Cardboard Jungle

Yep, it's true. Moving sucks. When I was little, moving was an adventure...Sure, Mom and Dad went nuts trying to get five of us to help pack our stuffed animals and building blocks, but it was still fun. I'm 22 now, and it is officially not fun.

My house has been in complete shambles for the past several weeks. With my bedroom being across the foyer from the backdoor, naturally the get-rid-of pile accumulates outside of my door. I have a little pathway to get outside or to the rest of the house. All I'm saying is that I could have been a gymnist with all the weird contortions my body must undergo just to check the mail! (Better yet, I think I would make a great thief. You know, the ones who have to slide under invisible lasers that will sound the alarm if broken. Yeah...I think that sounds cooler.)

Anyway, with all this packing, I have to go through everything--absolutely everything. High school boxes of memories? Check. Creepy catch-all draw? Yep. Christmas decorations? Mhm. Every childhood toy and article of dress-up clothing? You betcha. What's weird is how much living has happened while I wasn't even aware. I found letters from little campers from my first year at camp, and pictures of "BFF's" who I haven't seen in 5 or 6 years. It's hard to throw things away that think are significant, but I can't hold onto anything in the end. All I can do is appreciate the times I've had and let it go. (Talk about a therapy session!)

So, as I wade through this cardboard jungle of boxes, I'm thankful for all the things that I have, but most of all, for the people I love. That's it for "lessons in spite of packing" for today. I need to grab more packing tape...and motivation! Peace.

Wanted: A Grandfather

I want a grandfather. I always have. I mean who is suppose to say politically incorrect things? Who is suppose to tell me about going "a-courtin'" and point out all the landmarks in town as he tells me about how things "used to be?" Who is suppose to teach me random things like how to whittle, shoot a gun, or spit? Who is suppose to fix things or tell me about how life was before television and computers? Who is suppose to scare me and intrigue me and love me just the same? Seriously...

Thoughts Amongst The Shelves

There is something deliciously forbidden about a library. Sounds crazy, no? I'm sitting in a library in Somewhere, USA. The building holds the tell-tale signs of 1960's architecture. There is a main reading area with dim lights to illuminate the work of writers, readers, and fussy teenagers whose parents dragged them to the dreaded building. To the left, there is a wall of doorways, one right after the other, leading into one big section for the shelves. On the right side, a wall of tiny, narrow windows that eventually culminate into a children's section, closed off with a dark, heavy door. Everything about this place screams "Mystery!" Like the pages of a Gothic novel.

Although this library isn't far from my home, it's in a different city, and I can be anyone I like, here. A writer, a mother, a movie star, or someone's cousin just visiting for the summer. Who knows what these people think! And the best part is that it doesn't matter.

Places like libraries make me think about suppressed feelings and desires in life. No talking! Be quiet! Whisper! Whisper! Whisper! I glide along the dark, shadowy shelves and run my fingers over the spines of book, after book, after book. This author is from Thailand that one is from Chile, and I--I am here seeing, touching, reading the work of authors I will never meet. Yet, their work influences me. Frustrates me, makes me cry, bores me, makes me think wild thoughts. Words are powerful things. I think of all the forbidden books tucked discreetly into place--alphabetical--pretending they belong. Just begging to cast their spell on someone, perhaps me.

The hum of the fluorescent lights create a white noise, but I fear if I were to stay here too long, it would drive me mad. I imagine the librarians are sick of questions. Sick of staying in a cool, dimly lit fortress of a building with its' cave-like hums and drips and unpleasant visitors. Or maybe, like me, it intrigues them. Perhaps the whispers of ancient words in crumbling books draws them too. All I know is that a storm is coming, and I should be on my way.

A Summer Snapshot

This blog is a portion from a journal entry:
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I'm sitting on the dock at a friend's lake, and I can't believe how beautiful it is here. This is my third time out here and I am still awestruck. The sky is filled with purple-gray clouds ripe with rain. Somehow the insects don't seem to mind; they just keep buzzing and humming and skating across the black mirror lake. Frogs are croaking and just over my right shoulder, I hear a bird calling louder than the evening symphony.

My first time here I couldn't seem to place one of the sounds that seemed so prevalent, but now, as I sit here with my feet causing gentle ripples in the cool water, I realize what it is. It is the sound of nature absent of cars or planes, or even voices. The only man-made sounds are the scratch of my favorite black pen across my journal...a book filled with hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations. How strange to be part of a world that has so few cares.

