I can't love music enough, ever. Mine is on shuffle, and somehow, it's coming up with the exact things I need to hear. Out of over fourteen thousand songs, it's giving me what my heart needs.
I think God's hands are on even the smallest things. Like the shuffle feature on your iPod, if thats where you go when you're weary and feel heart broken.
I need to remember that I can't love God enough ever, either. I don't do that like I should. I don't think anyone does.
"And it's time to go
I cannot stay, you cannot know.
My love, so dear.
Will it be faith, or fear?
You are forgiven, I open all my doors.
You are forgiven, what a heart is for."
-Deb Talan
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Twenty Eighth
I had a really long day.
It started at work, if we're going by the technical 24 hour containment. I was up til 2, coming home from work. I could have slept there. I didn't. It's harder to drive home when you sleep. So I came home, got to bed late. I got up late, too. I got in the shower late. When i was done, I continued to take my time, despite being incredibly late for church. When I was ready, i was so late I felt silly going aside from picking up my sister. I fooled around online, did little things, and left in enough time to get there just as they were getting out. Only to find my mother there, ready to bust me about not going. While I was there I missed someone close to me in a way I shouldn't have, and it made me feel worse.
I left church, and got food that is horrible for my body. I watched something, again instead of sleeping, that is perhaps not as good as other things I could have watched. Then I went to work, late again, a total shocker.
I do not like my Sunday's anymore. Which I find disappointing, but still true. I feel no connection to my Creator there. Once a month, maybe, when I can hear from a certain pastor. Almost always when I sing up on that stage, but thats not enough. And then I go to the job that I keep only because I need the money. It's for a family that is odd, even by my definition. The father makes me uncomfortable, the grandparents live downstairs, the mother...I don't quite know, though she is by far the easiest to stand. The child, whom I spend hours straight with, is a brat. She is spoiled and heavy and whiney and manipulative, among other things. She makes me crazy. This is as rare as a needle in a haystack; anyone who knows me can attest to how much I adore children. Yet this one gives me what feels like post-pardum depression every time i leave a shift with her. Thats just not healthy.
And that is where I arrived late, and quite why I arrived late. I took her from her mother, so I could care for her and we could play. She screamed. Thats what she does a lot. Often as if I am tearing her limbs off. It is incredibly frustrating, particularly because I am in a house full of people and three out of the four doesn't believe much in allowing her to cry. Do you have any idea how exhausting that is? It's almost nothing compared to having to take her outside twice in 85 degree weather with intense humidity, which improved her mood only slightly until she quickly overheated. I am in pain because of the bruises where she grabbed me. She has the most invasive hands and feet I have ever known, and thanks to her it is an enormous pet peeve of mine now when people wiggle their pointy hands or toes into me.
Better than that, she wouldn't sleep. Not at all. Not when she was supposed to take her usual nap, despite the fact that she was tired beyond belief. No, no. I had to deal with her refusal. Finally, finally, after six hours with a cranky, chunky, snot face, she falls asleep. And my night began to improve. I watched Amelie for the first time, and I fell in love. I listened to Jonsi and calmed myself some. They both have accents over one of their vowels that my mere English keyboard isn't letting me replicate. And I held the walnut baby as she slept. And there, after being horrifying all day, she just slept. She was quiet and she rested. And it was hard to be frustrated with her like that. She's just a baby, after all. But she's got enough head on her shoulders to be a right brat. She's being raised in a way I don't agree with and have a hard time being around. But it's not my call, just my problem once a week.
But at last I got to rest. But not enough. I don't know where I'm going with this. I don't know why I'm complaining. Probably because last week was so horrible that this being how this week started, I'm nervous about how it's going to go down now. Maybe I just need the illusion that someone will see this.
Maybe I just need a hug without chubby little hands clawing at my neck and screaming in my ear.
Maybe I need to cry about this semester and the loss of my car and the fact that I am struggling with feelings for one of my best friends when I don't want them. Maybe it's because my one creative outlet is on the brink of extinction, again. Maybe I need to scream because of how my father is driving my whole family apart.
Maybe I just need to sleep.
It started at work, if we're going by the technical 24 hour containment. I was up til 2, coming home from work. I could have slept there. I didn't. It's harder to drive home when you sleep. So I came home, got to bed late. I got up late, too. I got in the shower late. When i was done, I continued to take my time, despite being incredibly late for church. When I was ready, i was so late I felt silly going aside from picking up my sister. I fooled around online, did little things, and left in enough time to get there just as they were getting out. Only to find my mother there, ready to bust me about not going. While I was there I missed someone close to me in a way I shouldn't have, and it made me feel worse.
