NASA

Three days after my parents brought my sister home from the hospital; I came to my mother in the kitchen and  said, “Remember when you brought that baby home and I didn’t like her?” That’s all it took. Three days of holding out until I surrendered to being completely infatuated with my sister. She is three years younger than me, but from the way I talk about her you would think she was ten years old. I realize she is an adult, but hard as I try, I just don’t see her that way. I see the little girl posing in trash cans and with our dogs because our parents made the mistake of giving us idiots a disposable camera. I see the girl who had to have her stuffed animals lined up perfectly on her bed. I could write a sweet, emotional blog about her, but I do that every other blog. In honor of our relationship- I think it would be more genuine if I told it like it is.

Court was nine years old, in third grade and growing a little too big for her britches (I’m the older sister I can say that). I was twelve and we were outside doing our weekly Wednesday chore. Raking up the dog poop and taking out the trash. I hated this chore because, well because I hate poop, but also because she was so much smaller than me so when we would carry the trash cans to the street I would have to do all the work. My side would be tilted up because I was actually carrying it, and her side was so much lower the trash can would hit me in the ankle the entire walk down the driveway. I would always yell at her to pick her side up and she would always get mad and twist her determined little face up. She would grab the trash can with both hands and try to lift it up as high as she could. It was never high enough but dang it if that little girl didn’t try…. We were usually both so irritated about this chore we would start arguing instantly. This particular Wednesday was windy and cold. We decided to use our technique (we had a few) where one of us held the snow shovel (my sister) while the other one (me) raked the dog poop onto it. Court was getting mouthy (once again, I’m older so I can say mouthy) and she made me mad. One minute she was running her mouth, and knowing her she probably hit me with the rake, and the next minute I took the entire shovel and threw it on her. She went screaming into the house and to this day I laugh hysterically every time I think of her running and yelling, “She threw poop on me mom!” My mother actually believed me that the wind did it, and for once in a million fights, I actually got away with something.

I was eleven and my sister was eight. Our Dad worked nights and would sleep a couple of hours in the day, then get up till my mom got home and he could go back to sleep. My sister and I were on the same track, so we were off for six weeks every few months together. By the end of the first week we were over each other, so although we had no one else to play with and had to get along for the sake of boredom, we would fight like crazy. One day she made me mad over who knows what, probably a debate over watching Where in the World is Carmen San Diego and Saved by the Bell, so I told her I as running away. I packed six dollars and three pairs of socks in a back pack and made it to the end of the walkway before she came outside after me, crying and begging me not to go. The second I saw her sad face it was over and I was making sure my sister wasn’t sad. Ninety percent of the time growing up I was the one making my sister cry, but the second that she did, I would do anything in this world to make her stop, I still would.

My sister was a freshman and I as a senior in high school. She came home one day and said this girl, who at one time was her friend, stole her shoes and she saw them in her locker. My sister has no problem confronting anyone, about anything, but the fact that she had handled the problem for herself didn’t matter to me. I went up to this 80 pound freshman girl the next day at school and in front of all her friends started yelling at her for stealing my sister’s shoes. I told my sister about it later and she was entirely un-amused. She let me know she had already handled it, and I let her know I didn’t care, she was my sister and I wasn’t having that. Then she made fun of me for being a loser senior going after a freshman. But that’s what my sister doesn’t understand; I would go after Goliath for her. If those were my shoes I would have convinced myself they weren’t, I would never confront someone for myself; but I will for her, even if she doesn’t want me too.

I remember little memories from growing up with her all the time. We have our own sense of humor, our own ebb and flow that comes from years of sharing a room and a seatbelt in our dad’s old truck. Whether it was good or bad, big or small, scary or fun, we did it together. Our age difference put us in entirely different spots in our life once I hit junior high, and we haven’t met back in the middle yet; but I have the best memories of our elementary school years. She was my best friend, still is. She was always pissing me off, I would put together a stage set for whatever play I was making up, and it never failed; by the time I got the stage set up she was bored; when it was my turn to be the customer instead of the order taker, she was over it; I finally get to be the teacher and she doesn’t want to play school anymore. We would be coloring or playing with our dolls, or “prank” calling businesses by calling them and asking them what time they open, and she would say, “I am going to go get a drink,” ten minutes later I’d find her in the living room sitting with my dad. She annoyed me, she never wanted to share her clothes with me, when her friends came over and I talked to them she would get mad; but she is my best friend and favorite person in the world.