I look across the slick wet surface of the lake and I am surrounded by wilderness. Not the kind that lost men dread--where the elements are cruel. But rather a wild wilderness of graceful flowers and rugged shrubbery. Beauty and strength. Just behind me a bushes of unripened blackberries are nurtured among the briars. My leg hold the tell-tale signs of their existence.

The moon looks down upon me as the sun sets leaving a brilliant array of stained glass clouds. The moon sees everything, and I am reminded that I have "miles to go before I sleep."

"Now Is The [Spring] Of Our Discontent"

Greetings Dear Reader!

I am currently avoiding reading for the worst subject in the history of the universe: Chaucer. Although no one knows for certain how Chaucer died, scholars believe there is a possibility he was murdered. I haven't a doubt in my mind this is true. In fact, maybe I'm the one who did it! Maybe sometime in the future, I'll be part of a "Time Machine" research program, I'll volunteer to be a pioneer, and then I'll end up killing Chaucer because he almost killed me when I was in school. An eye for an eye, right? (Wishful thinking...I know.)

These last few weeks have been some of the hardest of my life. Not necessarily "horrible." Difficult? YOU BET! After researching, writing, presenting, and defending my senior thesis, I do not care about The Secret Garden or archetypes or Carl Jung or comma splices or long rambling sentences that never seem to end despite the fact the writer made her point way back at the beginning of the thought. I sit here and complain about the work that everyone has had to do, but I shouldn't be so negative when our professors had to read and comment on the first couple of drafts we cranked out whilst jacked up on coffee, cashews, and carbonated beverages. Anyway, I am so glad that I have people in my life who love and care about me enough to correct me--or ask me to redo something when they know I can do better. I am quite proud of the work I have been able to accomplish (although not without tears and LOTS of prayer).

In other news: I finally got a diagnosis! A diagnosis I have felt certain about for several years, now. I have a problem with doctors telling me that "it's just in my head." (I'm sure I'm not alone in feeling this way!) The only downside is having medicine that makes me so darn tired! I may have to start drinking motor oil to stay awake...and by "motor oil" I mean "coffee."

Oral Exam. [Cue dirge] The oral exam was death. Imagine a dimly lit room with dark shadows lurking in the corners. A trickle of water from the leaking pipes above running down the wall. The lone window with cracked and dangerous glass protruding is so dirty that no sunlight graces the bare earthen floor. And a single, swinging light bulb casting shadows along the ocher walls (which were once white before the mold overtook them)...What you just imagined is a five-star hotel compared to that wretched room!

Thank goodness the Good Lord didn't see it fit that I should literally die from such experience (although, I'm sure people have). In my short years upon this earth, I have done plenty of extemporaneous speaking. Most of the time such "interviews" are a lot of BS, but at least, they were about topics I felt confident. Alas, with intense stares from piercing-blue-eyes-that-can-see-to-the-very-depths-of-your-soul (somewhat similar to Dumbledore's eyes), it became next to impossible to create coherent sentences. I purposefully wore a long necklace with chunky beads so that nervous energy would abandon my tear ducts and move to my fingers. (Note to self: Try this strategy again! Twas a success indeed!) I am quite thankful the whole experience is finished! It was just another reminder that I am NOT cut out for doctoral work. When I scooped myself off the floor and left the room, I was so thankful that I actually LIKE my content area, but little did I know that in a few short days the saddest event in my life would take place. To quote Biron, "The scene begins to cloud."

After a lovely Tuesday evening with two dear friends, I left campus around 12:30 am. I don't often leave that late, but I it was too good of quality time to walk away. The moon was beautiful even though the night was chilly; I should have known the moon plays tricks on people. On my way home, I witnessed an unusual sight. Several deer decided to have a "sit-in" (stand-in?) to protest modern technology and infrastructure, but instead of a peaceful protest, it turned violent. One massive doe decided to sacrifice her body on the hood of my car to prove her ultimate hatred of humanity. The protest was broken up immediately. The doe ran away unscathed, but my poor Skylark did not fare so well. The Skylark died thanks to Debbie the Deer at 12:42. After I stopped screaming like a 12 year old girl watching "Scream" for the first time, I called my parents. Thus was the end of the Skylark.

