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.

Twenty-Fifth

On Tuesday, my interpreting teacher completely ignored me when I had my hand up to ask a question.

It was rude.
It was mean.
It was unnecessary.
It was unprofessional.
It hit me a lot harder than it should have.

This woman takes away any drive I have to enter this as a profession. She is not a nice person. She is two faced. She doesn't answer questions. She sets us on strange tasks. Compared to other programs, I know there's stuff we haven't learned that we should have. She tests unfairly, and is awful about it, absolutely awful. She does not encourage you unless your one of her favorites. And if she doesn't like you, she ignores your raised hand.

I left harper and I cried. I cried like the 7th grader who was told she'd never pass the grade or get out of jr. high, and who would only go on to fail and not go on at all. I cried like the 11th grader who was brought out into the hall and yelled at. Told she was faking being sick, she was lying, and that a fit was going to be pitched in the Dean's office to get her out of this school. Then had to listen to the teacher sigh happily and say, 'well I feel better, but I bet you don't.' I cried like the 16 year old who was kicked out of high school because of something she couldn't control.

I don't cry much. I hated doing it.

This happening makes me doubt...absolutely everything. I don't know if it's Satan trying to remove me from where I'm supposed to be, or God letting me know that I shouldn't be where I am. I don't know if I should stick it out and shove it in this woman's face that I CAN do this, or go somewhere else and prove only to myself that I am capable and this is good. My teacher is the head of the department. I have no power here, no power with her, no power against her. It's been a long time since I've questioned my choices like this. I don't enjoy it.

I'm young. Maybe I'm not even supposed to know what I want to do with my life. Maybe it's too soon for me to actually be going after it.

I don't know. I don't feel like I know anything right now. This semester has been killing me. I need a break, I need a breather. Maybe I just need to cry.

Twenty-Fourth

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.