It is my turn to drive her crazy. I text her every other day telling her not to drink and drive (she is on her way to work), asking her to eat with me (in the middle of her day), making her talk to me and tell me all about her life (I stopped by unexpectedly and she is in a hurry to get ready for work). I know I boss her around. I am bossy, and over-protective, and defensive, and much more “second mom” than “older sister”; and it probably drives her crazy, but she has no idea what it’s like to be the older sister. To worry about your baby sister who isn’t a baby anymore. To know the stupid mistakes you have made and things you have put yourself through, and how you would give just about anything to protect her from that.

I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent, but if it’s anything like being an older sister it is an unconditional love that makes room for forgiveness, respect, and a whole lot of annoyance. She may be old enough to fight back now, to put me in my place when I need it, but to me, she will always be the blue eyed baby sitting across the table from me, making up commercials to each food item on our lunch plate, while our dad slept. Just me and her, in our own ebb and flow, talking away about who knows what. And then- I punch her. The end.

SHOUT-

Wake up. Run. Starbucks, Work twelve hours. Class. Sleep Wake up. Run. Homework. Starbucks. Work twelve hours. Class. Sleep. Wake up. On Sunday there is church.   Everyday is the same. I am like a robot with goals. Lately I have had the nerve to start feeling a little sorry for myself, because I am more tired than usual. I am more frustrated than usual. It seems to be getting more and more difficult to live in the dotted in-betweens of my life’s timeline. I don’t complain, ever, because I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I don’t want God to think that I don’t appreciate everything I have, including the opportunity to exhaust myself, because I do; but I was praying the other night, and God knows my heart, which made me realize because I don’t vent the feelings out loud does not mean they don’t exist. I try to purge them when I run…with every step I take I try to pound out the weight of the emotions, but it doesn’t work the way it used too- maybe because when you run from something, all you’re really doing is giving it the chance to follow you.   I wouldn’t give up any of the things I do if I had the chance, but maybe I should. I know God will slow me down when it is time for me to take a step back, but until he does I just pray for the energy to get through. I don’t know if energy is enough anymore. I want to feel alive, connected. I need something to slap me in the face to remind me, “You chose this.”   Everyone has someone they look at as an inspiration in one form or another. That person has something they possess that makes a person stop and say, “I don’t know what that is (or maybe I do) but I want that.” For many people it is Oprah, or a sports star, a famous speaker or an actress; but for me, it is this man I pass on my runs all the time. We always wave, and he is always smiling long before he sees me, but the other day I was able to see him in motion, while I was standing still. I had just finished my run and was stretching in the driveway when I heard this noise. It was far away so it was hard to make out, like the sound of your alarm clock when you finally wake up and realize you have been listening to this noise for five minutes. I see the running man coming towards me and realize the noise is coming from him. He is singing along to a song on his ipod, a song that only he can hear, and I have never seen a person more oblivious to the world around him than this man was at that moment. He was almost yelling, and I realized he was saying, “shout”. It took me two seconds to realize what song he was singing, and in the weirdest way, I was now singing along to his song too.  I caught myself standing there for a couple of minutes, watching this man and listening to him until he was out of sight. I was taken a back when I realized that was the first time I had just – stopped- for two minutes, in longer than I can remember. I literally cannot remember the last time I was just- still-. I don’t know what that man’s story is. His life might be as hectic and stressful as mine, but whatever he does everyday, whatever his schedule looks like, it includes a run around the lake, singing to a song only he can hear. I want that.   I prayed a different prayer today, one that is probably more honest, and it made me feel better. I stopped in the middle of my run and prayed- “Lord, I am tired. I don’t know what it is, or where I started to slow down and burn out, but I did, and I need your help to reconnect with my life. I want to be present, and I want to be inspired, and I want to go back to the days I was busy, but excited to be working towards a dream. My dream. My song. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Amen”   I kept running. I had run a mile and half when it occurred to me, I ust rana mile and half, smiling, thinking about something that had nothing to do with anything I needed to purge on the pavement. It felt good. It made me want to shout.