I feel like I should show an emotional reel of pictures of my car set to some super sappy song. "I will remember you....Will you remember me? Don't let your life pass you by...." [sigh]

This post is dedicated to the memory of The 1995 Skylark. RIP 4/28/10 12:42am. "It's been a wild ride, friend." Feel free to mourn as you will. It's okay to have a moment of silence, dear reader, before moving on to the next blog. I understand.

"Into the Bowels of the Office"

Today, I came very close to losing my religion! (Not really, I can't lose that!) But it was frustrating nonetheless. I made the decision to look into changing majors from Secondary English Education to just English. I have already completed my education classes--everything but student teaching, yet I don't feel as confident in my content area as I would like. I just want to pick up the extra classes that I have missed from being and education major. Who knew it would start World War III?!

I want to teach; I really do. I love teenagers. I love school. I love the punks that make me want to pull my hair out. High schoolers can be knot-heads, but I wouldn't be in this career path if I didn't love it. The bottom line is that I want to make myself more marketable. Knowing more English/Literature/Grammar/Theory than my competitors seems like a GOOD thing, right? I, personally, want to be a better person. Logical? Apparently not.

As expected, I was met with no opposition from the English department, but the Education department went crazy when I tossed out the idea of leaving the EDU program. I understand their concerns. Why would a student leave the program just one semester shy of certification? I just expected a more professional discussion. I felt like I had just stepped into a bag of popcorn after someone pressed "start." I heard far more inappropriate accusations and negative talk than I ever expected from several professors. The last time I checked--school is for the students NOT the faculty.

My mother says, "There is nothing more dangerous than taking up an offense for someone else." I love this quote--words of wisdom, indeed. I'm just tired of students being caught in a battle between professors or even high school teachers. I don't want to have to "choose sides" or "defend" someone. It's just silly, and I don't like being put in a position where such a thing is expected. I will not participate.

Ten years from now, we won't remember what people said to us, but we will remember how they made us feel when we were around them. What I learned from the foolish banter and half-hearted "objective" talk following the discovery that I was not interested in arguing, is that I want people to feel good around me. Well, that's not entirely true. I don't want people to just feel good--I want them to feel safe. Safe to unload, safe to refuel, safe to fail, safe to try again. I want people to feel good about who they are not who everyone tells them they are supposed to be. After all, isn't that what Jesus chose to do?

And for the record, I don't harbor any ill-will toward anyone or anything that happened today. I think I just need to keep in mind who the instigator is behind all things "unlovely" (Phil 4:8). Keeping this in mind tends to cool a hot-head or ease a throbbing bruise pretty quickly.

I Should Be Studying...

I have tons to do. Senior English undergrad. What else is there to do? Yet, instead of studying/ writing, I spent the afternoon and evening reading random people's blogs. Thanks to the handy-dandy "Next Blog" feature at the top of my page, I have seen and read some pretty incredible stuff. Because I'm on the literary side of things, sometimes I miss out on the art-side of the world, but I think I've gotten my fill of artwork for the evening.

Some random girl had this awesome link to some water color Harry Potter fanfiction (I won't repost is because it was not Rated G). I saw a blog by an aspiring children's book author and illustrator...I had to pass his stuff on because it was so AMAZING! caleatkinson.blogspot.com You should check it out. I read a couple of crappy poems about "being misunderstood"...I can honestly say that I'm looking forward to teaching high schoolers whose only definition of poetry is "self-expression"--I'll set 'em right! And I happened upon a single mother's blog about her unusual taste in art. She posted a youtube music video because she admired the art in it. I absolutely loved it, and I wanted to repost it in case anyone wanted to take a look. But be ye forewarned: It is bizarre.



But of all the things I looked at, I think the most compelling was a team-effort blog. I don't even recall the name of it, but it is an organization of artists that have a "Travelling Pants" type of relationship. One artist sends a canvas out to another artist they have never met. The recipient begins a painting and sends it on to the next person on the list. By the time the original sender gets the canvas back, it will be filling with artwork from around the world. I have to say, it was a wonderful thought.

I think that is exactly what bloggers do in the first place. We write, compose, paint, or sculpt in order for others to see and contribute to our work. Through my "blog-stalking" I learned that everyone has something to say. Everyone. We all need to be heard or appreciated. To know that the thoughts or events we experience are not weird or strange. Blogging helps us find common ground with others and make peace with ourselves. So to my fellow bloggers, I wish you good luck and many more posts! I have loved getting to read about you!

