The sun glaring into my closed eyes reminds me that it is summer. When I open them again, the world looks faded like an old photograph, and I feel like I have been here before. Sure, I was here yesterday and the day before that, but my childhood was miles away in a wide, mostly flat field adorned with dandelions and a long, steep hill patched with clovers and chopped grass that stuck, like a scarecrow's, out the ends of my sleeves after I rolled down the hill.
I wonder what happened to the years since those days of hill-rolling and doing cartwheels in the field past dusk, when Mom would call me in at dark and beg me to take a bath or at least wash my feet, but I wouldn't because I liked the way they felt when the bottoms were grassy-green. I almost felt that yesterday. I pushed Bea on the swing under the fatherly maple, and I felt like I could be ten years old, pushing my sister skyward as afternoons were measured in laughter.
Days seemed dull as the seasons stack into piles of old calendars, but now, the flowers, the trees: it all seems vibrant. I wonder where I've been the past eleven years because I don't remember any days like this lately. I think of the past ten months; the journey has been long.
This colorful house was my safe-haven in the fall. I didn't realize then how much morning tea and a patchwork quilt could hold me together. They warmed my body to a semi-cohesive being, stitched from these simple tokens of Christian love after being picked from a sidewalk of grief where I was a fluff of dandelion popping through the cracks--pieces floating away with each tug of breeze.
Bea loves to pick flowers. She walks along finding the brightest hues and textured arrangements. She picks them short, just tall enough to fit in Kim's tiny vases that scatter the kitchen table and counters. She pulls a dandelion from the side of the road and adds it to her bouqet as we walk towards home.
Summer used to mean this for me: playing outside all day, running around pretending like we were adults because it was summer, so we answered to no one. We--Katlin, Derek, and me. Those days are long past, though, and my recent recollections of summer are working at the daycare, counting heads for ten hours a day and being too exhausted to venture beyond the kitchen after returning home. At least, that's what I'm sure it would be like if I were staying at my parents' house. My mind blocks the last four summers from resurfacing. If I were at home, I would be going to Derek's every night after work.
I keep having these moments where it hits me that he won't be there when I go back. These moments are painful in a way that I cannot grasp because the concept still baffles my mind. Last weekend, I sat over his grave in awe. Had he really been placed into this rectangle of ground? The grass is a solid green across the plot where a short, yellowed patch had sprouted in the fall. It all blends in now, smeared together by the season's first cutting, and I cannot be sure if he is really there because my memory of those months has blended too.
The town of Waynesburg is the only place here in Southwestern PA where I have no connective thoughts of, "I should be doing this with Derek right now." He's never been here, and phone calls were never enough anyways. When I opened my eyes to the sunlight, a rush of urgency flooded me; if I were home, I would be with him. No, I will not allow myself to go there. I am here; I am safe; I am living a life painted in purples and reds and three daughters, like sisters, when added together equal the age of my own, as if I am living with her at all stages of childhood again. Where is my brother?
This house greets me like an old home aftering my brief stay months ago. I feel part of this family, and I wonder what happened to this sensation in my own home where I spent my childhood. The kind faces that I'm spending my days with encourage me towards hope--in faith, in future, in family. The dandelions that Bea picked open petals of orange and yellow; home is sitting around a small table in mismatched chairs to sip the morning's prayer to the day.
I don't know what brought Derek to mind as I let the rays seap through me, but now as I listen, I hear him all around me. The birds chime to each other in a symphony of summers spent listening to Uncle Eltie talk crazy to them as he sat by the mailbox when Derek and I brisked by. The breeze trickles down the hanging pipes that sing to the touch of metal-on-metal--the only voice that answered during the days after he died. The dogs bark down the street the way Casey would when she saw me bounding down the hill as she peered through the open window. I even see him in the sequins of birch leaves, flicking like pages through a book. He is the breeze carrying the birds' tune, the dogs' bark, the leaves, the curtains by the window. His new voice speaks without words, only tiny clangs of soft-loud-echo.
"This feels like summer when I was a kid," I told Kim as we walked inside for supper. Bea and I prepared spaghetti, and I saw the green-stained balls of her feet as she tiptoed on a chair to stir the noodles. I peered under my own toes to find that they matched. She turned to me and smiled, probably proud of her noodle cooking, while I smiled back, wanting to hold on to green feet and children's laughter and bouqets of dandelions on the kitchen table.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
There is much to learn from birds.