New Kids on the Block and Saturday Night Live

During my “on-my-way-to-work-jam-session” as I like to call it- New Kids on the Block came on to my iPod. Usually I would skip the song and go to the next, but today I decided not to. I downloaded the NKOTB C.D. onto my iPod with the intentions of taking myself back. The second the song came through the speakers  small memories started coming back, the memorabilia I collected, the time when I had finally saved enough of my allowance to buy the NKOTB picture I had been wanting forever at the swap meet, but those were drowned by one particularly beautiful memory. My mother bought me the NKOTB concert video, and I watched that thing a million times. My parents had JUST separated, my mother was working two jobs, and now, as a divorced adult myself, I am realizing she was probably beyond overwhelmed with the reality that life as we all knew it, was changing. My sister was only three, but I had personally decided I would take on the responsibility of raising her, and in my seven year old brain that was what I was doing. …… One morning my mother was cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast. My sister was playing on the floor next to her, and I was, of course, watching my NKOTB video. My favorite song on the video was, “Please don’t go girl”… mostly because I liked the melancholy-mullet-ness/rat-tail look they had going on during this sad and sullen interval of the show. Don’t judge me; it was early the 90’s. I asked my mom to dance with me to the song assuming she was busy and would say no; but she didn’t. She came over to the living room and had me stand on her feet and we danced. I was able to be seven, and silly, and laugh with my mom. I was able to “take a break” from raising my sister and being serious and I was just a little girl, dancing with my mom in the middle of the living room to my favorite concert video.

In the middle of all that pain, there was beauty.

My grandpa died the summer before I started my junior year in high school. He truly was my hero. I loved him in ways I didn’t know how. The day he died I just felt, different. I didn’t crumble under the weight of the loss like I always imagined I would; but I walked out of the living room where I had gotten the worst news I’ve heard in my life to date, and I just knew life was different now. That feeling of being my grandpa’s little girl, even at 16, was gone. The day I got home from the funeral I met the boy who would be my first love. It was the typical teenage relationship, but he was my close friend for a long time.

In the middle of all that pain, there was beauty.

When I came home after leaving my husband, I had nothing to my name but my dog, a box full of MAC, and a broken heart. I was a waitress and college student and had left every piece of furniture, candle, and picture frame I owned at the home I left. The first few nights I was home I was sleeping on a mattress in the middle of my old room;the  first room I had all to myself. The room was familiar, There were the seashells my mother had painted on the wall, (no two the same) and thecurtains I had picked out to match the bedspread that i was so excited to pick out when we first moved in to the house......... I knew I was home. I knew I was in a place that was safe, where I wouldn’t be told to leave should I do something wrong, get in an argument with someone, break a vase or get home twenty minutes earlier than I said I would. I was home. But I was alone. I was supposed to be living with my husband, but he had other plans, so my plans changed. I had been home three nights when I finally let myself cry so hard I literally thought I would die. I was on the same mattress I l fell asleep on countless nights, dreaming of my wedding and decorating our home, praying for his safety in Iraq and looking at our pictures, but it was on the floor in the center of my room now, and he was gone. Two days after I cried, I came home and my parents had put a queen sized bed in my room. There was a black bedspread with all my leopard pillows I had left there. My heart was still broken, but I had a bed.

In the middle of all that pain, there was beauty.

I don’t know where the fear of pain began to outweigh the search for pleasure, but it did. I guess I got my heart broken enough times, got excited to see my Dad and something would fall through...again, came home to pictures being put in dresser drawers, missed out on being invited to enough events; was excited over an accomplishment only to share it with someone who wasn’t as excited, was chosen second by someone I had chosen first, left one too many voicemails..and it changed me. I didn't become defensive as much as protective. I let myself feel things, enjoy things, laugh with friends, and fall in love; but the whole time I am smiling there is the voice in the back of my head saying, “enjoy this, it’s going to end soon.”  I am always running, trying to escape the bottom dropping out. What intrigues me the most, is when I am happy, I am assuming the pendulum will soon swing the other way and I will be sad again...but why is it when I am sad I don’t prepare myself to embrace the happiness that will soon come my way. Does the pendulum only swing one way?

In a conversation  I had with Shee about this very thing recently, I mentioned that the balance comes when there is no preparation for sorrow in the midst of the happiness; there is no “losing” happiness because sadness has crept in; but finding a balance between the two. Crying when you need to cry but knowing soon you will laugh again. Meeting friends for coffee on days I’d rather crawl in bed and hide; enjoying the beauty of the air in my lungs and the breeze on my face during my run on days the world is too much for me.

Of course my life will have periods of sadness! What a gift from God to wake up and realize I have survived this “sadness” before, and I will be able to do it again. I have been alone on a mattress in the middle of my room, sad and broken hearted, but laughing at an episode of Saturday Night Live. My life can be a real mess sometimes, but it's a beautiful mess; and it is my mess.  The people I love will be sad, will struggle and experience heart ache, but my responsibility is not to exhaust myself trying to shelter them from the world, but to simply lie on the floor next to them when it is their turn to be knocked down.

