and the poop is pungent. The water smells, but I'm not sure like what. All I know is it's nothing good. And...for whatever weird reason...I'm happy here. Because right now, surrounded by all this...this bit of nature surrounded by what man has made...it feels honest. It certainly smells honest.
And I think that isn't how it is for a lot of people. Too many people I know are down with honesty. Because sometimes...it can smell bad. But in my experience, lies and fake things and dishonesty smell a lot worse. So I'll take a smelly lake over a beautifully furnished room indoors on a gorgeous day every time.
But hey. Thats just me.
I have a sort of secret. It's not a real secret, it's not hidden tucked away in a drawer of shame, I just don't talk about it much. In nature, I have a weird appreciation for when it smells bad. Awkward as it is, it's true.
I'm sitting in front of a junky little like on the border of Hanover Park and Schaumburg. I'm sitting by it's man made vent thing, which probably explains the waters creepy color, and I have geese to the left of me. There is funny, hopefully plant stuff on the water, and directly in front of where I'm sitting, there is semi recent goose poop. And it smells. There are signs of the grass dying, and I can smell it. It smells hard, and the poop is pungent. The water smells, but I'm not sure like what. All I know is it's nothing good. And...for whatever weird reason...I'm happy here. Because right now, surrounded by all this...this bit of nature surrounded by what man has made...it feels honest. It certainly smells honest.
And I think that isn't how it is for a lot of people. Too many people I know are down with honesty. Because sometimes...it can smell bad. But in my experience, lies and fake things and dishonesty smell a lot worse. So I'll take a smelly lake over a beautifully furnished room indoors on a gorgeous day every time.
But hey. Thats just me.
Twenty-First
[written July, 14th. posted now.]
I have a role. This tole, this talent, this identity. It gets me places. It's the work I do. It's what I'm considered by many friends. It's in my blood.
I'm Mama Sara.
Days shy of being 20, and technically childless, I'm a mother anyways. I have a mother's heart, arms, way of thinking, and the build of one too. I think fun is a chance to sit down and relax for five minutes, preferably with a book. I hold my friends when they've had too much to drink and need to throw up. I listen til 4 in the morning, and have good advice to boot. I watch children as a lively hood. Raising them for a few hours every day is my job. My role in a group of peers is the caretaker of all.
And I like it, for the most part. It's like...with all the abilities I lack, like being alluring or flirty or fun, gotta hoe I have something enhanced. And what I do is NOT hollow. I love it. Even when babies cry, throw up on me, and get snot all over my clothes. Even when the tears of my friend stain my shirt, and I rub their back or stroke their hair for comfort. Whatever it is, whenever they need it, I'm there. And they know it.
The only sad part of it is the extreme independence that comes along with it. Mother I may be, but I have no 'father' figure to match me. Even if I did, i'm not sure how much different things would be. I don't know how to be cared for in return, or how to act my age and be a 'crazy kid'. It's just not in my arsenal. Outside of going to the occasional concert or sometimes having a bit of alcohol, I'm a boring bum. And sometimes it's tedious. My lack of relying on others gets tedious. There's God, of course. And I have an even harder time letting myself, making myself, rely on Him instead of me. 'Cause we all know leaning on yourself alone can't get you that far. But...giving in is hard, and harder when I can't get His arms wrapped around me in a tangible way.
And really, moms need hugs too. Easy as it is to forget.
I have a role. This tole, this talent, this identity. It gets me places. It's the work I do. It's what I'm considered by many friends. It's in my blood.
I'm Mama Sara.
Days shy of being 20, and technically childless, I'm a mother anyways. I have a mother's heart, arms, way of thinking, and the build of one too. I think fun is a chance to sit down and relax for five minutes, preferably with a book. I hold my friends when they've had too much to drink and need to throw up. I listen til 4 in the morning, and have good advice to boot. I watch children as a lively hood. Raising them for a few hours every day is my job. My role in a group of peers is the caretaker of all.