I left church, and got food that is horrible for my body. I watched something, again instead of sleeping, that is perhaps not as good as other things I could have watched. Then I went to work, late again, a total shocker.
I do not like my Sunday's anymore. Which I find disappointing, but still true. I feel no connection to my Creator there. Once a month, maybe, when I can hear from a certain pastor. Almost always when I sing up on that stage, but thats not enough. And then I go to the job that I keep only because I need the money. It's for a family that is odd, even by my definition. The father makes me uncomfortable, the grandparents live downstairs, the mother...I don't quite know, though she is by far the easiest to stand. The child, whom I spend hours straight with, is a brat. She is spoiled and heavy and whiney and manipulative, among other things. She makes me crazy. This is as rare as a needle in a haystack; anyone who knows me can attest to how much I adore children. Yet this one gives me what feels like post-pardum depression every time i leave a shift with her. Thats just not healthy.
And that is where I arrived late, and quite why I arrived late. I took her from her mother, so I could care for her and we could play. She screamed. Thats what she does a lot. Often as if I am tearing her limbs off. It is incredibly frustrating, particularly because I am in a house full of people and three out of the four doesn't believe much in allowing her to cry. Do you have any idea how exhausting that is? It's almost nothing compared to having to take her outside twice in 85 degree weather with intense humidity, which improved her mood only slightly until she quickly overheated. I am in pain because of the bruises where she grabbed me. She has the most invasive hands and feet I have ever known, and thanks to her it is an enormous pet peeve of mine now when people wiggle their pointy hands or toes into me.
Better than that, she wouldn't sleep. Not at all. Not when she was supposed to take her usual nap, despite the fact that she was tired beyond belief. No, no. I had to deal with her refusal. Finally, finally, after six hours with a cranky, chunky, snot face, she falls asleep. And my night began to improve. I watched Amelie for the first time, and I fell in love. I listened to Jonsi and calmed myself some. They both have accents over one of their vowels that my mere English keyboard isn't letting me replicate. And I held the walnut baby as she slept. And there, after being horrifying all day, she just slept. She was quiet and she rested. And it was hard to be frustrated with her like that. She's just a baby, after all. But she's got enough head on her shoulders to be a right brat. She's being raised in a way I don't agree with and have a hard time being around. But it's not my call, just my problem once a week.
But at last I got to rest. But not enough. I don't know where I'm going with this. I don't know why I'm complaining. Probably because last week was so horrible that this being how this week started, I'm nervous about how it's going to go down now. Maybe I just need the illusion that someone will see this.
Maybe I just need a hug without chubby little hands clawing at my neck and screaming in my ear.
Maybe I need to cry about this semester and the loss of my car and the fact that I am struggling with feelings for one of my best friends when I don't want them. Maybe it's because my one creative outlet is on the brink of extinction, again. Maybe I need to scream because of how my father is driving my whole family apart.
Maybe I just need to sleep.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Twenty Seventh
I dont understand our society, more often than not. It will constantly do backwards things, and we follow it. We watch it. We flow and ebb with it's changes and we either don't notice that it's a problem or, being America, pretend for as long as possible that it isn't there. We are a badly led flock, occasionally stupider than sheep.
Do you know what I've discovered in college this semester? I've had to remember how to think for myself again. I am in an English 102 class, and we have to take notes on everything we read. Articles we're given, what we go over in the book, among other things. Then we think critically about it. Then we discuss our opinions about the article she gives us, always a new one at the start of class. DO you know the last time I did that? Neither do I.
I'm in a Novel & Film class also. I love it, but it's a challenge and I never anticipated that it would be. But every class I have to think, and I have to compare. I have to end every homework assignment with 3 of my most interesting comments and/or questions. I don't know the last time I had to do that, either.
And maybe I missed some of that stuff because I was kicked out of high school and didn't do much education-wise after that. Maybe it's because I've been really listless and unmotivated for a long time and these things haven't been required of me for quite a while, so I haven't bothered to arise to a challenge that wasn't there.
I'm not saying I'm stupid, or that I don't think. I'm not stupid, and I do think; in fact I've always been very bright. It might not have always translated academically, but it's still true. And if you give me the right topic I can thing about it for hours, days, weeks, months, years even. But I'm the first to admit that it doesn't happen often, and there's only a few topics that have been able to keep my mind engaged for years straight.
But it's horrible to me that a bright 20 year old who has spent the last two years in a college environment has only just started to feel challenged academically. Seriously, society? I guess it goes to show how much education is actually valued. Although maybe I've been in the wrong classes with the wrong teachers. I'm not sure thats an excuse. Why should there be wrong classes that don't make a person think, with wrong teachers that don't challenge their students? But I'm probably being overly critical, or optimistic in my asking 'why?'.