I will be sad many more times in my life, of this I can be sure, but I am not afraid anymore. I have a God who is always with me, soul mate friends that will walk beside me, a sister who thinks I can do no wrong, even when I have, parents whose purpose on this earth is to love my sister and I, I have strength and courage that has been tested, and I have a mother who will let me stand on her toes to dance with me in the middle of the living room.

And in the middle of all that pain, there is beauty.

The Simple Things and Happy Face Sweatshirts.

Growing up, we were never poor, we had what we needed, and a little of what we wanted, but finances were a struggle. My parents worked hard to save enough for us to take a nice family vacation together every year. We had a boat that we enjoyed many, many great days on, and we enjoyed dinners and other events out of the house here and there. As a single, working adult, it is all I can do to balance school, work, and the financial burden I call a vehicle (this is the bitter girl in me that would rather buy MAC than get my oil changed). I realize every time I have a sudden bill pop up- which always seems to be when I have something fun planned with "extra" money, how many times my parents came through for us last minute, when they probably had other ideas. I was more vocal about the things I wanted than my sister was. I would always have to ask for something when we would window shop, and looking back now I carry guilt about this. I don't have children, but I have a baby sister (okay, by baby I mean 23), but if I could buy that brat a house, car, and anything she ever wanted tomorrow I would, I just physically cannot. It makes me realize how many times my mother was stressed when I asked for something I needed, not wanted, and she was going to have rearrange some things to come through. But she always did. She always did.

This isn't about money, as much as it appears to be. I have a job now, a really, really good job, and I cannot count on both hands and feet how many times I have been before the Lord so grateful I can't find words in between my tears. I was taught to work, and work HARD, and I do. I have since I got my first job. I have worked three jobs at a time for years to put myself through college, until two years ago when God blessed me with the job I have now. It is not my forever, I am in school (masters program - shoot me now) but it could be, and I would be proud. I get paid more money than I ever, ever have, and trust me when I say I am beyond appreciative. I don't have to stress about paying bills, for the most part, and I am able, for the first time, to buy my school books on time. Something happened within me and I don't like it. I had extra money for the first time in my life and I had no problem spending it. Clothes and purses and shoes and trips and lunch dates and books and jewelry and make up. I am 26 years old, so I am cutting myself some slack, but it has been awhile since I have wanted something longer than I have owned it. When I was young, I would want a c.d. for three months leading up to getting it on Christmas. But let me tell you something, I listened to whatever c.d. it was I finally got until the thing wore itself blank. I will never forget in sixth grade when the happy face trend came back in. All the girls in my class were wearing sweatshirts with happy faces and peace signs on it, and I had already gotten my school clothes for the year prior to this trend coming in style. Christmas morning came and I was EXCITED. For good reason! I opened a maroon sweatshirt with a happy face painted on the front in puff paint. My mom had made me my very own happy face sweatshirt. I loved that thing more than I can even express in words, and I wore the heck out of it. It brings tears to my eyes right now thinking about my mom sitting up at night after I went to sleep to paint it. I know she was excited to make it for me, and I was excited to wear it. There are people reading this who probably haven't ever experienced financial struggle and are thinking this is pretty lame, but in all honesty, I feel more sorry for you than you should be feeling for me. Maybe your mother was able to buy you anything you wanted, and that is great for you, truly, but I wouldn't trade every piece of clothing on the rack for that sweatshirt. Ever.

I paid off my credit cards for the billionth time today, and God willing, through hard work and steely will power, I hope that is the last time. I began thinking about my finances, and of course started on the guilt train about the things I could have done with the money I have spent keeping that piece of plastic in my wallet. That is one pricey piece of plastic! I got to thinking about what I need....nothing. What do I want? What do I want?? Nothing you can buy in stores. I am realizing, really starting to get, how important the simple things are. Here are my simple things. I hope you take a minute to reflect and gain a whole new appreciation for yours.

I enjoy the fluffy bath mat on my bare feet when I am getting ready for work. It is freezing in the morning and that mat is the warmest, most comforting piece of fabric in the world.

I enjoy my television. I fall asleep to the sound of my Golden Girls every night. It is a little piece of Heaven.

I enjoy sitting on my porch with a cup of coffee. It lasts ten seconds because I am usually running late, but darn it if that isn't the nicest ten seconds of my day.

I enjoy a hot shower. I love that I am a grown up and I can take a thirty minute shower if I wanted too.

I absolutely ADORE my books. It is the most miss-matched random spectrum of classics mixed with poetry, muddled with comedic commentaries and everything in between, but I love it.

I love my candles. I love how nice my house smells. I have always loved walking into people's homes when they smell good and I love that my house is one of them.