You Move Me

I can remember being in the third grade and standing in my kitchen in Somewhere, USA. The house was all but empty, the refrigerator stood strangely naked of its usual eclectic covering made up of mine and my siblings artwork, the cabinet doors concealed nothing but empty shelves, the floor held the marks from my roller skates that Mom let me roll around the table in. I heard the voices of strange men and women in my front yard laughing and talking with my parents. And all around me, I could feel the air settling. It was a strange feeling that still sends chills up my spine. My family was moving. After a few moments of solitude, the door swung open with all the force my brother could muster. It slammed into the wall, and for once I didn't worry that it would leave a hole in the wall.

"Come on! We're waiting for you!" he yelled; not unpleasantly, but with all the excitement he couldn't conceal.

I gave the room one last sweeping glance, grabbed my book bag, and ran outside as I heard the screen door squeal and bang behind me from excessive use for the last time. I felt my little white sandals fill with sand as I ran across the dirt driveway. After a short prayer for safety, my brothers, sisters, and I climbed into the strange van. I scooted across the long bench seat to watch the only home I could ever remember disappear in a cloud of dust the tires kicked up, and so began our journey to a new house I'd never seen.

Today (yet again), I have been reading Sylvia Plath's unabridged journals. Sylvia Plath; Aunt Sylvy. She makes me think things that I never have considered. I feel things that I have never felt. She saw the world so differently, and I am just a student, awe-struck by her voice. She has a way of writing exactly what I feel, finding the words that seem to elude me, and yet, she was so dissatisfied with her work and her life. I was reading one of her entries today about how much she wished she were as talented as a peer. If only she could have seen herself through different eyes...maybe she'd still be alive today.

I've never wanted to meet a poet/writer so badly before I began reading her work. I realized this afternoon that because of Aunt Sylvy, I feel as if I've crossed a threshold. There comes a point in each of our lives when we realize that things will never go back to "normal." One of my favorite bands, The Goo Goo Dolls, has a line in their song "Iris" that I always think about when I feel the present becomes history. They sing, "And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming, or the moment of truth you realize. When everything feels like the movies, yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive." It's hard to unlearn something or to actually learn it for the first time.

As children, we are fascinated with the world around us. The changing colors of the trees or the little green sprouts bursting through the warm earth. We don't understand all the scientific and cultural rules yet, and everything is exciting--and somewhat magical. Aunt Sylvy writes in her stream of consciousness journal entry:

After being conditioned as a child to the lovely never-never land of magic, of fairy queens and virginal maidens....To go from this to the world of "grown-up" reality. To feel the tender skin of sensitive child-fingers thicken...to become aware of school, exams (the very words are as unlovely as the sound of chalk shrilling on the blackboard,) bread and butter, marriage, sex, compatibility, war, economics, death and self. What a terrible blighting of the beauty and reality of childhood. Not to be sentimental, as I sound, but why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?

But despite this feeling of "new-ness," I can't help but feel a level of excitement. I have been so desensitized and callous toward so many words, thoughts, and ideas lately--that her voice has hit me like an unexpected rainstorm in the middle of a drought. Although she scares me, I know that some of our greatest experiences are born out of fear...or rather the conquering of that fear. Aunt Sylvy and I have a lot of life, love, and thoughts yet to discuss, but one thing I know for sure is that with each word of hers, I am changing.

And sometimes I get nervous when I see an open door. Close your eyes, clear your heart, cut the cord. --The Killers "Human"

Oh but you move me

You give me courage I didn't

Know I had

You move me on

I can't go with you

And stay where I am

So you move me on

--Susan Ashton "You Move Me"

A Cup of Tea

There are few joys in life that measure up to the innocence and pleasure of a hot cup of tea. There is something so cleansing and refreshing in such a small and somewhat trivial ritual. I think I first began drinking tea when I was 10 or so. My dad, an avid tea and coffee drinker, brought home some green tea. He asked if I wanted a cup, and before I knew it, I was hooked. My sisters appalled the taste, but I knew, even then, that tea would become very special to me.

One summer I had the opportunity to work on the leadership team for a summer camp. I was so excited about the chance to serve in such a capacity, but reality set in faster than I could ever have imagined. Before the first week was over, I was struggling with fears and frustrations. I was the youngest one on leadership and I had one of the most challenging groups the camp had ever seen. How was I supposed to lead a team of women when I didn't feel adequate?