There's another thing that ceaselessly bugs me though: weight and looks.
WHY DOES IT HAVE TO MATTER SO MUCH?!
Every single person that I know and love is endlessly beautiful (or handsome) to me. Seriously. If you insult the looks of any of my friends, I am instantly all over you in the worst of ways. Are they all perfect? With the hair, teeth, skin, body, clothing, etc? NO WAY! Is even one of them? NO! And you know what? THANK GOODNESS!
Our society preaches individuality. We do it in a way that no other place in the world can, because of the freedoms that we are given in our country. They say to be yourself while encouraging people to desire more than anyone else this mold of 'perfect'. Look like this model, resemble this ad, make yourself this kind of beautiful! Then it will be just what you want! That easy fix instant gratification happiness that they peddle to us all, YOU WILL ACHIEVE IT! Uhm...seriously. Dude. I call bullshit.
Do you know why my friends are so beautiful? Because they are so genuine. They are unique. They don't need some mold for perfect, because they are already marvelous and don't even for a moment need to reach in vain for something that can't be captured. And THAT is why they are beautiful. It's what their most gorgeous quality is.
A phrase I often use is, 'I'm no pixie'. While accurate, it cushions what I'm saying for whomever I'm saying it to. It cushions the fact for myself as well. And what is the fact? Well, I'm overweight. I'm 20 with stretch marks and not enough real reason for them. I don't have a particularly perky chest because it's too darn large to keep itself up (a fact that is not to be envied). I jiggle when I jump. I have enormous, Swedish hips. I don't wear make up and I don't disguise or primp the imperfections of my face. My favorite hair is after it's just air dried from the shower or in a sloppy bun. I will say all of this to you, I will tell you this. If I were in person with you, I'd be shrugging my shoulders and raising my eyebrows, indicating to you all, 'whats it matter?'. All the while attempting to disguise my deep loathing of most of what I just mentioned, and my overwhelming insecurity about it all.
Look, I'm the only one who knows what I really look like. After all, I'm the only one whose seen everything there is to me since I was old enough to bathe without adult supervision. And how, again, WHY is it okay to repulse myself, just because I'm too big to fit in societies perfect model?
ITS NOT!
It's just sad! Being naked should be fun! And I'm not talking about in the perverted or sexual way, but come on. It's down to just you. The body that you came into the world with, all you, no restraints. Whats more freeing than that, more personal? And so many hate it? Even when you're just alone. I'm not saying go join a nudist colony or anything, but few who have tried it can say they don't enjoy running around their living space, alone, in just their underwear or nothing at all! Dancing, even! WHY should a body be shaming, such an uncomfortable burden? Why can we love others and insist til we're blue in the face that they're beautiful or handsome, but vehemently reject it when it's suggested about ourselves? Why is it, once we hit puberty and even before that, so many are taught, somehow, not to love themselves?
No stranger who saw me walking down a street would label me beautiful. But ask any of my closest friends, and they will be ready in an instant to verbally spar with you if you have anything different to say about it. And I know God is with them, just ready and waiting to defend His beautiful creation and insist along with their voices something I have trouble understanding. What, exactly, is more important than that?
Can I say that I love living in my skin all the time? That every day I go against societies norms with reckless, marvelous, freedom & abandon? That I can manage to not care, and love myself just how I am all the time? Nope. Not even a little bit. I get insecure too. I've caved to what they've told me. That with this size, I can't be attractive or beautiful. I know that no one is harsher TO or ABOUT me THAN me. But there's no love in that. And thats not how I want to spend my days. Using my energy on hating something instead of loving it. Is it easy? Oh boy, no. Hah. But when is whats most worth it easy?
What I CAN say is that I have some really great days. Days when I'm not tied down by insecurity and don't even think to be ashamed as I prance around to music in undies. Times when I walk into a room and my first thought isn't to suck in my vile gut because I'm surrounded by people who don't have one. Days where I don't even think about it as a vile gut, just as my tummy. Days when I can see why other people, why the Creator of the freaking universe, think I'm beautiful.
Maybe I lost some of my point in this. It's not all societies fault. But every day that I don't hate myself, I remember afterward how amazing it felt not measuring to a mold. And I guess I just wish they'd encourage happiness within yourself that is less based on the outside of yourself. For all that they insist beauty comes from within, they sure place a lot on the kind thats outward.
Sorry society. I guess I just encourage real people who revel in the fact that they don't have to hold to a mold.