As usual, I fall out of writing in no time at all. I've been saying for days (has it really been weeks?) now that I would blog. I had one running through my mind for a while, just brainstorming through the chaos that I consider everyday and the wild decisions that I fall into because I can never make up my mind.
Regardless, here I am: a recent college graduate with no sense of direction for the rest of my life. Do we all start out this way? I often feel like I am the only one. Okay, so I'm not totally a graduate; I still have this science course to finish up, then a camping literature course for a week before it can be official. I mean, I've graduated, but I am yet diploma-less. Luckily, I have the opportunity to stay with a really amazing family while I am here. Today, we did some garden work, and it turned out to be just the inspiration that I needed for a blog.
After the morning in the garden, we spent most of the afternoon indoors. Martin, however, kept working away in the shed while Kim and I wrote in the sunroom.
"A bird's nest!" We heard through the open window, as the breeze washed sunlight into the room. The sharp contrast against the shed, as Kim was quick to point out, made the bright colors of the shed even warmer, a strange sight against the ominous storm clouds behind it.
The bird's nest was not the typical bowler cap shape. Martin described it as a shoe: it had a long "foot" extended from the tall, thin cove that served as the birds' home. I found it funny how birds can be so content with twigs and mud as their walls. It reminded me of my recent difficulties in trying to pack all of my belongings for my upcoming move.
As I close yet another box, I wonder how on earth I am actually going to transport all of this stuff aross the country. My big move to Arizona is coming up in... 75 days(!) according to my countdown. I really struggle with the number of boxes that my life requires. Why do I hold such value in these items, many of which lie on shelves or in drawers where I can't even see them most of the time? Sometimes it feels as though holding onto these little pieces of my childhood will make me remain a child, though I know that's probably the farthest from the truth. I always imagine coming home to see my room just as I left it--brilliantly chartreuse walls and my old grafting desk under the window.
Sitting on a short, brick wall, I watch a bird swoop and sway across my view. I think, graceful, like walking. But the bird dives at a tree, scraping at the branch with its claws and poompf! it lands, not so gracefully, but sturdy holding onto the height with careful balance. I jump from the wall; the ground only a few feet below my dangling ankles, and I think of myself as landing from flight, but when I touch the ground, I fall forward, scraping my palms on the sidewalk. Gravity's still working. Birds don't even have hands. What is their secret?
For a while now, I've had this great yearning for independence. I am always wishing that I could just go be on my own. I'm almost there, but I'm stuck at that in-between stage where i need to fluff my feathers a bit before I can take flight. As the boxes pile up, I wonder if this is how the bird nests are made: twigs and clods of dirt carefully chosen to build a sense of home, just as my books and paintings will embellish my walls. I imagine the birds moving south, picking their favorite sticks and carrying them via beak to a new home.
Why do we over-complicate things? Surely I too could select a few favorites to take and leave the rest of my past in PA. I just can't grasp this connection to these objects that seem to define my memory. Without them, I often think, I would lose all that I have lived.
When I first saw the bird land on the branch, I commended it's perfect balance. I thought, that must be the secret! and decided to follow suit, but then I realized that in my inherent clumsiness, I will never be balanced beyond tree pose, and only then when firmly planted on a mat. When trying balance postures in yoga, one of the greatest challenges is not the act of balance itself but the trusting of your own body to not let you break. Trust.
I wish that I could say for certain that when the time comes, I will fly South with just a few sticks, but my commitment to a life of simplicity is a work-in-progress. So many memories are tied down through possession, and it's a lesson that cannot be un-learned without discipline. What I do know, though, is that when I go, I will kick off, spread my wings, and settle into a new home. I will carry with me each moment of my life, even if I can't remember them all. Most importantly, I will trust. I will trust that I can land on my feet (not my hands!), and I will trust that God will still keep me in-check with gravity.
Regardless, here I am: a recent college graduate with no sense of direction for the rest of my life. Do we all start out this way? I often feel like I am the only one. Okay, so I'm not totally a graduate; I still have this science course to finish up, then a camping literature course for a week before it can be official. I mean, I've graduated, but I am yet diploma-less. Luckily, I have the opportunity to stay with a really amazing family while I am here. Today, we did some garden work, and it turned out to be just the inspiration that I needed for a blog.
After the morning in the garden, we spent most of the afternoon indoors. Martin, however, kept working away in the shed while Kim and I wrote in the sunroom.
