Another fire has been put out

I think I know this person....

That looks kind of like a girl I knew once, not that long ago. I knew her five years ago; I think I even knew her one year ago. But I don't know where she is now--or if I will ever see her again. The woman in this photo looks... different. Weary, as if from a long voyage. Eroded, perhaps. A bit more polished, a bit more dull along the edges.

But there's something else. Look at her eyes. The girl I once knew had deep, dark eyes that sparked and crackled like dried leaves scattered over a campfire. They were electric and fully alive. And not only alive, but nearly able to bring the world to life all around her.

These eyes are missing that energy. These eyes look old. Beaten. A veil stands between them and the outside; can you see that veil? Whoever this woman is, I cannot see into her heart. I cannot see past the resignation behind which her heart hides itself.

I spent an evening with a friend of mine recently, visiting a college campus where he had been a student ten years earlier. There were not many students around, being summertime; but as a small group of students walked past us my friend remarked, looking at them, "They have that look in their eyes..."

"What look?" I asked him.

He turned to me. "Innocence. Excitement. They believe anything is possible... The world hasn't gotten to them yet." He sighed. "I wonder when I lost that spark. You never know when you lost it or how you lost it. You just look in the mirror one day and you realize that it's gone. Once you realize it's gone, it's too late. You'll never get it back."

The woman in the photo above--has she lost that spark? Does she still believe that anything is possible, or has the world twisted her so much that it has strangled her spirit? Has she ever looked in the mirror and realized that she is no longer the girl she used to be--and she never will be again?

I hope that doesn't happen to me.

The Road Not Taken

One of the most misinterpreted poems I can think of is Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken." People seem to want to read it as a poem about individualism, not following the crowd, making your own way in life even if it's not the culturally acceptable way. But I think this poem means something altogether different. Something which every single one of us can relate to. It is a poem about making a choice, and the doubt that inevitably follows; it is a poem about forever wondering what might have been. You notice that the poem's title does not emphasize the choice the narrator did make. Rather, it alludes to the foregone alternative, which is still a lingering thought in the narrator's mind. It is a poem about all the things that may have happened, all the happiness and all the tribulations that may have befallen the narrator, which now can only be guessed at--for the time to walk that path is gone forever.

I have certainly seen times where I had to make a life-changing decision, and I always torture myself with the question of whether I did the right thing... particularly when the choice I made seems to go awry. I find my head spinning with thoughts like, What if I had done it this way? What if I had chosen that instead? Would I have gotten hurt like this? Would my life have been better? Have I screwed everything up? I have had my share of those thoughts recently. And I feel the heaviness that overcomes the narrator of this poem when he says, "I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence..." It's a deep, regretful sigh, in the face of having made what he (what I) may always fear was the wrong decision.

One of the wonderful things about poetry is that it tells me things about myself that I could never have put into words. I understand that this narrator feels a lingering pang of sadness at having left this crossroads behind, because I have felt that too. Why? I think it's partly because I fear the unknown. And I think I am not unique in that regard; I am sure that many of us step with trepidation when we find ourselves in a position of not knowing where we are headed. But I also think the sorrow stems in part from the knowledge that, for that one moment as I stood and looked down both paths, I held a piece of my fate in my own hands. And that is a grave matter, for if I chose wrongly, who is there to blame but myself?

Thoughts like that can drive you mad; or at least, they could certainly drive me mad. I don't want the responsibility of having to make a blind choice whose consequences will affect me forever. I don't want to stand here in the wake of the storm and know that it was nobody's fault but mine. That would surely defeat me. And in the end, who's to say that one path was better than another? The old adage says that hindsight is 20/20. But even hindsight only provides a one-angled view of anything, for I am simply looking back up the road I just traveled. I can never, never go back to that point in the road where I had to make the choice, and so I can never be sure what would have befallen me had I chosen differently. So I have to conclude, for my own sake, that there was no fault on my part or anyone else's. I am where I am today because of the choices I have made, and the only difference I can make now is choosing which way to go from here. It is very, very tempting to stand here in limbo and dwell on the road not taken. I do it all the time. But as long as I am doing that, then I am not making the most of my journey for what it is today.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by--
and that has made all the difference.

Yes. It has made all the difference, because it has shaped who I am. For better or worse, it is what it is. And I am alive and young and strong, and I still have miles to go before I sleep. And that is something for which I can be grateful.

It's not my fault.

This realization finally hit me this weekend. What's happened to me, what's turned my life into a nightmare... it's not my fault. I've tried to place the blame upon myself, just to have someone or something to blame--because if I could find an object of blame, then I had somewhere to direct my anger. Something to take it all out upon. I was happy to take it out upon myself. At least that way, I could get the anger out into the light. But I did not spare myself any harm by blaming myself. I didn't see it then, but now I do. For months now, I have torn myself to pieces over this situation--because I turned him away; I drove him mad enough to leave. And suddenly, I felt like my life was not worth the unbearable effort of being.

When I saw him last weekend, though, I began to understand that there must be something much deeper going on than him being simply unhappy with me. His discontent must be a product of his own demons, and I just happened to be standing on the bridge that he decided to burn. I have realized that I am not the only one he has decided to reject; rather, our marriage existed within an epoch of his life, the entirety of which he decided to reject. What else exists there with me? His whole life up to this point. His family... his faith... his entire past. What trauma can cause someone like him to reject everything he's ever known and fling himself headlong into one passion--himself?

That's what I see now when I look at him. I see an obscene fascination with himself. I see a gross disregard for any other human being. What I do not see, now, is the man I love. That person, I am afraid, does not exist anymore. What I fear even more is that he never existed--that this stranger, whom I loathe in so many ways, was always the "real" him. That his brief stint with me was something fabricated or imagined.