And I like it, for the most part. It's like...with all the abilities I lack, like being alluring or flirty or fun, gotta hoe I have something enhanced. And what I do is NOT hollow. I love it. Even when babies cry, throw up on me, and get snot all over my clothes. Even when the tears of my friend stain my shirt, and I rub their back or stroke their hair for comfort. Whatever it is, whenever they need it, I'm there. And they know it.
The only sad part of it is the extreme independence that comes along with it. Mother I may be, but I have no 'father' figure to match me. Even if I did, i'm not sure how much different things would be. I don't know how to be cared for in return, or how to act my age and be a 'crazy kid'. It's just not in my arsenal. Outside of going to the occasional concert or sometimes having a bit of alcohol, I'm a boring bum. And sometimes it's tedious. My lack of relying on others gets tedious. There's God, of course. And I have an even harder time letting myself, making myself, rely on Him instead of me. 'Cause we all know leaning on yourself alone can't get you that far. But...giving in is hard, and harder when I can't get His arms wrapped around me in a tangible way.
And really, moms need hugs too. Easy as it is to forget.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Twentieth
[written june 23rd, and kind of forgotten about. posted now.]
Last night I had a bunch of my favorite songs on shuffle. I was listening and singing along, having fun with my music as per usual. Then a song came on. I won't say it's name, because it makes everything too obvious, but anyways. This song comes on, and honestly it's an amazing song. I love it to bits, and it's in my favorites for a reason. It's a sad song, but that just adds to it's greatness. So, as I'm singing along, i'm suddenly very sad. While I'm chiming along, someone I love pops into my head, in direct correlation to a sad song.
And suddenly, this person is absolutely associated with this sad song, and it's like the lyrics make up my relationship with them. I was really jarred. This person...used to have a lot of songs that made me think of them, but happy ones. There were even some songs that I considered us to share. Never before had a song that was sad entered that collection. This song was beautifully tragic. It's about feeling far away, and about losing someone, and that name, that person, is the one I think about.
Ouch.
It got me thinking about other people I don't think about often anymore. and still thinking about the first person, and I started getting downright depressed. It worsened as the next song came on my shuffle. It was a song that I used to consider 'shared' by us. Key emphasis on 'used to'. I listened to the song, silent all the while. I knew every word, every instrument, every bit of the melody. And for the first time...it was just a song. It didn't bring flashes of memories and old times. It didn't bring forth a sense of connection. It was just a song that I love and know. It was sad. And for some weird reason...behind all that...I felt free. And, "LeFou I'm afraid I've been thinking." "A dangerous past time." "I know."
I started to wonder, how was any of this my fault? Maybe I've just been clinging to connections I thought I had, and I've finally let them go. Maybe that connection was never there in the first place. Wouldn't be the first time I've been a fool like that. I'm sure it won't be the last. Maybe I was just letting go, all on my own. Finally moving on from something I shouldn't have held onto in the first place.
And it's sad. I was sad. But it's always sad. Growing up and moving on, letting go, it's terrifying. It's scary, and hard, and if you don't know you're doing it, when you understand at last that you've done it, it hurts. It's hard. Letting go of something is still losing it, even if it's by choice. And it will always be difficult. But that doesn't mean it's bad. Not at all. It's the opposite, even. Change has to happen. Transitions will occur. There's no stopping that, and it's better to let it go on than kill ourselves trying to pretend. We on't have to accept it joyously, but we can't act like it'll never happen. It will.
It just will.
Sometimes it will be for the better. Often, even. But it rarely feels like it at the time.
So a new song, with a different meaning than before, is what reminds me of an old friend. And old meanings are both lost...and let go of. It's hard. And it's good.
And I will keep listening to my songs.
Last night I had a bunch of my favorite songs on shuffle. I was listening and singing along, having fun with my music as per usual. Then a song came on. I won't say it's name, because it makes everything too obvious, but anyways. This song comes on, and honestly it's an amazing song. I love it to bits, and it's in my favorites for a reason. It's a sad song, but that just adds to it's greatness. So, as I'm singing along, i'm suddenly very sad. While I'm chiming along, someone I love pops into my head, in direct correlation to a sad song.