I love running. I love running around the lake in Spring Valley and looking at all the people's beautiful homes and clearing my head while smelling that lake smell I fell in love with on my family's boat- and driving home to my house in Adelanto happier than when I left.

I love looking through old pictures and remembering what was going on and how I felt...I am one of those people that remembers every, single, little, thing about everything, so when I look at one photograph I can remember a three month time period in my life. Being as busy as  I have been the past few years, it is nice to sit and reflect on what fun times I have had.

I love conversation. Conversation is free, and nothing engages my soul like talking to someone who talks back. Learning about life through someone else's perspective is a past time I cherish. I am very lucky to have the people in life that I do to talk too.

I love reading my Bible. I love the smell of it, the sound of the pages turning, the feel of the paper. I love reading God's word, by myself or with others.

There are soooo many other things. I get excited over everything, but I miss the girl who had to wait to buy a shirt or book or whatever until it was within the budget. I miss going out to dinner being a big deal instead of the three time a day drill it has been. I love getting excited over Starbucks holiday cups, Christmas commercials, free ITunes downloads, poetry readings at coffee shops and free concerts in the park. If I died tomorrow I would remember the walks I took with my family after dinner more than what I wore during them. I don't want my life to be built around "stuff". I want my days to be about more than material possessions, and I have decided to take an active involvement in removing their importance in my life. I want to be the gypsy that says, "take it all- it's just stuff." Except my happy face sweatshirt. Take that and I'll hunt you down.

Where I'm At

I was doing my Beth Moore bible study homework tonight, and in the study of Psalm 130 she says the following:

                “Beloved, if you’re like me, God is not the one keeping the record. You are. You keep playing the record over and over. You may think you’re honoring God with misery over your past mistakes, but you’re not. Just like I did, you’re walking in unbelief –not trusting what He promised to do if you’d repent. Having my eyes opened to this reality several years ago changed my entire view on self-condemnation. It does not honor God.”

This reflection of Mrs. Moore’s reminded me of a recent reflection of my own. As much as I do struggle with leaving my past behind and moving forward with my life, as many times as I have to remind myself that God’s mercies are new every day, I feel as though I have let a lot of that stuff go, have said “arivaderchi” to the me I was five years ago, two months ago, yesterday, and have allowed myself growth- but it seems as if the people I allowed in my past are dead set on keeping me there.

Who I was a week ago is not who I am today. The core characteristics are still there, I am goofy, ambitious, and tired, like, 24/7, but the things I like, or don’t like, the lens through which I see the world, it changes every day. I am determined to spend the time God has left for me here on this Earth learning every single thing I can.  I don’t ever want to be complacent; I don’t ever want my appetite satiated. One of the things I have learned the hard way is to move newer parts of yourself forward; you have to leave older parts of yourself behind. There are ideals, theories proven right (or wrong), dreams, people, and pieces of your (my) life, that become casualties of the daily battle to find who are, to grow. I entered into college as an undergrad with the intentions to become a teacher. I subbed for three months and let me tell you, I am not a teacher.  I married a man I thought I would be with forever, but he had different plans, I am no longer a wife. I thought I would graduate high school and find some magic job that would have me living on the beach and watching sunrises every morning with my cup of coffee, and then I got my first job, and my first set of bills, and realized plans were going to have to be re-arranged. Those are lessons every woman learns at one point or another, but the thing is, those are the lessons women are “allowed” to learn. By allowed I mean, no one is going to come down on me as I walk across the stage in May, receiving my masters degree in psychology, because I was originally going to be a teacher- it is understood life changes. No one will hold me accountable for living in my little house in the desert when I thought for sure I would be nineteen and living beachside- it is understood people grow up. But when I run into a girl I worked a retail job with at nineteen when I was anorexic, insecure and defensive, and she was sixteen, scared and quiet, and I smile at her, I am fake?? If I stand in line behind someone I used to bicker with when we worked at a restaurant- her, stressed because it is slow and she needs to make grocery money to feed her child, me- stressed because it’s slow and I have to now choose between paying my car payment and buying the book I need for my new class- and I say hi to her, I’m being nice because I think I am better than her???