"A bird's nest!" We heard through the open window, as the breeze washed sunlight into the room. The sharp contrast against the shed, as Kim was quick to point out, made the bright colors of the shed even warmer, a strange sight against the ominous storm clouds behind it.
The bird's nest was not the typical bowler cap shape. Martin described it as a shoe: it had a long "foot" extended from the tall, thin cove that served as the birds' home. I found it funny how birds can be so content with twigs and mud as their walls. It reminded me of my recent difficulties in trying to pack all of my belongings for my upcoming move.
As I close yet another box, I wonder how on earth I am actually going to transport all of this stuff aross the country. My big move to Arizona is coming up in... 75 days(!) according to my countdown. I really struggle with the number of boxes that my life requires. Why do I hold such value in these items, many of which lie on shelves or in drawers where I can't even see them most of the time? Sometimes it feels as though holding onto these little pieces of my childhood will make me remain a child, though I know that's probably the farthest from the truth. I always imagine coming home to see my room just as I left it--brilliantly chartreuse walls and my old grafting desk under the window.
Sitting on a short, brick wall, I watch a bird swoop and sway across my view. I think, graceful, like walking. But the bird dives at a tree, scraping at the branch with its claws and poompf! it lands, not so gracefully, but sturdy holding onto the height with careful balance. I jump from the wall; the ground only a few feet below my dangling ankles, and I think of myself as landing from flight, but when I touch the ground, I fall forward, scraping my palms on the sidewalk. Gravity's still working. Birds don't even have hands. What is their secret?
For a while now, I've had this great yearning for independence. I am always wishing that I could just go be on my own. I'm almost there, but I'm stuck at that in-between stage where i need to fluff my feathers a bit before I can take flight. As the boxes pile up, I wonder if this is how the bird nests are made: twigs and clods of dirt carefully chosen to build a sense of home, just as my books and paintings will embellish my walls. I imagine the birds moving south, picking their favorite sticks and carrying them via beak to a new home.
Why do we over-complicate things? Surely I too could select a few favorites to take and leave the rest of my past in PA. I just can't grasp this connection to these objects that seem to define my memory. Without them, I often think, I would lose all that I have lived.
When I first saw the bird land on the branch, I commended it's perfect balance. I thought, that must be the secret! and decided to follow suit, but then I realized that in my inherent clumsiness, I will never be balanced beyond tree pose, and only then when firmly planted on a mat. When trying balance postures in yoga, one of the greatest challenges is not the act of balance itself but the trusting of your own body to not let you break. Trust.
I wish that I could say for certain that when the time comes, I will fly South with just a few sticks, but my commitment to a life of simplicity is a work-in-progress. So many memories are tied down through possession, and it's a lesson that cannot be un-learned without discipline. What I do know, though, is that when I go, I will kick off, spread my wings, and settle into a new home. I will carry with me each moment of my life, even if I can't remember them all. Most importantly, I will trust. I will trust that I can land on my feet (not my hands!), and I will trust that God will still keep me in-check with gravity.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Who will zip my dress?
Things I wish I could do:
It's tight--it's gotta be tight for it be look so hot. Seriously. I never feel this way, but this dress is so simple, and black is always flattering. When I think about my future in some job where I get to look nice often and can wear my sexy black dress, I imagine myself walking into the confident Arizona sun--a good feeling, where warmth eminates deeper into the dark fabric. This great scene in my mind really has setbacks, though. I love the thought of it, but so often I find myself thinking of the event and not the path that it takes to get there. I've got to get into the dress somehow.
I've thought a lot about where I want to live when I go West in a few months. I've narrowed it down to the Phoenix area, a simple choice, and actually, not narrow at all. My cousin offered I stay with him and his wife until I get a bit more settled. While I'm grateful for the offer, it doesn't feel right; I need to be on my own. However, the more that I think about how great it would be to go out there and just be on my own, the more I realize that there are things that I just won't be able to do. Solitude is something that I have not known for a long time.
Naturally, I want nothing more than to go out there and be surrounded by my friends and family. WAKE UP, Natalie. They have their own lives. I just don't know how to wrap my head around the reality of this: I have dreamt of moving there for so long that the prospect of it actually happening seems consistently out-of-reach. How do I figure out what I want to do with my life if I am just tagging into another circle that I already have semi-established out there? I've never actually fully put myself out there on my own (excluding my Italy trip, but sadly, those connections have not been very consistent since), and that scares me more than anything.