And suddenly, this person is absolutely associated with this sad song, and it's like the lyrics make up my relationship with them. I was really jarred. This person...used to have a lot of songs that made me think of them, but happy ones. There were even some songs that I considered us to share. Never before had a song that was sad entered that collection. This song was beautifully tragic. It's about feeling far away, and about losing someone, and that name, that person, is the one I think about.
Ouch.
It got me thinking about other people I don't think about often anymore. and still thinking about the first person, and I started getting downright depressed. It worsened as the next song came on my shuffle. It was a song that I used to consider 'shared' by us. Key emphasis on 'used to'. I listened to the song, silent all the while. I knew every word, every instrument, every bit of the melody. And for the first time...it was just a song. It didn't bring flashes of memories and old times. It didn't bring forth a sense of connection. It was just a song that I love and know. It was sad. And for some weird reason...behind all that...I felt free. And, "LeFou I'm afraid I've been thinking." "A dangerous past time." "I know."
I started to wonder, how was any of this my fault? Maybe I've just been clinging to connections I thought I had, and I've finally let them go. Maybe that connection was never there in the first place. Wouldn't be the first time I've been a fool like that. I'm sure it won't be the last. Maybe I was just letting go, all on my own. Finally moving on from something I shouldn't have held onto in the first place.
And it's sad. I was sad. But it's always sad. Growing up and moving on, letting go, it's terrifying. It's scary, and hard, and if you don't know you're doing it, when you understand at last that you've done it, it hurts. It's hard. Letting go of something is still losing it, even if it's by choice. And it will always be difficult. But that doesn't mean it's bad. Not at all. It's the opposite, even. Change has to happen. Transitions will occur. There's no stopping that, and it's better to let it go on than kill ourselves trying to pretend. We on't have to accept it joyously, but we can't act like it'll never happen. It will.
It just will.
Sometimes it will be for the better. Often, even. But it rarely feels like it at the time.
So a new song, with a different meaning than before, is what reminds me of an old friend. And old meanings are both lost...and let go of. It's hard. And it's good.
And I will keep listening to my songs.
Nineteenth
[Written July 13th, posted now.]
So I was talking to my dad today, and it was unusual for many reasons.
The first being, really, that I was talking to my dad at all. We don't do that often. Our relationship is not a great one, and it has little positive substance for many reasons. It's much better than it used to be, and probably better than it should be for all that's gone on between us.
Second was the topic, which was me. He said sometime he wanted to sit down and talk to me. Listen to me. Have me explain things to him. We have a therapist that every person in my family has talked to, Dr. Skiba. That man is one of my favorites in the whole world. I respect him greatly, and I have, at times, respected him more than my father. Recently, my dad has started having sessions with him. I think it's great. I think my father has a lot to work though, and I know first hand what Paul Skiba can do. I know for a fact that without him I'd have about a billion more issues than I do, and I'm hugely grateful. I know God put him in the lives of my family for a reason, and I love him for it, and I love Paul for who he is and what he's done.
The third strange thing was that the conversation I have with my father actuall got me thinking. That is, honestly, not something he can generally do. But from the session earlier that day, Dr. Skiba had apparently said something about me having developed the ability to love myself.
I was astonished.
My dad then proceeded to say that he'd like to know how I'd managed to do that. how I'd been through all that I had, and be how I am now. I didn't know what to say. I could feel myself naturally closing down, and shutting off to my father. Having that reaction to simply skimming the topic of what I'd been through. Being open and honest with my father was what hurt more than anything else. Why speak to him about the most difficult period of my life now, when he'd been detached and uninterested while it had actually been happening?
What got me most was the way he'd put it. He wanted to know how I'd learned to love myself. My first though when he said that was, "What on earth is he talking about?"