           Ladies, we grow up. At some point the person we all were, once, is no longer the person we are, now. Thank God for that! I was once a child in a diaper, I am proud to say I can now excuse myself to a restroom. Life comes in and it slams itself in our face, and we stay down or get back up, but either direction we go - we learn. I am not proud of many of the things I have done, but I am not the same person who once made those mistakes, and how long will people on earth, including myself, keep me in bondage for something my God has forgiven me for long ago?? Is my faith a get-out-of –hell free card I can use whenever I do something I feel guilty for? No. Do I take advantage of a God who gave His son for my sins by fulfilling my quota of sins each month? I hope not! Am I a 26-year old, divorced woman who doesn’t know who she is one day from the next, but has learnt through life experiences who she isn’t? You bet ya'. I probably owe many people apologies. By the time I stop by Starbucks and drive myself the 45 minutes to work every day I owe someone an apology, but I do not owe anyone an apology for the person I was ten years ago. I have lost friendships, this is unfortunate, but I will outgrow many more friendships in the rest of my years, because that is how the cycle of life moves us forward.  Why are we so quick to justify our own growth, but just as quick to resent someone else for their own?? A woman bettering herself by actually learning from the mistakes she has made, instead of spending her life with her head hung down lower and lower each time she messes up is not “uppity”-  in fact, it takes a great deal of humility to say, “wow- I’m an idiot. I really messed up on that one, but I will do better next time this situation comes around.”  

               I am not proud of everything I have done. I have unfortunately put my family in position where I have hurt them, I hurt a man who didn’t deserve it, I have probably hurt people’s feelings in my tornado and not even noticed- and to those people, I am sorry.  I maybe shouldn’t have married him right away and given myself a little more time to realize, or at least accept, what I realized and accepted a little too late, but I did- and I will not spend the rest of my life apologizing to anyone who knew me then, or listening to the “I told you so’s”, or watching my Christian sisters eyes dart to the sides of the room when it gets brought up; because it is my past, and it something God has forgiven me for, so who are you not too?

I change every day, and with that constant change comes growth- grow with me, or stay behind. I am not allowing who I was to determine who I am anymore. I pray you can meet me where I’m at.

The women I am

Reba McEntire has a new album coming out called, “All the Women I am.” The second I heard this title I started thinking about all the women I am. Although we carry our natural-born temperament and personality traits with us our entire life- the people that come in and out of our life sand down our edges and help the molding process we call growth.

All the women I am?

I am my mother. Oh my word am I my mother. I talk like her. I walk like her. We have the same freckle pattern on our right arms. I have been told my whole life how much I remind people of her. “Mini-Kathleen”. There is no greater compliment. My mother is friendly, kind, and compassionate without being sickingly sweet and naïve to the world around her. She is smart and determined, but she is content and humble. She is a warrior when it comes to my sister and I. There is not one second of the day that I feel alone or un-protected. I have my mother. She is my biggest fan and it is because of her I am not afraid to chase my dreams. My mom loves Jesus. I love Jesus because I grew up watching Him transform my mother. If she was the only woman I mentioned in this list, she would more than enough. If I grow up to be half the woman she is I will have succeeded.

I am my sister. I adore her. It is quite obvious from the amount of blogging/talking/worrying I do about her that she is my baby. She isn’t a baby anymore. She is 23 and beautiful and a talented hair dresser and more sarcastic than I am, but every time I look at her I see the girl who almost bit her lip off she was so determined to beat me in tetherball. It is difficult to explain the correlation, but because of her I know I am capable of unconditional love. Of empathy. Of compassion. There isn’t another human being on this earth I love more than her, and when I get in one of my weird moods where I wonder if I will ever be able to get, and stay, married and have kids, or if I will end up alone because I love my dreams more than I will ever love a person, I think of her, and I know I will. She was my battle buddy in the war of growing up and I know, no matter how much I might think no one understands me, that girl does, and she loves me anyways.

I am Carolyn. Everyone should have a best friend that stands in front of them like a reflection in a mirror. I jokingly tell her all the time, “If I had a friend like you growing up I probably wouldn’t be half as screwed up as I am now.” But I am not kidding. She gets it. We grew up with the same insecurities, fears, and frustrations. When we are on our runs and we're talking about, well, everything, I know there is nothing I can say that she won’t understand. She tells me when I am being a complete idiot, but she stands beside me anyways.She has taught me to be me. That it's okay to wear jeans and tennis shoes and feel like a supermodel. I have been a hot mess since I came into that woman’s life and she has remained in my corner.

I am Shee. Shee sees the world differently. She sees art in everything. She is emotional and raw and okay with that. I start out writing a two sentence text and before I know it I have to write an email because the words come spilling out. She loves poetry, she loves photography, she loves art, she loves fashion, she loves make-up, and she loves hip-hop. She is me and I am her. She says what I am thinking before I do. Not because she read my mind or knows me well enough to know what I am going to say, but because she is thinking the same thing. It is crazy cosmic weird. She is everyone’s friend, but she stands alone. She is inspiration and I am reminded of my eighth grade self sitting on my bed writing poetry about who knows what in a brown journal with animals on the front my Grandfather got me from the zoo. The girl inside me that loves all the things Shee loves, and is honestly quite good at it, died in an eating disorder years ago, but she has been reincarnated in the past few months and Shee has been a large part of that. I would love to spend one day of life looking through her lens.