I've decided that I need to be flexible. If I like whatever I land into in Arizona, then great! If not, that's fine too. Maybe some time away from academia will give me a chance to figure out my next line of education. I really don't know. But I am afraid of being alone. I am afraid of settling into a new city only to leave again. I am afraid of having many homes.
I like to think of myself as an independent young woman. I am very wrong. I accept any time that my parents offer to buy groceries, and I still take my laundry home because I hate spending all of my quarters at the laundromat. I am no where near "grown-up," but I tell myself that I am so that I think that I will actually survive in some civilized fashion when living alone.
I realized recently that society wants women to be independent. My sexy black dress is a hand-me-down from many years ago that I only recently grew into (which is both fortunate and unfortunate in several ways). The zipper is on the back of the dress. When I was younger, say my early teens, I would twist my flexible shoulders down to zip the bottom, then meet the zipper half-way up the path by thrusting my elbows above my head and grasping the tip of the metal clasp with all that my fingers could reach. I would then pull the zipper the final stretch and smile at my independence--my own sort of rebellion; I didn't need my mother to help me anymore.
Today, I wore a new dress, a more professional yet (hopefully) fashionable dress. The zipper is on the side. After pulling the dress over my head and sticking my lanky arms through the sleeve-holes, I reached across my left side and zipped straight up from my hip. I felt accomplished to have gotten dressed in such a smooth, sleek motion.
I don't understand yet what it truly means to live alone. Being in college does anything but prepare you for independent living--is there such thing as silence? can I really have both a kitchen and a bathroom? can I really eat whatever food is in the fridge? CAN I REALLY NOT HAVE TO CLIMB A LADDER TO GET INTO MY BED? (After two years, I never want to see a bunkbed again in my life. Never.)
"Katlin, will you zip me please?" As much as we argue, I still rely on Katlin for many little things. She steps into the bathroom and looks at the dress.
"Uhh, can you hold this?" She pulls the dress together at the top, expecting me to keep it like that.
"I can't reach that." I'm definitely not as flexible as I was when I was twelve. She scoffs.
"This would be much easier if you..." She grunts the zipper to a stop--that tight spot at the peak of my curves that weren't there those years ago when I could zip straight up my spine that stood parallel to my body's silhouette.
She sighs and lifts her knee to the small of my back, pushing to hold the dress down while using her left hand to hold the two sides together and her right to pull the zipper up. If only she had three hands.
I would have helped, but I was too focused on sucking in every part of my midsection before the fat comments started.
"Phew!" The dress is successfully zipped. It's tight in the middle, just enough to accentuate all the right places. The shoulders are loose, almost enough for the straps to slide to the edge of my shoulders.
So as I sat in that balcony, thinking about how great the dress felt, I sunk a little. Would I ever wear it in that desert sun? I imagined myself getting in my car, half-dressed, and driving to my cousin's house, just to ask to be zipped up. Then I scratched that out and imagined living with some anonymous man who would sensually zip along my curves, appreciating the zz of each tooth as the fabric pulled tighter. Then I scratched that out (clearly, romance can not be my to-do list anytime soon, though the thoughts are nice!) and realized what it would actually be--me standing frutrated in front of a mirror, trying to see enough to reach and then getting frustrated, probably crying, and changing into something with buttons.
- blog more regularly
- commit to doing homework
- be more flexible
- sleep
It's tight--it's gotta be tight for it be look so hot. Seriously. I never feel this way, but this dress is so simple, and black is always flattering. When I think about my future in some job where I get to look nice often and can wear my sexy black dress, I imagine myself walking into the confident Arizona sun--a good feeling, where warmth eminates deeper into the dark fabric. This great scene in my mind really has setbacks, though. I love the thought of it, but so often I find myself thinking of the event and not the path that it takes to get there. I've got to get into the dress somehow.
I've thought a lot about where I want to live when I go West in a few months. I've narrowed it down to the Phoenix area, a simple choice, and actually, not narrow at all. My cousin offered I stay with him and his wife until I get a bit more settled. While I'm grateful for the offer, it doesn't feel right; I need to be on my own. However, the more that I think about how great it would be to go out there and just be on my own, the more I realize that there are things that I just won't be able to do. Solitude is something that I have not known for a long time.