After a particularly trying day, I broke down in the office and wept. Thankfully, I was greeted with a dear friend's sympathy. She made me a cup of tea, and we talked about everything that evening. From our hopes and dreams, to our vices and failures. I had known her from the year before, but in those moments, I knew we had passed an invisible barrier from friends to much, much more. Occasionally, I feel homesick as I sip a cup of Tazo Passion tea--homesick for her.

I have one set of living grandparents, but they don't even know my name...sad really. I wish daily that I had grandparents, especially a grandfather, I would have loved the tar out of him. I don't live near any family either, so the first time I went to my mentor's house, it was an new experience for me. She doted on me like I see grandparents and aunts dote upon their beloved family members. She made me biscuits and listened to me tell silly stories of little importance. It was so lovely I could have cried. The last thing she did before she kissed me good night was make me a cup of piping hot peach tea. I curled my fingers around the over sized cup and breathed in the fragrant steam. The world seems to soften when seen through the steam of a cup of tea.

I read an article in high school about a woman who associated letters with colors. She remembered people's names because she remembered their colors. (I did the same things as a child, so I knew immediately what she was talking about.) And I had a friend tell me, "We don't remember everything that people tell us, but we do remember how they make us feel when we are around them." What a wise statement. I merge the two ideas about people. I often think of a particular color or sensation when I think about a person, but sometimes the feeling I get when I think of a friend is more than just a memory of how their hands feel when they pat my back. Sometimes, I get the dearest feeling sensation when their name arises...the intimacy of sharing a cup of tea.

As I sit at my computer, sipping my peppermint tea and composing these last few sentences, I realize that their are few people that I feel close enough to share this sacred experience with. Just as a woman selects who she will take wedding dress shopping with her, so I select who will be invited to share a cup of tea with me.

"Tea! thou soft, thou sober, sage, and venerable liquid,... thou female tongue-running, smile-smoothing, heart-opening, wind-tippling cordial, to whose glorious insipidity I owe the happiest moment of my life, let me fall prostrate. " ~Colley Cibber, Lady's Last Stake

"You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me. " ~C.S. Lewis

Reflections: A Time For Everything

Note to Reader: In writing this, I am not seeking self-assurance or empty encouragement. Sometimes things just need to be said--However raw, unpolished, or painful.
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I am tired. I am tired of being angry. I'm tired of being the comedian relief and the shoulder to cry on. I'm tired of being angry, of never being good enough. I'm tired of not having a place or being understood. I'm tired of being shut-down and mocked every time I open my mouth. Sometimes, I wish people would let me know in advance if they plan on humiliating me. That way I could be a little more prepared.

I often wonder what people would look like if their physical body were not in the way...If how they felt, thought, and perceived were their outward appearance. What if we could see people for who they truly were? What would I look like? At times, I fear I wouldn't exist at all.

I pray that God will send someone to listen to me. I talk constantly! I'm definitely aware of it, but that isn't what I mean. I want someone who will listen to me. I talk often, but I have a terrible time talking about deep, heart issues. The people I yearn to hear me are the exact people who dash and abuse my confidence the most. They don't seem aware of the months and weeks, hours and days it takes me to form and mold my sentences--or how my heart pounds and my face burns as the words finally leave my mouth.

Humor is my defense mechanism. I learned a long time ago that I'd rather laugh than cry. Kids are mean especially when you don't look like the others. Physical imperfections are usually easily hidden, but mine have always been on my face. No amount of makeup cannot fix an eye that does not look where it should or a scar that hides 14 years of torment. So, I continue to laugh, perhaps one day, I'll convince myself that things are truly as funny as I pretend them to be.

I feel like I don't belong...a terrible in-between feeling. Like stepping out of a warm shower before dressing. I lack a sense of place. Without meaning to, I seem to have outgrown my home...but I still don't quite fit in school. I had a mentor tell me that a butterfly pushes against its cocoon long before it breaks. She said it was its pushing that gave it strength to fly as a butterfly. If the cocoon breaks too early, the butterfly won't be able to survive. But I wonder, what happens if the butterfly stays in the cocoon too long? Will it be damaged then, too?