I am Merit Malloy. When I was in eighth grade my love affair with poetry began. My mother was given Merit Malloy’s poetry collection by a friend of hers when she was around the age I am now and she let me read it. Merritt and her husband took all the photos in her books and I was entranced. This woman that I never met wrote about things I didn’t understand but I just knew I wanted to. This woman was beautiful and mysterious and yet her whole life was poetically displayed in these books. She was a lady and I wanted to be that. I loved her for a different reason. Reading those books and realizing there were problems and issues and heartaches outside of junior high was a monumental moment for me. I realized my mom was actually a woman and not just a mom. Up until that point I thought my mom’s life was on temporary pause while I was at school or busy with my friends and that it reconvened when I was back; but after reading this poetry I realized she was a person. It occurred to me she must have cried when she got divorced, or fallen in love, or been insecure, or had her feelings hurt, or been betrayed, or any of the number of things women feel. That was a turning point for me. My mother has asked for those books back before, but I honestly can’t say I will ever give them back. They are my connection to her in a weird way and I have grown up experiencing a new level of understanding every time I turn those pages.

I am my grandmother. We do not speak anymore. We haven’t since my high school graduation day. I do not miss her, to be completely honest; but I know that’s the hurt talking. I am her because she loved my grandfather, and I adored that man.  I worry the way she does. Always have. We both worry about things that we have nothing do with. We worry for the sake of worrying. I love her, and I worry about her.

I am Ethlyn Gaylord. She is my Dad’s grandmother. She passed last year, and there is a void in me. I looked up to her, and I valued her (sometimes rather rude) opinion. She told it like it was, without hesitation, but being the passive person I can be I admired that so much about her. She built a fortune for herself through pure genius and hard work, and she did it in a time when women didn’t work at all, let alone own businesses. I would sit in her house for hours and listen to her reminisce until she fell asleep. She would tell me about dates she went on to speakeasies during prohibition, her first car, her first business, her trips all over the world, and I hung on to every word. She was artistic, religious, funny, sharp as hell, witty and beautiful. She was the “well rounded” person your mother makes reference too when you complain about having to do the dishes. (“Just do them it will make you a well rounded person one day). People would often tell me in front of her that I was, “so tall, you should model,” and without doubt every single time, I could count on her saying, and “she is too smart to model”. She taught me I can do absolutely anything I want to do, that the only thing standing in between me and my dreams is myself. I adored her, and I miss her.

I am the Golden Girls. This might seem ridiculous to you, however it makes complete sense to me.  I grew up with this show. I can remember watching it my grandfather's house. It makes me smile everytime I remember sitting on his lap, listening to him laugh and smelling his morning coffee. I was safe then. Watching that show connects me to him again. I watched it when I was living with my ex-husband- I would be sad, I would feel alone, but I would put that show on and feel connected to my family, my home, and I would be okay. I still watch that show, almost everyday; but those women feel like family to me. I have so many memories with that show it's more than television. It keeps my grandpa alive, it keeps my childhood close, it is home.

I am you.  I am every woman that is worried about her weight. I am every woman that is torn between career and family. I am every woman that sleeps with the TV on as a way to quiet her brain. I am the woman CEO; I am the woman transient that made a few bad decisions. I am the divorced woman, and I am the woman waiting for love. I am the strong woman who survives anything, and I am the scared woman who needs her mom when she’s sick. I am the woman with the eating disorder, and I am the woman with enough confidence to go days without wearing make-up. I am the woman marathon runner, and I am the woman who would rather shop the work out. I am the woman that avoids her reflection; I am the woman that stares at herself in her rearview mirror. I am the friend, I am the sister, I am the boss, the co-worker, the daughter. I am you. And you are me.