But at least, now, I can breathe a little easier, because I can see now that all along it was some madness within him that drove him to this. I did not drive him to this. I have to believe that. And I have to move on from there.

I am moving on. I have accepted this as simply the way things are. There is still sadness, but I know it will not linger forever. One of my friends told me, in an attempt to encourage me in the wake of all of this, that whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger. I told my friend in response, feeling utterly barren, that I did not know which of those alternatives would prove to be the case for me.

Now I know. Perhaps it was silly and weak of me to despair so deeply over this, to the point where I detested myself. But today, I can say definitively that I am going to be OK. I finally believe that. I am still leaning upon those around me for support; I know the next couple of months are not going to be easy, as I am in the process of putting this all behind me. I don't know how to put it behind me. But I know I must... and so I will.

Sometimes... I just don't know what to say.

Of life, truth, and Robert Plant

Led Zeppelin, in case you didn't know, is my favorite band, hands down... and long has been. Though not currently my favorite of their albums, my first Zeppelin album, and the one that led me to fall in love with their music, was their "untitled" album--commonly referred to as Zoso, or simply IV. Everyone knows the classic "Stairway to Heaven"... but the song I want to mention here is slightly less known. Track 7, "Going to California." It's a beautiful acoustic ballad about a girl "...with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair." It's music. It's art. It's lovely. But what makes the song for me are not the lyrics, not Robert Plant's enchanting vocals, no. It's right there in the intro, about five seconds into the song, when you hear Plant take a little breath. There is something haunting in that breath. Isn't there?

Bob says it must be because I have a crush on Robert Plant. Well... Maybe I do--but that's beside the point. What that small breath does for me is hit me with the realization that these are people, real, living people, who created this song. People who express themselves gloriously through lyric and melody... but people who also need to breathe, and sleep, and be loved, just like I do. People who were born, people who will die, people whose lives are quite different than mine but whose needs and feelings are probably much the same.

The things that are most important to me--indeed, the things that keep me going--are those that allow me to feel connected to another human being. I've never been great at small talk; I have no patience for surfacy relationships; I passionately despise falseness. Such phenomena only make it easier for us to put up barriers between ourselves and our fellows, when what we should do is let others experience who we really are... and experience who they are in turn.

Why do I love to write so much? Because writing is the best way I know how to let others see what makes me me, and the best way I can hope to move other people in a way that really, really matters. What kept me going through tax season at work? I'm not a workaholic. But working for several weeks under great pressure around others who were doing the same allowed me to see the parts of my colleagues that are not so fastidiously put together. I saw them stressed, I saw them exhausted, I saw them lose their poise as that last-minute demand from a client caused the warped bough to break and the cradle to come toppling down. It has nothing to do with sadism; it has everything to do with the fact that humanity inevitably includes imperfection in our character, as well as a full spectrum of emotion. Seeing that side of the people with whom I share my life means more to me than every smile that has ever been faked and every cheery greeting that has ever been BSed. Because every single one of us is human, and I think we all sometimes need to feel like we're not the only one. And because honesty and transparency are the only way that any of us can ever hope to lighten the burden of someone else's life.

I'm not selfless, though I deeply wish I could say that I am. Sometimes I find myself trying to be the center of my own universe, marginalizing the desires and struggles of those whose paths cross mine. Usually, though, it does not take long for me to realize that I have become miserable, shutting people out, living inside of myself when I really should be living--for better or for worse--in an honest, uniquely human way. I believe that we all cross one another's paths for some reason--that we're all pilgrims who must help each other make this strange, painful, wonderful, fleeting journey. And that means that we have to learn to trust each other with our deepest selves, not fearing if we are caught in our shortcomings or in our basest weakness.

So I hope I get to cry at movies with you. I hope I get to walk with you through your deepest fears. I hope I get to feed you when you're hungry, dance with you when you're happy, hold you close when you're sad, and hurt for you when you're so broken you don't think you know how to hurt anymore.

...and I hope you will do the same for me.

Learning to be alone

It's a strange thing... As much as I have considered myself sort of a loner throughout my life, I really hate to be alone. I bore quite easily, that's for certain; but even more than that, I just want a companion with whom I can share all the moments of my life. It's normal, after all, to want someone else beside you.

The problem is, I've never really learned how to be content with solitude. In college it was usually pretty easy--all of my friends lived, worked, and went to school within a five-mile radius; Bob worked within walking distance from both school and home, the two places where I spent all of my time; most of my classes were group-oriented, meaning most of the time when I wasn't in a classroom I was probably at a meeting or in my bed asleep.

Moving has really made it difficult, though. You know, most stress assessment analyses proclaim that the experience of moving is just about as stressful as having a death in the family... and now I'm learning why. Suddenly nearly all of my friends are more than an hour's drive away, and when I go to work I'm surrounded by people with whom I have not yet learned to be comfortable. Who knows if and when I will ever be fully comfortable with my colleagues at work--we share an interest in accounting, but sometimes I think that is about all that we share. Bob works a different schedule than I do and when he gets home, he really values time to himself. And that's something I have been reluctant to give him. I am beginning to realize how selfish it is for me to demand his every spare minute, when he needs time to be alone. It places an undue burden on him to entertain me, and in turn creates stress in our marriage.

One solution for me is to make other friends. I really need friends here in Atlanta, but it's hard, coming straight from a college town that was teeming with people with whom I could usually find some common ground. The world I'm in right now is not set up the same as the world I'm used to, and I'm having a hard time pursuing friendships. I've met a few people whom I really enjoy, but it's still in that awkward state where I'm afraid to make the first move toward spending real quality time together. So that's one thing I am aiming to work on, so that Bob is not the only person I go to when I need company.