Naturally, I want nothing more than to go out there and be surrounded by my friends and family. WAKE UP, Natalie. They have their own lives. I just don't know how to wrap my head around the reality of this: I have dreamt of moving there for so long that the prospect of it actually happening seems consistently out-of-reach. How do I figure out what I want to do with my life if I am just tagging into another circle that I already have semi-established out there? I've never actually fully put myself out there on my own (excluding my Italy trip, but sadly, those connections have not been very consistent since), and that scares me more than anything.
I've decided that I need to be flexible. If I like whatever I land into in Arizona, then great! If not, that's fine too. Maybe some time away from academia will give me a chance to figure out my next line of education. I really don't know. But I am afraid of being alone. I am afraid of settling into a new city only to leave again. I am afraid of having many homes.
I like to think of myself as an independent young woman. I am very wrong. I accept any time that my parents offer to buy groceries, and I still take my laundry home because I hate spending all of my quarters at the laundromat. I am no where near "grown-up," but I tell myself that I am so that I think that I will actually survive in some civilized fashion when living alone.
I realized recently that society wants women to be independent. My sexy black dress is a hand-me-down from many years ago that I only recently grew into (which is both fortunate and unfortunate in several ways). The zipper is on the back of the dress. When I was younger, say my early teens, I would twist my flexible shoulders down to zip the bottom, then meet the zipper half-way up the path by thrusting my elbows above my head and grasping the tip of the metal clasp with all that my fingers could reach. I would then pull the zipper the final stretch and smile at my independence--my own sort of rebellion; I didn't need my mother to help me anymore.
Today, I wore a new dress, a more professional yet (hopefully) fashionable dress. The zipper is on the side. After pulling the dress over my head and sticking my lanky arms through the sleeve-holes, I reached across my left side and zipped straight up from my hip. I felt accomplished to have gotten dressed in such a smooth, sleek motion.
I don't understand yet what it truly means to live alone. Being in college does anything but prepare you for independent living--is there such thing as silence? can I really have both a kitchen and a bathroom? can I really eat whatever food is in the fridge? CAN I REALLY NOT HAVE TO CLIMB A LADDER TO GET INTO MY BED? (After two years, I never want to see a bunkbed again in my life. Never.)
"Katlin, will you zip me please?" As much as we argue, I still rely on Katlin for many little things. She steps into the bathroom and looks at the dress.
"Uhh, can you hold this?" She pulls the dress together at the top, expecting me to keep it like that.
"I can't reach that." I'm definitely not as flexible as I was when I was twelve. She scoffs.
"This would be much easier if you..." She grunts the zipper to a stop--that tight spot at the peak of my curves that weren't there those years ago when I could zip straight up my spine that stood parallel to my body's silhouette.
She sighs and lifts her knee to the small of my back, pushing to hold the dress down while using her left hand to hold the two sides together and her right to pull the zipper up. If only she had three hands.
I would have helped, but I was too focused on sucking in every part of my midsection before the fat comments started.
"Phew!" The dress is successfully zipped. It's tight in the middle, just enough to accentuate all the right places. The shoulders are loose, almost enough for the straps to slide to the edge of my shoulders.
So as I sat in that balcony, thinking about how great the dress felt, I sunk a little. Would I ever wear it in that desert sun? I imagined myself getting in my car, half-dressed, and driving to my cousin's house, just to ask to be zipped up. Then I scratched that out and imagined living with some anonymous man who would sensually zip along my curves, appreciating the zz of each tooth as the fabric pulled tighter. Then I scratched that out (clearly, romance can not be my to-do list anytime soon, though the thoughts are nice!) and realized what it would actually be--me standing frutrated in front of a mirror, trying to see enough to reach and then getting frustrated, probably crying, and changing into something with buttons.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Never Apologize
So this seems as good a time as any to start actually blogging--or at least attempting to. In Creative Nonfiction class, we read excerpts from Julie Powell's Julie/Julia and watched a snippet of an episode of The French Chef. The excerpts gave me comfort in the fact that a young woman could use some side project to hold her life together, even if that means making it fall apart more first. Further, Julia Child's hilarious, yet seemingly stoic, personality inspired me to step into the kitchen. (No, no, this isn't another food blog! Maybe...)