I don't feel like that term applied to me. It baffles me that anyone could think a phrase like that fits me at all. I don't really like myself, most of the time. I can't stand my weight, and all I can generally see of my personality is my flaws. They glare at me, hiss at me, haunt me constantly and overshadow the good. Between my father and my best friend, I have been monumentally screwed up on the male front. Between my weight and the things I've failed at, like high school, my confidence in myself....simply isn't. But...I can still see that I love myself, I love who I am, far more than my father liked himself. He made a point, and he surprised me again. He said that there were things I had done, things that I've managed in 20 years, and he's never pulled off in 52.
And I got thinking. And I remembered that it's all so relative.
The time you have is largely irrelevant. What you do during it, and the choices you make about what you're given...now there is something that matters.
What is more important? That on some random Tuesday, I hated myself and wanted to hide in bed all day, or that I gave my sister a hug and smiled at a stranger who looked a little down? Should I dwell on the fight I had with someone last week, or make sure I tell my mother that I love her and I know how blessed I am that she's in my life? Drown in the fact that I lost my teenage years to illness and got expelled from high school, or rejoice that I still have life to live, things to do, and places to make it to?
Sometimes I can pull off loving myself. Sometimes I like myself. And sometimes I hate myself. Sometimes I'm simply apathetic. But all of it is okay. Because I have an amazing support system of people, family, friends or otherwise, who are all around and loving me. And more than anything, I know that it's all being spear-headed by God. He puts me through stuff...that's for gosh dern sure. But He brings me though everything, too. Even when I forget about His love, and that of the people around me, it's still there.
They love me.
He loves me.
One day...I'll get there entirely, too.
For now, I'm stay content with letting you know something. Whoever you are, I love you. I mean it, even when you forget, it still stands. And it's my wish that you love yourself too, because it's a far cry better than the alternative. But even so, if you do or not, it doesn't change.
I love you.
So I was talking to my dad today, and it was unusual for many reasons.
The first being, really, that I was talking to my dad at all. We don't do that often. Our relationship is not a great one, and it has little positive substance for many reasons. It's much better than it used to be, and probably better than it should be for all that's gone on between us.
Second was the topic, which was me. He said sometime he wanted to sit down and talk to me. Listen to me. Have me explain things to him. We have a therapist that every person in my family has talked to, Dr. Skiba. That man is one of my favorites in the whole world. I respect him greatly, and I have, at times, respected him more than my father. Recently, my dad has started having sessions with him. I think it's great. I think my father has a lot to work though, and I know first hand what Paul Skiba can do. I know for a fact that without him I'd have about a billion more issues than I do, and I'm hugely grateful. I know God put him in the lives of my family for a reason, and I love him for it, and I love Paul for who he is and what he's done.
The third strange thing was that the conversation I have with my father actuall got me thinking. That is, honestly, not something he can generally do. But from the session earlier that day, Dr. Skiba had apparently said something about me having developed the ability to love myself.
I was astonished.
My dad then proceeded to say that he'd like to know how I'd managed to do that. how I'd been through all that I had, and be how I am now. I didn't know what to say. I could feel myself naturally closing down, and shutting off to my father. Having that reaction to simply skimming the topic of what I'd been through. Being open and honest with my father was what hurt more than anything else. Why speak to him about the most difficult period of my life now, when he'd been detached and uninterested while it had actually been happening?
What got me most was the way he'd put it. He wanted to know how I'd learned to love myself. My first though when he said that was, "What on earth is he talking about?"
I don't feel like that term applied to me. It baffles me that anyone could think a phrase like that fits me at all. I don't really like myself, most of the time. I can't stand my weight, and all I can generally see of my personality is my flaws. They glare at me, hiss at me, haunt me constantly and overshadow the good. Between my father and my best friend, I have been monumentally screwed up on the male front. Between my weight and the things I've failed at, like high school, my confidence in myself....simply isn't. But...I can still see that I love myself, I love who I am, far more than my father liked himself. He made a point, and he surprised me again. He said that there were things I had done, things that I've managed in 20 years, and he's never pulled off in 52.