But the other solution, which I think is equally important, is to learn how to be alone. Everyone should have time to themselves, and I need to learn what to do with that time when I have it. Most of my favorite activities are not multiple-person activities anyway--writing, cooking, singing, reading, praying and meditating. Often when I'm alone I'm too depressed at the prospect of being alone to actually engage myself in something I would really enjoy. That's the other thing I'm going to focus on doing for myself... and for Bob. And for us.

A brief history

...of me and writing.

I began this blog in January of 2006, but I had been writing for ages before that. Now, as this blog approaches its second birthday (wow, I never thought I would keep a blog going for so long), it occurs to me that I have never given an account of why I write--of what it means to me. Believe it or not, it's actually quite an interesting story.

I can still remember the first time it occurred to me to write a story. I was in the first grade, and I had a sheet of stationery that was decorated with a drawing of a fairy hovering over a strawberry patch. One day while I was at school, my imagination started brimming with ideas as I pictured a story centered around that simple drawing. So I wrote it, my first story. It was called "The Strawberry Princess," and its length was enough only to fill my one sheet of that stationery with my loopy first-grade penmanship. But I showed it to my teacher, and she seemed very impressed. So impressed, in fact, that when I got home from school that day my parents asked if they could read my story too. My teacher had called them to alert them of my budding talent.

Through elementary school I was always scribbling poetry about any topic imaginable, from friends to flowers to food. And frequently I would write outlandish stories about haunted lighthouses and talking animals and closet-monsters. Several times I was published in the local paper, and in third grade one of my poems was printed in The Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans. I loved having something I was good at--because I was never a great athlete or dancer or singer, but people recognized me as a good writer. In that was I was able to leave a lasting impression on people, and being noticed and remembered was always very important to me.

Once I started sixth grade, I began to feel dissatisfied with my place among my peers--and suddenly I began caring about shopping at the right stores, signing up for the right activities, sitting with the right people at lunch, and all sorts of junk that really had no value at all. I became a cheerleader (a terrible one, at that), I insisted on growing my bangs out, and I even neglected my homework from time to time just so I would not be the nerdy kid who always turned everything in on time and aced it. But none of those things seemed to change my image much among the other kids--I was still the one who got picked on at the school dances and the one who people would whisper about as soon as they thought I was out of earshot. I developed few close friendships, and sometimes I even hated my own friends because they were not "cool," and I could never be cool as long as I claimed their friendship. On top of repeated blows to my self-esteem, I also had to deal with death for the first time around the age of eleven--and it struck my family and even one of my own peers. I developed an intense anger towards people, and at the same time a fear of being alone.

As I withdrew from the world around me, my love of writing became a need for writing. I purchased a journal, and as an emulation of one of my role models, Anne Frank, I gave it a name. And for five or six years, life was about nothing except crying out to pen and paper, because there was not a person in the world whom I trusted... but I knew I could trust my journal, the only true friend I had. My poetry took a dark and lonesome turn; when I wrote stories, they were stories about tortured people doing maniacal things. But mostly I just wrote long discourses, trying to accurately convey my emotions onto paper so that for the rest of my life I could look back and remember how angry and hurt I was, and maybe even feel those things again if the world had so numbed me by then that I had forgotten how to feel.

Several years passed like this, and my need to write intensified and grew into an obsession. It was my ecstasy, my opium, the only way to ease the depression that gnawed away so ruthlessly at me. Then when I was fifteen, something changed. After months of attending church with one of my friends, I realized that there was someone who did love me, and whom I could trust as I had learned to trust no one--his name was Jesus, and I knew I needed him.

When Jesus walked the earth he told his followers that the cost of following him was great, and I soon learned the truth in this. For me, the cost was writing. I knew that my addiction to writing was unhealthy, that it had mastered me. Now I had a new master, and I knew I couldn't serve both. The day I packed my journal away and stowed it in the attic was a very sad day for me--I cried as I put up volume after volume of the best friend I had had for the past six years. But even as I cried, I felt right about it in my heart... I knew that a book could not be my best friend. I needed to learn how to live in the world around me.

During the last two years of high school and the first year or so of college, I wrote very little. I stopped keeping a journal of any kind, save a prayer journal. Occasionally I would write poems or short essays, but they didn't mean very much to me, and I eventually abandoned or misplaced them all. But I made friends, and I learned how to love life and to love myself. And I didn't miss writing, though in my heart I always knew I would come back to it someday. When the time was right.

Sophomore year of college, something else happened. I heard about a lecture that was to take place on campus--a lecture by one of our own professors, who was an accomplished author. He was to talk about his journey as a writer, and about overcoming struggles in his own life to finally publish his first novel. I knew that I had to go and hear him speak.

This was my time. As this writer spoke, I felt every ounce of myself start burning to write again--not in the needy, desperate way I had experienced before, but in such a way that it just felt right that I should be a writer again. I'm not sure if I slept at all that night after the lecture--I was full of ideas and excitement. I was strong and confident. I was a writer.

The next semester I had the opportunity to take a creative writing class. I enjoyed it but I struggled with it too, because it dared me to take my writing places I had never considered before. I dabbled in some microfiction; I tried my hand at science fiction; I explored the theme of dystopia; I warmed up to modern free-form poetry, which to that point I had always poo-pooed as not "real" poetry. That class proved to be very experimental for me, and an experience I appreciated... though ultimately my purpose lay elsewhere.

I soon found that purpose. My senior year, I had the chance to take another creative writing class--this time, taught by the same professor whose lecture had so inspired me two years earlier. In that class I discovered the nature writing genre, which I maintain still today is where my calling lies. As far as my own personal development, there can be no doubt that my nature writing class was the most rewarding, enriching, life-changing class I ever took. In fact, it was during that class that I began this blog.