Every time I think I have things under control, I realize how much I don't. I crack under pressure, but I can't let myself fall apart. I am the yolk dropping into a bowl with a plop! with just enough buoyancy to keep from breaking. According to Julia, though, I needn't worry about my breaking yolks--"never apologize." They're omelettes anyways; I mean, that's the solution, right? Break and blend and whisk the yolks until they are no more discernible from each other or their whites. God, I am so alone.
I am twenty years old. Twenty. Two decades old. I can't even drink legally yet, but I keep getting these moments of panic where I start to think my life is over. I've lived it all, though I've barely lived at all, and I can do nothing but push forward through some set of routine to keep my body going.
I woke up one morning and wondered what I should eat for breakfast. I need to use up my eggs before they expire. Oh God, I am twenty years old, and my eggs are on the verge of expiring! I thought that I wanted to do my own thing for a while, but too often I felt this urging to fall in love and finish my life. (Why does love seem like such an ending?) During the past year, I spent a lot of time pretending that we were immortal. My cousin Derek was hospitalized most of 2011 due to complications that began with pneumonia, complicated by his DMD. He had always been the other half of my every "we." I could feel this ticking--like the elephant in the room, only this elephant was snoring while wearing a neon yellow tutu. I'm really good at pushing out whatever I don't want in my life. I turned the snoring elephant into a meditating Buddha in my mind, and I felt like I could hold onto that peace all the way to nirvana.
Then Derek died. He died, and the prospect of death became real--I could, and would, die too. It was that moment when the ticking became my own. And here I am--trying to pick up the eggshells from the floor (never apologize), while I pretend like my yolks aren't longing to be mixed and blended and, oh God, worse than expiring, cooked. Cooked: entirely brewed into one being with ______. No one. With no one.
"What are your first thoughts after watching Julia Child?"
"There is no way that those eggs are cooked!" I sassed at my prof's question. I have a tendency of saying ridiculous things to avoid some of the serious class discussions.
Well, for what it's worth (if anything), I was right. Well, maybe. I've determined that there is a list of factors that I could have messed up:
- The pan wasn't hot enough. On my first try, the eggs weren't sizzly bubbling as Julia showed. Maybe my skillet was too cheap? Though, Julia sure stressed that there was no need to have anything more than a cheap skillet!
- Julia did pour a trickle of water into her eggs, but I didn't; she said it was an option!
- I can't have been shaking the skillet correctly. It splashed and jiggled, and each crest left me flinching back, as if I had a sparkler shooting sporadically in my hand. Nevertheless, the top of the egg remained gooey.
- Julia said two-three eggs. I used two. Were they too many for the size of my pan?
- Maybe it's just the fact that I can't get the terminology right: pan? skillet? I don't know. Something. Surely Julie Powell didn't pronounce Julia's recipes correctly on day one.
Maybe I don't need to worry so much about my eggs cooking up. I mean, we get multiple tries, right? We're all broken and risk everything to mix with a potential pair, but sometimes, we flop. Sometimes at the end of the date or the years of dating, all that we can do is lay flat on the plate and give up. If relationships worked out every time, life would be boring because we'd all be paired up with whichever little eggy we happened to be seated next to in our squeaky styrofoam beds. (No, how about cardboard? Let's be eco-friendly here; I try.) Hmm... "Life, friends, is boring!" ...so Berryman seems to think.
I'm glad for second-chances. I'm glad for falling apart and feeling like I'm nearly expired and hoping that someday I'll be cooked up tight in that French burrito of an omelette. Sorry, Julia, but it's no 30-second venture, and it takes more than two trys. Even if I'm not that hungry and I end up only cooking one egg, all swirled up within myself, as long as I've made it, knowing when to break and when to bounce lightly in the bubbling heat of butter, I can admit that Julia wasn't too far off, even if breakfast isn't quite what I thought it would be.
Never apologize.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Let's dive right into this.
Sometimes I feel the need to rant, but my writing hand cannot keep up with my racing mind, so I have found that it is easier to just type out whatever I am trying to get across in my maze of thoughts so that maybe, just maybe, I can work out whatever it is that is weighing on me.
Therefore, this is a space to get it all out: to contemplate who I am, what I want, where my life is going, how it fits with others', how the world keeps spinning, etc. Basically, this will be of the journal variety, but more of thoughts than calendar events.
We'll see how this goes...
Therefore, this is a space to get it all out: to contemplate who I am, what I want, where my life is going, how it fits with others', how the world keeps spinning, etc. Basically, this will be of the journal variety, but more of thoughts than calendar events.
We'll see how this goes...
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