I tired. I'm tired of working so hard to hold things together. Whether academically, emotionally, or literally, I'm just tired. I've been moving furniture for the past week. I've moved enough times and lived in enough places to know how to maneuver heavy bedroom sets. It's a skill, really. I should add that to my resume, but its just a matter of time before those things need moving again. It's a well know fact that transferred furniture collects nicks and scrapes. Mattresses, nightstands, and desks rack up a long list of injuries through numerous moves, but what about the movers? Physical bumps and bruises leave, but what about those abrasions that go unseen? Do they ever go away? As I move from phase to phase in my life, I'm starting to recognize how sore I am from former travels.

I'm feeling a little stretched and faded as of late. My stretched and faded clothing is the kind that ends up in the trash/get-rid-of pile...And I don't need to end up there. I just need a break...A kind of rest that goes deeper than physical wear and tear. I just need peace, "a peace that surpasses all understanding."

"Clouds In My Coffee"

My brother: I wish we could just live in our dreams. Think of how cool that would be.
Me: I don't think that would the best idea.
My brother: (shocked) Why not?
Me: Because if I lived in my dreams, I would fall off of a lot of cliffs and never be able to find what I was looking for.
My brother: [beat] (eruption of laughter) That's awesome!

I love my brother beyond belief, and I knew what he was trying to say, but the moment was too good to pass up. I think the word "dream" is overused. Every inspirational notebook, poster, or wall decoration has the word plastered across it. I love the notion of a dream-- somewhat mysterious and mystical--but the word itself is far too cliche. Maybe we should just use a synonym from hence forth. As a friend mentioned just the other day, "I think I am going to start using 'sweven' instead of 'dream.' It sounds cooler." Maybe she's onto something.

This week I've been thinking of "dreams" less in the sense of what-you-do-when-you're-asleep and more in the sense of goals or aspirations. I guess I'm just realizing how close I am to finishing school. I can't say that I have a big head start on anything written on my "Thirty Before Thirty" list. Older and wiser folks will tell me, "You're young. You have time." I'm just not so sure that is entirely accurate. According to God's Word, I have but a day.

I want to be part of a huge protest--

I want to go to Improv school and work on my comedic timing and composure.

I want to be a registered nurse and live abroad for at least a year in my life. I want to buy a house and to cook for people.

I want to learn how to play the piano and guitar. I want to run a marathon. I want to learn how to drive a stick-shift.

I want to write a book, see the world, and eat good food.

"I had some dreams. They were clouds in my coffee..." --Carly Simon

Before Daybreak

My house is quiet. If this were anytime other than 5:30 am, I would be concerned. I move around my room with turning on any lights. I love that I can do that; that my room is familiar and comfortable enough to move without any guide, light or otherwise. There's a lamp post just outside my window, and sometimes I'll open the blinds just a crack. There are few cars at this time of morning, but those few travellers pass under the light, and I watch as their shadows form a distorted likeness of the car.

After moving around for a few minutes, I'm sure I won't fall asleep again so I crawl back under my covers, still warm and smelling of sleep. My book lies on the carpet from the night before, and I reach down to grab it. It's pages are stained and dog-eared, evidence of a good long life. Maybe I'll finish the chapter from last night or maybe I'll turn back to my favorite part, and read it again.

I love this silence and solitude. Early mornings are when I can hear my own thoughts instead of being bombarded with everyone else's. I can be most honest, most open before the world kicks off its blanket of darkness and revels in light. As I sit with a glass of water and my fingers perched upon the keys, I'm reminded that a moment of peace is worth more than all the "excitement" in a day. I wouldn't trade this time for anything-- not even more sleep.

Yes, I'm 5'10'', and I Wear Heels

It's true. I love being tall. There is something so freeing about being able to reach any book on the shelf in the library. My bestie likes to shop with me because I can get clothes from the top racks for her (she 5' 5''...Oh yeah, and because she loves me).

I remember being in 3rd grade and being the tallest one in the class, even taller than the teacher. We had raised butterflies in our class from caterpillars. When their wings were finally dry enough to fly, Mrs. X let them fly around the classroom. (An incredible thing when you're 8). Unfortunately, we had ceiling fans, and the butterflies just couldn't stay away from them. Being the tallest in the class, I was summoned to stand on the desk and pull the tiny chain to turn them off. I was pretty much a class hero for the rest of the year. Good times...good times...