Each of us has a special ability, I believe, which we are meant to share with the world. For years I've known that writing was mine, but it's been a long, strange journey. I am confident, though, that my history with writing has enabled me to appreciate these things all the more. I write not because I can, but because I must. There is something every person must say in their lives, and I have to say mine by putting pen to paper. What a privilege--what a joy.

The show so far...

I've been working a little over a month now; I've settled into my daily routines; I've survived my first tax season; I've got a couple of paychecks under my belt. So how do I feel about it all so far?

I don't know why this still comes as such a surprise to me, but I can say with complete confidence that I really love my job. Really. I mean, it is a job, not my life's passion--but in the context of it being a job, I love it. Shouldn't I? Isn't it wonderful to finally know, after all the hard work and all the doubt, after the frustration and tears, that I really did make the right decision--indeed, that I really did hear God correctly when I believed He was leading me this way?

Yes. It is wonderful. For the first time since I can remember, I feel very little stress--because I can leave work at work. During my final two years of college, I was always Laura the student--I rarely had time to play any other role. Now, while I am at work I can be Laura the accountant... and then when I come home, I can be whatever Laura I'd like: The writer? The cook? The trivia night aficionado? Sure, why not?

Best of all, I can be Laura the joyful again. Over the past eighteen months or so, up until we moved from Athens into our new place, I feared that I was slipping back into old habits--the cycle of depression that I struggled with for about a decade and then, finally, broke free from when I was nineteen. Long hours of grinding away at the Tax Code, at mergers and acquisitions, at risk management and effective interest amortization, made me withdraw from my friends and spend many, many hours feeling unhappy and lonely. I came out of college with a master's degree, a husband, and some lifelong friends... but I also came out shouldering a burden that I should have left forever buried after I finally cast it off six years ago. In a new city, at a new juncture along the path of my life, I think I have finally let those days go once and for all, and learned how to be secure and content with myself.

I will never know if all the gruelling work I put into my college days will have been worth it in the end. For in trying to excel, I lost sight of some important things--my faith, my security, my joy, my passions--at the risk of losing them forever. I could have done something else, and perhaps breathed a little easier during my college days; and perhaps I'd be just as content as I am now... or perhaps not. Like the pondering traveller in Frost's poem, I could not travel both paths at once; so I chose one, knowing that travelling one way meant forfeiting the chance to ever see what lay down the other road. And now, I tell it with a sigh--for I'll always wonder, somewhere deep inside, what would have happened if I'd chosen differently... But it serves no real purpose to look back and regret. The fact is, I am where I am now, and all that I can do from here is go forward from where I have already come.

Just a mood

I think that for every mood, for every situation, for every thought and feeling and problem and question, there has been a rock song written about it. And sometimes when I'm sitting and thinking about the world around me, some familiar voice will intrude into my thoughts and perform the appropriate lyrics... belting, crooning, wailing, or whatever.

Tonight it was David Bowie and Freddie Mercury. Thanks, guys.

Pressure, pushing down on me
Pressing down on you, no man ask for
Under pressure
That burns a building down
Splits a family in two
Puts people on streets

It's the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming, 'Let me out!'
Pray tomorrow gets me higher...
Pressure on people
People on streets

Chippin' around
Kickin' my brains 'round on the floor
These are the days
It never rains but it pours

People on streets

People on streets

It's the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming, 'Let me out!'
Pray tomorrow gets me higher, higher, high...
Pressure on people
People on streets

Turned away from it all
Like a blind man
Sat on a fence, but it don't work
Keep coming up with love
But it's so slashed and torn
Why, why, why?
Love love love love

Insanity laughs
Under pressure we're cracking

Can't we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can't we give love that one more chance?
Why can't we give love, give love, give love, give love
Give love, give love, give love, give love, give love

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word
And love dares you to care
For the people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way
Of caring about ourselves
This is our last dance

This is our last dance
This is ourselves
Under pressure
Under pressure
Pressure

A moment of enlightenment

It's been nearly a year since I last went for a run. I used to be a decent runner... Not fast, but consistent. I would run about a nine-minute mile--barely more than a jog, really--but I could keep it up for 90 minutes at a time or more, on my better days. I enjoyed running after work from time to time last summer, as a way to unwind from the monotony of cubicle life. But even then my running was starting to wane. I was out of practice; I could barely run three miles before I was huffing and panting and had to call it quits for the day. Then school resumed in August, and I became busier than ever with my master's degree--and when January rolled around, I had my degree to finish plus the CPA exam looming before me. I had no time to exercise as frequently as I used to, and I knew I could never keep up running with my infrequent training schedule... so I stopped. And I enjoyed life without running, for months and months.

Tonight as I was walking down Lumpkin Street, in the last half hour or so before dark, I turned down one of those side roads that cuts through one of the sleepy Five Points neighborhoods and joins with Milledge Avenue. I used to run down these roads quite often, and just soak up all the Athens-exclusive sights that make this such a special part of town. As I walked tonight I could feel the air temperature dropping every moment, and the humidity beginning to relent for the evening... and something came over me. I started to run--not gradually, not after deliberation, but just in an instant. And I fell back into my old rhythm within seconds--counting my breaths and the slapping of my shoes against the sidewalk, in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four.

Why haven't I taken up running again over this past year? Because I have been afraid. I've been afraid that, being out of practice, I would have no stamina and I would have to work and scrape my way back to where I used to be. The training, the overcoming of that obstacle that makes you have to stop and catch your breath--that is not the fun part of running. And I never wanted it to be all hard work. I wanted it to be something rewarding, and I feared that it could never be that anymore.