Do you know what I've discovered in college this semester? I've had to remember how to think for myself again. I am in an English 102 class, and we have to take notes on everything we read. Articles we're given, what we go over in the book, among other things. Then we think critically about it. Then we discuss our opinions about the article she gives us, always a new one at the start of class. DO you know the last time I did that? Neither do I.
I'm in a Novel & Film class also. I love it, but it's a challenge and I never anticipated that it would be. But every class I have to think, and I have to compare. I have to end every homework assignment with 3 of my most interesting comments and/or questions. I don't know the last time I had to do that, either.
And maybe I missed some of that stuff because I was kicked out of high school and didn't do much education-wise after that. Maybe it's because I've been really listless and unmotivated for a long time and these things haven't been required of me for quite a while, so I haven't bothered to arise to a challenge that wasn't there.
I'm not saying I'm stupid, or that I don't think. I'm not stupid, and I do think; in fact I've always been very bright. It might not have always translated academically, but it's still true. And if you give me the right topic I can thing about it for hours, days, weeks, months, years even. But I'm the first to admit that it doesn't happen often, and there's only a few topics that have been able to keep my mind engaged for years straight.
But it's horrible to me that a bright 20 year old who has spent the last two years in a college environment has only just started to feel challenged academically. Seriously, society? I guess it goes to show how much education is actually valued. Although maybe I've been in the wrong classes with the wrong teachers. I'm not sure thats an excuse. Why should there be wrong classes that don't make a person think, with wrong teachers that don't challenge their students? But I'm probably being overly critical, or optimistic in my asking 'why?'.
There's another thing that ceaselessly bugs me though: weight and looks.
WHY DOES IT HAVE TO MATTER SO MUCH?!
Every single person that I know and love is endlessly beautiful (or handsome) to me. Seriously. If you insult the looks of any of my friends, I am instantly all over you in the worst of ways. Are they all perfect? With the hair, teeth, skin, body, clothing, etc? NO WAY! Is even one of them? NO! And you know what? THANK GOODNESS!
Our society preaches individuality. We do it in a way that no other place in the world can, because of the freedoms that we are given in our country. They say to be yourself while encouraging people to desire more than anyone else this mold of 'perfect'. Look like this model, resemble this ad, make yourself this kind of beautiful! Then it will be just what you want! That easy fix instant gratification happiness that they peddle to us all, YOU WILL ACHIEVE IT! Uhm...seriously. Dude. I call bullshit.
Do you know why my friends are so beautiful? Because they are so genuine. They are unique. They don't need some mold for perfect, because they are already marvelous and don't even for a moment need to reach in vain for something that can't be captured. And THAT is why they are beautiful. It's what their most gorgeous quality is.
A phrase I often use is, 'I'm no pixie'. While accurate, it cushions what I'm saying for whomever I'm saying it to. It cushions the fact for myself as well. And what is the fact? Well, I'm overweight. I'm 20 with stretch marks and not enough real reason for them. I don't have a particularly perky chest because it's too darn large to keep itself up (a fact that is not to be envied). I jiggle when I jump. I have enormous, Swedish hips. I don't wear make up and I don't disguise or primp the imperfections of my face. My favorite hair is after it's just air dried from the shower or in a sloppy bun. I will say all of this to you, I will tell you this. If I were in person with you, I'd be shrugging my shoulders and raising my eyebrows, indicating to you all, 'whats it matter?'. All the while attempting to disguise my deep loathing of most of what I just mentioned, and my overwhelming insecurity about it all.
Look, I'm the only one who knows what I really look like. After all, I'm the only one whose seen everything there is to me since I was old enough to bathe without adult supervision. And how, again, WHY is it okay to repulse myself, just because I'm too big to fit in societies perfect model?
ITS NOT!
It's just sad! Being naked should be fun! And I'm not talking about in the perverted or sexual way, but come on. It's down to just you. The body that you came into the world with, all you, no restraints. Whats more freeing than that, more personal? And so many hate it? Even when you're just alone. I'm not saying go join a nudist colony or anything, but few who have tried it can say they don't enjoy running around their living space, alone, in just their underwear or nothing at all! Dancing, even! WHY should a body be shaming, such an uncomfortable burden? Why can we love others and insist til we're blue in the face that they're beautiful or handsome, but vehemently reject it when it's suggested about ourselves? Why is it, once we hit puberty and even before that, so many are taught, somehow, not to love themselves?
No stranger who saw me walking down a street would label me beautiful. But ask any of my closest friends, and they will be ready in an instant to verbally spar with you if you have anything different to say about it. And I know God is with them, just ready and waiting to defend His beautiful creation and insist along with their voices something I have trouble understanding. What, exactly, is more important than that?