I can't say that my height doesn't bother me at times, though. There are times I wish nothing more than to be an average height. For instance, riding in someone's matchbox size car is always a challenge. Taking pictures usually results in my standing in the back or bending down so the photo will look more "symmetrical." Even in class or at the movies, I feel terrible for wanting to sit in the front; I always seem to be in the way. Yet, I think I could deal with all of that if it were not for the dating aspect.

Being somewhat taller than average poses a problem in the dating arena. Dating someone shorter than me always embarrasses me. I try not to let it show, but honestly, its horrible. I don't know if he is ever bothered by it, but I know I am. What girl wants a date with a guy who comes all the way up to her shoulder? (Answer: Not many...possibly none). Then the jokes start pouring in...the "Amazon Queen" joke is over used. There isn't anyone as of late who has caught my eye. I realized about 3 years ago that 1.) I live in a small town 2.) I go to a small school 3.) AND I'm 5'10''--Three strikes, and I'm out. I'm not actively searching for someone, but if he comes along, I won't complain. In the mean time and between time, I'll proudly wear my heels to class.

Hi, My Name is Miriam....

Hi, my name is Miriam, and I am a chat-oholic.

Several months ago, I got turned onto to online chatting via a fun, little website by the name of "My Life Is Average." Honestly, I had never been in a chat room or done anything even close to chatting (well, other than on facebook). So, I thought, "What the heck? I'm 21; a legal adult. I should have a chatroom experience at least once in my life. Why not?" I clicked the "begin chatting" button, and so began my obsession.

The first guy I chatted with was some guy by the name of Sam. We talked for at least an hour or two on one of those rare there's-not-much-to-do days. He was a cool guy, 24, from New York--an engineer. After talking about everything from laundry detergent to movies, he asked my name. I told him, and his next question both surprised and excited me. He admitted that he had never even heard of my name before, and he asked how my parents came up with it. Cool!

Unlike most preteens and teenagers, I always liked my name...and I still do. I proceeded to tell him that my name was from the Bible (in Exodus 2, to be exact), and I gave him a brief synopsis of Moses's sister. We spent the next hour or so talking about spiritual things. I was truly amazed that God could use something as random as a creepy chat site to allow his word to be shared. In short, we exchanged e-mail addresses (a random address that doesn't have my last name or any of my personal info on it, of course). Through our three month correspondence, God opened up an opportunity to share the gospel and answer a lot of his questions. I don't know if we'll continue a relationship or not, but I know that our meeting was no accident.

Since then, I have had countless other opportunities to talk about Jesus with random people. Adham--a Muslim from Egypt; Martin--Canada; Rajapat--India; Allan--Kentucky....and many, many more. Someone once asked me why I was on the site. I love when people ask that. It opens up so many opportunities. I responded, "Everyone wants a witness for their lives. Everyone needs to know that their life counts. Obviously, a lot of lonely people are on chatting sites--I don't mind being a shoulder to cry on. In fact, that's why I'm here." I know it sounds cheesy (just call me "Velveeta!"), but I don't believe in coincidences, and I certainly don't think God is ever surprised or caught off guard.

So, for now, I'm: Miriam, 21, East Coast.

Carpe Diem = Fish of God

First of all, Happy February!

I love new beginnings. I guess that's why I'm a "morning person" (much to the annoyance of my family). One of my favorite lines from Anne of Green Gables is, "Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it." I think that pretty much sums it up for me. No matter how horrific the day before was, chin up! There's always tomorrow. And with a brand new month ahead, who knows what will happen!

I'm not sure if the world is aware yet, but I am a huge Dave Matthews fan. He is a phenomenal lyricist and musician. I find it quite difficult to label his music exactly because it is so eclectic. He was born in South Africa, grew up in New York and Virginia, and calls Seattle home...and with all of those distinct musical influences, it's no wonder his music speaks to so many people. Several days ago, I spent some time learning about him and his journey to fame. I was absolutely shocked to hear about all the heartache and tragedy he has endured. Yet, despite all of the unhappiness he has seen, his music is characterized by his carpe diem lyrics.

As corny as it sounds, there is something about his music that speaks to me. I want to do all the things I've always dreamed of. Maybe this month will be the a month for the books. Maybe I'll get my foot in the door of all the things I've been too afraid to try. Who knows.

All I do know is: Carpe diem! Seize the day! (Not "Fish of God" courtesy of a dear professor :)