So tonight, when I began to run and suddenly something about it just seemed right, I made a deal with myself. If I can run all the way home without stopping, I thought, then I will start running again. I suppose I was approximately a mile from home--a distance that would never have intimidated me in bygone days. But tonight I was intimidated. I focused on my breathing, on the way I swung my arms so as to waste as little energy as possible... and I ran. Like Forrest Gump, I just ran. I even took a detour to get home, to ensure that I would have to run up one of those gradual, low-grade hills that I used to despise so much because it felt like you would never reach the peak.

I must admit that I reached a point while I ran tonight when I felt like I could not go on. But there must be a part of me that wants very much to run again, because I did not use that as an excuse to give up. If there was one thing I learned as a runner, it was that most any physical task you set yourself to is in large part psychological. If you have the physical stamina to run one mile, then you have the ability to run two--you just have to convince yourself that you can. I convinced myself that I could make it home, even up that darn hill... And make it home I did. Ice water never tastes sweeter than after a run, and it perhaps has still never been as refreshing as it was tonight.

I'm a runner again. At least for now.

The blustery day

Days like today are days that make me feel the most alive--the sky is thick and dark and the wind is unhindered. The windows are open and I am curled up on my futon wrapped in my fleece jacket with a book and a glass of red wine, pausing from my reading every few moments to listen to the wind play the trees like pan pipes. There is no rain, only the expectation of rain--but when will it come? And when it does come, will it be announced by great peals of thunder, or will it steal in gradually, patient and taut with all the energy of a sweet symphony?

Spring and summer in Georgia are hot and mellow, a fever that dulls first the mind and then, eventually, the heart and soul. All is heavy, and the air just becomes thicker and denser, until you feel you are swimming in a yellow delirium as thick as molasses.

Then one day, you awake to the whisper of the air to the trees, the grasses, the clouds and birds and all the world. And you go out, and it whispers to you too, and cuts sharply into your mind as acid through oil. Suddenly the world is alive with energy and purpose, and it intends to whirl you along. You stand, spread-eagle, and your hair flies away and your eyes well up from the air-blasts, and all around you and within you is electrified--the earth, the sky, the water, and all life driven by the same energy, all connected by the bonds of shared excitement.

When I go out tomorrow, the earth will be strewn with life--petals and blossoms that gave themselves up to the fury of the storm. All will be calm, all will be quiet like glass, like the grave. The air will be a little thinner and the earth a little lighter, and my mind a little freer, a little more awake and aware. Every breath, every nerve, every pump of my heart are an exhilarating gift that I cannot, in that moment, take for granted--a life so simple, yet too extraordinary to comprehend.

A change of scenery

As my fifth year in Athens begins to wind down, I have to say that I am looking forward to a change. I've always been a somewhat restless individual--after being in one place for a while (both in a literal and a mental sense), I feel like it's time to move on. I don't like feeling as if I have built up a "history" somewhere. I know that I should be comfortable with who I am, and indeed I am comfortable with that... I guess it is just that I become less comfortable with the people around me, either because they seem to have not changed much, or their changes have taken them down an entirely different road than the one I am traveling.

In the town where I lived for the first eighteen years of my life, a place where everyone knew your name AND your GPA AND your criminal record (not that I had one), I felt like I built up a history and that after awhile, it was just expected that I would follow the precedent I had already set. People, as we well know, are dynamic creatures; nevertheless, others are surprised when they find that you have changed--and not only surprised, but also disappointed, skeptical, and sometimes plain disrespectful. By the time I was about thirteen, I no longer felt I could be true to myself, as I was becoming someone altogether different from the girl I had been all my life. I was stuck in a mold, and it took an exodus for me to finally express myself freely again.

Now I'm twenty-three years old, and I have to say that I am a much different person than I was when I was eighteen and a newcomer to Athens. Athens is without a doubt a much larger town than my hometown, but still I have found my way into tight-knit circles where I have projected a particular image of myself, and now that the image is somewhat inaccurate I feel (to make use of a trite yet apt expression) like a round peg in a square hole. So though I love the Athens atmosphere, I do truly look forward to the time when I can shut the door on this era of my life and start over in a new city.

Does this cycle ever end? As you get older, do you change less--or do you just care less about the pressure you feel from the people around you? I don't want to feel like my life is all about things starting and ending; I want it to just go on, and to be comfortable within whatever shape the notch happens to be that gets carved for me.

I think I still have a lot to learn...

Small things

My life has picked up speed ever since January rolled around, and I started studying frantically for the CPA exam, which I will be thrilled to complete by mid-July. I have not written much; I have had little to write. I find I have little creative energy at the end of the day. I cook less, I walk less, I read less, I go out less (unless it be to a cafe to knock back a latte and immerse myself in accounting for postretirement benefits or some equally abstract concept). Do I laugh less? Smile less? Find less joy? Turn my thoughts less toward God? I honestly try not to, but sometimes I end up throwing myself facedown on my bed and asking, When will I be happy?

The problem is not a lack of happiness or joy, though. I try to walk through my life believing that my time on earth is a gift--but sometimes holding onto your joy in the midst of a trying time has to involve looking in places you never thought to look before. What are the daily things that bring me satisfaction, the things I overlook when I am in the brightest seasons of my life? Perhaps if I sit and think, and try to compile a list of things that really make my life worth living right now, then I will be able to turn my mind to such things more easily in the moments when my daily ritual of pushing up against this granite wall begins to feel fruitless and impossible.

What makes me happy?

1. The smell of fresh basil, harvested from my windowsill.

2. Floods of small petals, too pale to be pink and too ruddy to be white, riding the air currents and blanketing the ground like snowfall.