Can I say that I love living in my skin all the time? That every day I go against societies norms with reckless, marvelous, freedom & abandon? That I can manage to not care, and love myself just how I am all the time? Nope. Not even a little bit. I get insecure too. I've caved to what they've told me. That with this size, I can't be attractive or beautiful. I know that no one is harsher TO or ABOUT me THAN me. But there's no love in that. And thats not how I want to spend my days. Using my energy on hating something instead of loving it. Is it easy? Oh boy, no. Hah. But when is whats most worth it easy?
What I CAN say is that I have some really great days. Days when I'm not tied down by insecurity and don't even think to be ashamed as I prance around to music in undies. Times when I walk into a room and my first thought isn't to suck in my vile gut because I'm surrounded by people who don't have one. Days where I don't even think about it as a vile gut, just as my tummy. Days when I can see why other people, why the Creator of the freaking universe, think I'm beautiful.
Maybe I lost some of my point in this. It's not all societies fault. But every day that I don't hate myself, I remember afterward how amazing it felt not measuring to a mold. And I guess I just wish they'd encourage happiness within yourself that is less based on the outside of yourself. For all that they insist beauty comes from within, they sure place a lot on the kind thats outward.
Sorry society. I guess I just encourage real people who revel in the fact that they don't have to hold to a mold.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Twenty Sixth
A couple nights ago I was hanging out with my sister in her room. We were just talking, thinking aloud a bit, being friends. It's nice, since it's taken us quite a while to get to this point. But there we were, and I was looking around her room. It's all purple, and all the same color, she's got some OCD and different colored walls apparently bother her. She's got playbills and her favorite notes up from retreats, and just people that she cares about. Her floor is way cleaner than mine, but the stuff she's got out you can tell is important to her, and the bits of organization she had out was nice.
And it got me thinking.
Your room can say a lot about you as a person. I know when I walk into someone's house I get a bit of a feel for them, a room says even more. But it doesn't always describe you accurately. My sisters room, Rachel's room, is just right for her. It says everything she doesn't even think about it saying, and it does so well.
The only thing my room would tell you is that I'm a little all over the place, and I really like books. I guess thats an apt description, though.Apt enough, but it doesn't say everything. I guess it just made me a little uncomfortable, that upon reflection the place where I live, sleep, and spend large quantities of time, wouldn't actually tell you much about who I am.
Maybe thats because even at 20, I don't know much about who I am either. I know things I like, I know things I dislike, and certainly I have more in my room than should just be fit in one room. For the past few years I have, both consciously and unconsciously, been accumulating for the eventual, unavoidable, fact that I will be moving out some day. It's my space for now, but it won't be staying that way for all that much longer.
I'm glad of that fact. Leaving the nest is a necessity. I'll feel multiple things when it happens, but I know glad will be one of them.
But for now, I'm not sure what my room says about me. Does this mean I should wonder what other people get, just from looking at me, just from meeting me? I don't know what comes across. I don't know what people find. I don't know what I let them see.
I just thought it was kind of interesting. And it made me want to clean my room. And mourn my lack of wall space.
Oh. and Happy New Year, I suppose. Away we go.
And it got me thinking.
Your room can say a lot about you as a person. I know when I walk into someone's house I get a bit of a feel for them, a room says even more. But it doesn't always describe you accurately. My sisters room, Rachel's room, is just right for her. It says everything she doesn't even think about it saying, and it does so well.
The only thing my room would tell you is that I'm a little all over the place, and I really like books. I guess thats an apt description, though.Apt enough, but it doesn't say everything. I guess it just made me a little uncomfortable, that upon reflection the place where I live, sleep, and spend large quantities of time, wouldn't actually tell you much about who I am.
Maybe thats because even at 20, I don't know much about who I am either. I know things I like, I know things I dislike, and certainly I have more in my room than should just be fit in one room. For the past few years I have, both consciously and unconsciously, been accumulating for the eventual, unavoidable, fact that I will be moving out some day. It's my space for now, but it won't be staying that way for all that much longer.
I'm glad of that fact. Leaving the nest is a necessity. I'll feel multiple things when it happens, but I know glad will be one of them.
But for now, I'm not sure what my room says about me. Does this mean I should wonder what other people get, just from looking at me, just from meeting me? I don't know what comes across. I don't know what people find. I don't know what I let them see.
I just thought it was kind of interesting. And it made me want to clean my room. And mourn my lack of wall space.
Oh. and Happy New Year, I suppose. Away we go.
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