Christmas Carol

Something is missing. I don't know what it is. There is a disconnect that is causing me to look at my life from outside of my own body. I feel like a never-ending version of the Christmas Carol- except Ebenezer likes what he sees in my version, he just doesn't know how to be a part of it. I am standing outside of my own life, desperate to jump in. At what point does everything become so routine that you have become a walking five- year plan? Maybe for you it is different. Maybe you wake up and you love your children more than anything but you find yourself digging deep within yourself for the energy to laugh genuinely anymore. I watched the first three miners get rescued the other night before I fell asleep, and not to demean that experience for the beautiful miracle that it is, but I find it a fitting metaphor. One of the main comments I would hear in reference to the rescue of those men is, "it would take like, forever to get to them, and then in no time they would be brought back up." That's how this, my life, lately, feels. It's like I am digging and digging and digging to find...what? My whole life I thought my degrees would be all I would ever want, my ticket to the world. Don't get me wrong I will bawl like a baby the day I walk on that stage to collect that degree but I am not sure it is enough. I will take accountability that one of the main problems in my failed marriage was that I loved my dreams more then I was able to love him sometimes, and for a long time I justified that they were the only thing I had that was mine, but are they anymore?

I am a dreamer, absolutely. This world is mine for the taking, and I sincerely want to change it. But I look around me every day and I don't see very many people who seem happy. What is missing in our lives??? Is it God? Are there still that many people who don't believe? I know I have a prayer I say every morning that goes a lot like, "thank you for another day" but how many days do I wake up hungry? Not for food, I am never hungry for food, praise Jesus, but how many days do I wake up hungry for Him? I can have twenty degrees, and the way things are looking for me, I probably will, but they will never satisfy my entire soul the way God's word does. Is it God that is missing?

Are we lonely? Has society's "me, me, me" attitude pushed us the point that our independence has transformed into loneliness? I do fifty things a day, most of them alone. I am surrounded by people, co-workers, classmates, fellow gym rats, church brothers and sisters...but I go hours, occasionally days, without having a conversation with someone who knows me, really knows me. We are created to crave companionship, and our Godly purpose on this earth is to love each other as Jesus loved, to put others before ourselves, to give generously.. but we are taught that if we don't love us, no one will; and you have to look out for yourself because no one else will, and a whole bunch of other, crap, quite frankly, that has caused us to be isolated, defensive human beings. I will be the first to admit that I need that human connection. I live by myself and I love it, but I miss the sounds of my parents home. I miss the sounds of the dogs running all over the place, and my Dad yelling on the phone over the television but screaming at me to turn my television, that I have turned up in my room so that I can hear the Golden Girls over his conversation in the living room, down ...I miss noise. The peace I think we all search for comes from an entirely different place then where we are searching. Turning the television off, or telling your kids to quiet down is not going to bring you peace... lack of noise is not the peace you are looking for, it is a contentment and a comfort with yourself, with your life, that can cause you yoga - breathing mantra calm, in the middle of your home's chaos.

Is it material possession we are after? Maybe we are so frustrated because we don't have the new coach purse we want, or the latest jeans, or the newest car, I don't know. What I do know is I  have two closets stuffed full of clothes and I would give anything to have my sister going through them. I miss her.

I don't want to be a kid again. I spent my entire childhood wanting to be an adult. It was brought to my attention today, again, that I never take a break. I am not saying my busy lifestyle is ideal, I realize it isn't for everyone, but I am not sure I know how to stop, or that I would want to. When I was young and my mother would put me down for a nap, it was a constant battle between the two of us. She didn't want a tired, cranky kid, and I didn't want to burn sunlight. The only fear I have is, when I reach this current set of goals, will I slow down long enough to enjoy them, or will I stand on the outside of my life, once again, with a cup of coffee and my blackberry planner telling me I have the next set of deadlines to meet..... and if I did slow down, would I be happy?

I don't know what is missing for you, and I don't even know who you are. I am not sure who is reading this, but something is resonating deep within me that there are a few "yous" reading this who understand. I hope whatever is missing in your life, whatever is severing your connection with your own self, that you find it. I hope it is something more simple then God.... I pray with every fiber of my being that you know Him...I hope it is that you just got a little caught up in wanting nice things, or you are spending just a few too many hours at the office and not getting the sleep, or family time that helps your soul thrive... and I hope, pray, wish, that this world around me slows down a little. That even I, mile a minute over here, can just stop the non-stop, and come in from my view of my own live from the outside.

I wish I could type "me" in the address field on each side of the MapQuest directions... if only finding my way back from this were as easy as everything else....then again, maybe that's the problem. Has it become so easy we're bored?  I don't know. I just know when I wake up tomorrow that I want my prayer to be different...to be more like this:

Lord- thank you for another day, another chance to make a difference,

Please allow me to slow down long enough to enjoy every minute of this day...and to spend

less time worrying about the next. Please guard my heart against the defenses that block me from

loving like you love, and please remind me, when I am incapable of reminding myself

what this thing called life if really about.

...Oh, and P.S. thank you for my morning Starbucks. Amen.