3. A cup of fresh black coffee, with two gingersnaps for dunking.

4. Briefly catching the sound of a favorite song as cars drive by with their windows down and their radios up.

5. Closing my eyes and softening all the muscles in my face, just when the tension starts to build up.

6. Magnificent evening skies that remind me that all the world is in the hands of a being much greater than myself.

7. Observing the daily progress of the sweetgum tree outside my window, whose tender week-old leaves become larger and greener and sturdier daily--indeed, almost constantly.

8. Waking up the day after a long Pilates workout, to feel every muscle in my core aching as they regenerate themselves, stronger and more defined than before.

9. The intermediate stage of consciousness, right after I wake up in the morning, when every limb on my body still feels limp and heavy, and I feel like I am being swallowed into my bed.

10. The ability to love someone, which comes solely because I have been loved before I ever understood what it meant to love.

11. Dreaming about friends whom I have not yet met--promises for the future.

Like an impressionist painting, which is made up of millions of tiny brush strokes which you will not see until you take a closer, more discerning look at the big picture, our daily life is made up of millions of tiny experiences. Those experiences can be observed, embraced, treasured only when we are willing to ignore the large-scale view of life and scrutinize its components. But the components are what give life substance and depth and significance, and we miss out on so much when we blind ourselves to them. I hope never to miss another tiny experience... but instead, every day, to be able to make this list grow longer and longer with all the joy I find.

My progression

Early on this semester, I made a promise to myself. Live for the things that truly matter. Well, here I am to document my success and failure over the past eight weeks--my progression from an anxious perfectionist to... whatever you may call me now, I suppose.

I told myself I would walk to Earth Fare once a week. That I've held to very well. The walk from Bloomfield to Five Points has become a truly special time--a time for me, along with my husband, to enjoy the outdoors, the exercise, and the unique character of an Athens that I have not even opened my eyes to until now. It has been a time for us to talk about issues that are important to us--about veganism, about the environment--the things that naturally come to our mind on a grocery shopping excursion.

I promised I would spend more time with Abby and Jessica, not doing accounting but really cultivating friendship. We have done things together as the time has been afforded to us, and now I truly do feel like I can call them close friends, not merely friends by default.

I vowed to keep some kind of creative outlet in place in my life, so that the life of accounting and business would not swallow me up as it so often threatens to do. Well, I've been cooking and blogging, and blogging about cooking. And writing--always writing. And only recently, I have developed an interest in beading and jewelry-making. In fact, Abby and Jessica and I are planning a little trip to a beading store over in Watkinsville later this week. These sorts of things help me stay balanced and maintain a positive outlook, even when the thoughts of being an accountant gather in and suffocate my mind.

I intended to exercise more frequently. Well... I have not exercised so much per se, but I have come to enjoy Pilates as a calming and solitary pastime. Bob and I have picked up tennis again. And, with the environmental enlightenment that we have experienced in recent months, I have been walking as much as I can stand. Walking has always been truly enjoyable, but even more so of late, as I have used those times to reflect on God and nature and beauty... and breathing.

Where, exactly, is God in all of this? I'm afraid He is not in the place He should be. I still struggle to put Him at the top, even when I feel like I am living a life that more closely reflects godliness. And that is evident in my persistent impatience, my frequent snaps of anger and depression. But I have earnestly tried to keep God and His word foremost in my heart; I have sought to draw near to Him, knowing that He, in return, would draw near to me. There have been challenges to my faith, to my trust, to my love, and I have met some and cowered at some. But I have definitely felt a turning in my heart, and it has been toward better things.

And still better things to come...

I Love Your Smile

This was the text on the sticker that came to me yesterday, and I do not doubt that it was from the Lord.

Studying with a friend on a bench outside of the business school, suddenly we heard a man's voice trying to get our attention. I looked up, and there was a smiling older man standing over me, trying to give me something. I took it--it was a sticker, a bright yellow one that looked like a road sign, but the words were "Are we having fun yet?" Cute. He gave one to Jessica too. I smiled politely at him. He then proceeded to confront me about his true purpose. Could I donate a dollar to the Athens area food bank? Well, of course I could, if I had a dollar... I just gave him all my spare change. He thanked us warmly, and just before he turned to walk on, he gave each of us another sticker--"Because you're so nice."

This sticker was white with black text, and it simply said in block-style letters, "I Love Your Smile." The "o" in "love" was replaced by a red heart. I kind of chuckled about the whole, slightly strange incident as I slid the latter sticker into the clear plastic covering on the front of my accounting notebook.

My professor flew through class. I wrote feverishly for an hour and fifteen minutes, trying to document every single word that escaped his mouth, because I knew it would manifest itself on the test next week. But the faster I scribbled down his words, the faster he spit them out, and Jessica and I were frantically looking at each other's notebooks--and the notebooks of the students around us--trying to catch what we missed. Then, at the end of class, my professor moved the test back one week. What? I'd been planning all semester for the test to be the twelfth, and now, a week away, it is suddenly on the nineteenth? I was very inconvenienced. I was already irritated by the breakneck pace of class, and now to move a test that I had been planning around for two months now... As I got up to leave, I clapped my notebook closed in a flurry of frustration--and there, drawing my attention like an aptly sent, unexpected greeting card, was the sticker.

"I Love Your Smile."

Something in my spirit melted a little, and I suddenly felt the peace of God around me for an instant, just as strong as if I had been standing amid a cloud of angels. Then I just smiled--I smiled in my spirit, that is, a much deeper warmth than an outward smile that doesn't truly reflect the heart.