And I got thinking. And I remembered that it's all so relative.
The time you have is largely irrelevant. What you do during it, and the choices you make about what you're given...now there is something that matters.
What is more important? That on some random Tuesday, I hated myself and wanted to hide in bed all day, or that I gave my sister a hug and smiled at a stranger who looked a little down? Should I dwell on the fight I had with someone last week, or make sure I tell my mother that I love her and I know how blessed I am that she's in my life? Drown in the fact that I lost my teenage years to illness and got expelled from high school, or rejoice that I still have life to live, things to do, and places to make it to?
Sometimes I can pull off loving myself. Sometimes I like myself. And sometimes I hate myself. Sometimes I'm simply apathetic. But all of it is okay. Because I have an amazing support system of people, family, friends or otherwise, who are all around and loving me. And more than anything, I know that it's all being spear-headed by God. He puts me through stuff...that's for gosh dern sure. But He brings me though everything, too. Even when I forget about His love, and that of the people around me, it's still there.
They love me.
He loves me.
One day...I'll get there entirely, too.
For now, I'm stay content with letting you know something. Whoever you are, I love you. I mean it, even when you forget, it still stands. And it's my wish that you love yourself too, because it's a far cry better than the alternative. But even so, if you do or not, it doesn't change.
I love you.
Eighteenth
[This was written July 10th, posted now.]
I am too much. I'm just too many things, honestly. I'm too unhappy. Too pessimistic. Too cynical. Too sarcastic. Too many contradictions. Too boring. Too weird. Too off beat. Too quiet, until I get too loud. Too mean. Too nice. Too shameless. Too self conscious, even if it's generally a secret. Too big. Too interested. Too intense. Too introverted. Too geeky. Too dumb.
I'm too much stuff, and it doesn't matter how large of small I am, I don't feel like I have room for it all inside me sometimes.
I'm too young. I'm nineteen.
I'm too old, coming up on twenty in mere days.
I'm too afraid. I have when things change.
I'm too bored. I can't stand for everything to always be the same.
I'm too structured. I over-rationalize taking a risk when it's offered to me.
I'm too flippant. I'll do things for no reason, other than an impulse.
I'm too cynical. I think this country has warped love out of recognition, and after 20 years of single I am unconvinced there is ever going to be takers.
I'm too much of a romantic. I have these views, but I want love anyways. Love like a song, simple and beautiful. And a good man to share it with.
I'm too young, getting too old. Standing too still, but it changes too fast. There's too many people, but I'm too alone. I'm relying too much on my' too much' self. But I'm not sure of how to change it for anything to happen. And I'm so incredibly sick of wearing pants.
I am too much. I'm just too many things, honestly. I'm too unhappy. Too pessimistic. Too cynical. Too sarcastic. Too many contradictions. Too boring. Too weird. Too off beat. Too quiet, until I get too loud. Too mean. Too nice. Too shameless. Too self conscious, even if it's generally a secret. Too big. Too interested. Too intense. Too introverted. Too geeky. Too dumb.
I'm too much stuff, and it doesn't matter how large of small I am, I don't feel like I have room for it all inside me sometimes.
I'm too young. I'm nineteen.
I'm too old, coming up on twenty in mere days.
I'm too afraid. I have when things change.
I'm too bored. I can't stand for everything to always be the same.
I'm too structured. I over-rationalize taking a risk when it's offered to me.
I'm too flippant. I'll do things for no reason, other than an impulse.
I'm too cynical. I think this country has warped love out of recognition, and after 20 years of single I am unconvinced there is ever going to be takers.
I'm too much of a romantic. I have these views, but I want love anyways. Love like a song, simple and beautiful. And a good man to share it with.
I'm too young, getting too old. Standing too still, but it changes too fast. There's too many people, but I'm too alone. I'm relying too much on my' too much' self. But I'm not sure of how to change it for anything to happen. And I'm so incredibly sick of wearing pants.
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