My father in heaven loves it when I smile, when I experience the unshakable joy that He intends for me. And amid all my recent frustration and busyness and failing to stay centered on the most important things in my life, He sent me an October valentine to let me know. If I can't smile because of God's unfailing love for me, even despite difficult and exhausting circumstances, then something in my heart is out of place. Nothing in life is so hopeless that it can cast a shadow over the everlasting light of God.

Let me remember, then, to live in a way that speaks of this light. Let me remember to live every day with that purpose at the forefront of my mind. Let me remember to smile--and bring delight to my father's heart.

An Inconvenient Truth

This weekend the movie An Inconvenient Truth was playing here on campus. I never did manage to see the movie when it was first released over the summer, but last night Bob and I went. This movie was more terrifying than I thought it would be, and sadly, I had no trouble believing every figure, every statistic, every prediction. Since seeing it, I have been wondering what I can do--what more I can do.

I have been truly contemplating the state of the world and its people, and wondering if there is yet any way to hope that nations will pull together in an unprecedented effort to change the statistics--particularly this nation. It makes me angry to see the opposition to the environmental movement that seems to be so prevalent. Growing the economy? We will grow our economy up until the day we kiss our planet goodbye. There has to be a better way. Jesus is coming back soon, so none of this even matters? We Christians cannot use that as a cop out. When I look at the church in America, I have to ask myself if we're ready for the second coming. And we're defacing the world climate so quickly that in my lifetime, terrible things could happen. No, I'm not willing to be complacent and put millions of lives around the globe on the line, for the mere thought that Jesus will return before anything terrible--and preventable--occurs.

So what do I do? Well, as a Christian, I pray. I pray without ceasing. I pray in faith that my God will rouse the empathy and the responsibility in His people's hearts that they may become warriors against the destruction of our climate, of our earthly home. As a citizen, I reduce my greenhouse gas emissions. I walk. I use less power. I recycle. I eat a vegan diet... I put thought into my choices every day. Do I really need that tomato in November? Can I live with it just a couple of degrees warmer in my apartment? And as a writer, I cry out daily. I cry out in the most eloquent way I know how. And I cry with a sense of urgency. And I hope that people will read, reflect, respond.

How does one person make a difference? It feels so hopeless sometimes--but if I gave up, that would only make the problem worse. So I will do what I can, and day by day I will learn what I can do. And as the future unfolds, day by day, I will see what kind of difference all the "one persons" out there can make.

www.climatecrisis.net

A rough but good beginning

School starts tomorrow, which I am not excited about. It's not the worst thing, but certainly not as good as doing all the things I love to do--writing, reading, Pilates, cooking, even working in a real accounting job. But it will be okay, as soon as I get back into the proper mindset.

When school starts, Wesley starts too. And that's a nicer thing to look forward too. We went on the leadership retreat this weekend, and I really didn't want to go at first. But as I got back into worshiping God and praying with the undivided heart that I should have had all summer, I realized that I'm just letting my personal fears get in the way of what I love--communion with God. Bob is working at Wesley this year, and I really am excited about the year. I grow so much when my heart is in it, and I have so much joy when I don't let it slip away from me.

I realized that much of the depression that I went through this past year was rooted in my being afraid to be different. But the fact is, I am different from a lot of college kids--I'm married, I study a lot, I am a vegan, I don't really wear make-up or fix my hair or anything that even my best friends spend their time on. I am comfortable with who I am, but I often feel estranged, no matter what group I am with at the moment. I feel understood very little--perhaps only by my husband sometimes. And since I am a person who values very close connections with people, it is scary to feel alone.

But I understand now that I let myself assume the worst about other people's thoughts of me. While I know that my close friends love who I am and will never judge me or condemn me, I let thoughts sneak in that tell me my friends aren't interested in me anymore, or that they think I'm making bad choices. And in the Christian community I am a part of at Wesley, though many of my values are different, I have to remind myself that they don't think I'm not good enough to be a part of them. These are the very same things that have haunted me my entire life, and I have to get over them.

I have to get over my need for validation from others. It's nice to receive encouragement, but I should not need it to feel worthy of love and friendship and acceptance. And I should not have to feel constant pressure to please my friends, please my parents (I don't even know why this is an issue anymore), please anyone. And I know that I shouldn't be under this pressure. Why do I let myself sway to it, like a feeble pine tree in a gale storm? Am I not a stronger person than that? Was I not created for more?

I was created for more than that. I was created to live in complete freedom, to have joy, to love and be loved, to be always enfolded in the arms of God. And these are the things I long for and pray for. I have a long way to go, but I am optimistic. Because every day I draw my strength from the God who knows my inmost being... the same God who knows every grain of sand on the beach... the same God who died in my stead and was powerful enough to defeat death forever. And I know He is on my side. And I know He longs to be closer to me.

There is a song that changed my life when I was in high school. It is by Michael W. Smith.

This is your time, this is your dance
Live every moment, leave nothing to chance
Swim in the sea, drink of the deep
Embrace the mystery of all you can be
This is your time

What can I be? I can be more than a broken, sad, inward-focused woman who cannot get past her own shortcomings. I can be more than a fearful girl who feels condemned by all the world. And I denounce these things in my life. And I refuse to live under their oppressive power. And I draw near to God, and I know that He will draw near to me.

I continue on... I fight the good fight. And I know that I am never alone.

Being home

I got back to Athens on Saturday. The last few days have been weird, frustrating, exhausting, and fun all at the same time. For one thing, I have still not finished unpacking--there was a lot of work to do at home, and I've been trying to clean up what's here before dumping a whole lot of new stuff into the mix. For another, Bob is working all week, in addition to this past weekend and this coming weekend. Seven days a week. So it's kind of lonely around here. In addition, I have not been sleeping regularly. I could not sleep last night because I was so exhausted yesterday afternoon that I took a three and a half hour nap.

On a brighter note, one of my close friends came over yesterday and we got to spend some time together. It's so good to spend quality time with people you really know and trust. We talked for so long that I forgot to make lunch for us (as was the original plan). She'll be working with Bob at the Wesley Foundation this year. Several of my friends will be there. I wish I could be doing that too...

Well, since this is my last year in Athens, I really want to have a good time here while I still can. I've spent so much of the past two years locking myself inside and studying, and I really want to take it a little bit easier. I'm usually not one for making to-do lists, but this is different. Here are just some things I'd like to make a point of doing this year, before it's too late:

1. Hang out with my accounting friends and not do accounting
2. Go see live music more often
3. Go to more literary events (poetry readings? I'm so there...)
4. Enter the Honors Program art show this fall
5. Submit my writing to Stillpoint Literary Magazine here on campus
6. Go on more dates with Bob downtown
7. Go to Krush Girls with my friends
8. See Michael Stipe downtown (okay, maybe this one is just wishful thinking)
9. Study at the Botanical Gardens
10. Walk to Earth Fare once a week
11. Work out at the Ramsey Center regularly

That's a pretty good start, I think. There is so much to see and do here, and I want to see it and do it while I can. Not that I think I've wasted my time in Athens--I've done lots of fun things. But after May, I'll never be a college student again. I really want this to be a good, memorable year.


I am reading The Heart of a Distant Forest now by Philip Lee Williams. It's really enthralling--it's hard to put down. His writing is so beautiful... I can't wait to finish it. In fact, I'm going to go read it for a while now--at least until I fall asleep (I'm feeling a little drowsy again).

Why don't I read anymore??

When I was a kid I read all the time. I felt like such a dork, but it really was what I usually wanted to be doing. Even during spare moments in the car, on the school bus, in between classes, I always spent my time reading.

Now that I'm an adult, I don't understand why I do not enjoy reading as much as I used to. I still like books and I still read them, but not the way I wish I would. Perhaps I have read one too many dry textbooks and spoiled the thought of reading. I really hope I can get myself interested in reading again--and more than just fiction.

I came across a book yesterday called Been Brown So Long It Looked Like Green To Me: The Politics of Nature by Jeffrey St. Clair, an investigative journalist. Of course, being in the store I didn't have much time to thoroughly leaf through it and get a good sense of what type of book it is, but it definitely struck me as one worth looking into a bit more. Perhaps I can find it at the library when I get back to school. What I want is comprehensive coverage of the environment, fair, well-rounded (i.e., not just bashing W. for pushing to open ANWR for drilling), and provocative. Not that I need to be provoked into believing that the environmental state is deplorable at the moment, but I do want to read something that is not just propaganda. I don't know who Jeffrey St. Clair is, but it intrigues me that he is titled an "investigative journalist." Who knew that such reporters even existed anymore? So, perhaps I will give this book a try soon.

One book I started reading early in the summer is The Heart of a Distant Forest by Philip Lee Williams--my nature writing professor! It was unique, written in the style of a journal rather than a narrative, but unfortunately I didn't get very far into it before I moved to Atlanta, forgetting to bring the book with me. It's not a very long book, so I hope to be able to pick it up when I get home and read it from start to finish before school gets back in. (With Bob at intern training all week and working on the weekends, I should have plenty of time to myself...)

My professor is publishing another book, which is to be released this fall, called In the Morning: Reflections From First Light, which I certainly plan to buy. I love the mornings, and this man is a freaking authority on mornings, since he gets up at about 4:30 every day! Seriously, his engagement with nature is deep (his class helped to change my whole perspective on the world) and his writing is beautiful, and I will be thrilled to read his essays on morning.

I did not intend this post to be a rave about Dr. Williams, but while I am on the subject I am going to recommend one of his other books: The Silent Stars Go By, a nonfiction narrative of Christmas memoirs from his childhood. I read this book my sophomore year of college, and it was the catalyst that made me decide to pursue my love of writing again (as I took a long hiatus from any serious writing during my latter years in high school). Anyway, it is a short book and it is something different, and if you are ever struck with the desire to read it I give it my highest praise.

See? I told you I really do love books. I love them so much that while I was writing all of that, I completely forgot that I have been in a no-reading rut lately. So maybe that's all about to change... Maybe all I need to do is remind myself that I really am passionate about reading.

Why does the weekend dawdle?

I'm having quite a decent week, I would say. But I want Friday to be here more than anything...

Sunday, 23 July, is our first wedding anniversary! I now understand what grown-ups would always say when I was a kid, about how time whips by so much more quickly as you get older. I don't feel like it's been a year since that day. I remember everything I did, every person who was with me, every butterfly, every tear. How could I ever forget those moments?

Bob and I are going camping near Charleston, South Carolina, and we're as excited as little children on Christmas Eve. Bob wanted to go to the beach, I wanted to see Charleston, we both have wanted to go camping for quite awhile now... It is all going to happen. Soon.

But not soon enough. I miss him still, so much. Yes, I have gotten used to him being there while I'm here. But it doesn't make me not long for him to be here with me. Every week so far he's made it down here once or twice to visit in the middle of the week, but this week it's not happening. I can't blame him for being tired of making the hour-and-a-half drive, and getting up at 5:30 to make it to work. But we're so close to the end of the summer now, and I wish he could find himself able to do it just a few more times. It makes the week easier to know that, at least once, I'll be able to come home and have his arms around me. But like he tells me, a married couple should be able to spend time apart like this. And I can--I just don't want to, and I resist it as stubbornly as a child.

No matter. Tomorrow's Thursday. Day after that, we're together for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary and have a beautiful time together. Just Bob and Laura.