East of Eden [living]: I'm a sad, sad girl

East of Eden [living]: I'm a sad, sad girl

New blog

I have a new blog. The decision was forged because I wanted to start over. I am in the process of gathering my thoughts, though. The new blog may become a photography blog, with this blog serving as my "writing" blog. Stay tuned and I'll let you know! For now, here's the new address: koreyo.blogspot.com.:)

Regaining a sense of self

There are things about me that I feel define me as a person. If you ask anyone who knows me, they would agree. If you looked around my house and in my closet, you'd also realize that there are things about me that define me. One of these things is the constant presence of books. I always have stacks of them on every open surface, waiting for me to continue reading them. For a while, I felt as though I had lost that side of me. I hadn't been reading very much, and I certainly hadn't been writing. I didn't think there was coincidence involved there. Lately, my favourite (yes, I am allowed to use UK spelling) hobby has returned, with a vengeance. Once again, my constant companion is a book. I take one with me each morning, in case my day involves any sort of unfilled time in which a book could be read, I take a book with me when I blow dry my hair, read during any solitary meals, keep it at my bedside in case I have a free half hour in the morning... you get the picture.

This Sunday, I woke up on my own schedule. I grabbed my latest obsession from the nightstand and read in bed. My ABSOLUTE favorite thing to do. I was on cloud nine. Nothing could spoil the perfection of that day. Not even when I switched to clip-in pedals on my bike and fell over in an empty parking lot within 30 seconds of trying them. 30 seconds. Not even when, in the midst of the family dinner I prepared at my house complete with home made onion rings, I realized I didn't have any ketchup, and my brother and dad threatened to leave. Oh no, pure bliss.

I feel as though I have reunited with an old friend. That beautiful, sunshiny feeling of relating to someone who you love so much. That person, who I had missed dearly, was me. Me - books = not me. I know that I just said I loved myself, and I'm not going to try and explain that one away. We should all love ourselves. I love the bookishness about me, because it's just who I am. And that is a beautiful thing.

What I miss the most

Sometimes being away lets you know how what you miss from home. My latest adventure in NYC was no different. It was an overwhelming mix of emotion and over stimulation of the senses. I'm sure I don't have to describe NYC. Suffice to say it's loud, busy, tall, colorful, smelly, fun, beautiful, scary, and inspirational, all rolled into one. I can tell you that my trip there was incredibly cold. I think it was the coldest weekend in the history of New York, ever. My face stung, my teeth hurt, my fingers burned, my hips ached. It was also emotional for me, and my exploration of the newest place my relationship with my best friend has taken us.

I haven't come up with a conclusion for this yet. Unlike the stories I write, there isn't going to be an ending on this post, there isn't an apparent conclusion at all. I have to think it through. I can react to the five days I spent there in different ways. I am grateful for the experiences I had, no matter what, whether they were positive or negative. I feel a shift occurring in my life. It's not that I fell in love with NYC and want to move there, discovering that I am unhappy in suburbia. I am not pondering a career or marriage change. I have just sensed an almost imperceptible shift in my life, thanks to this trip, and it's something I need to explore.

Ball and chain, on a pedestal

Two expressions, two ways of describing the male-female relationship, specifically in marriage. I don't like either.

The ball and chain is a horrible expression. Typically the wife is referred to as "the old ball and chain" as though she drags behind the husband, holding him back from where he wants to be. Ladies, we can also feel the pull of the ball and chain, so I would not restrict this one to the wives. I have thought of my relationship as a hindrance before. I've wondered if being married would hold me back from some greater purpose. But the truth is, being married, and being in a relationship in general, has actually lifted me in ways I could not have imagined.

I see my purpose and my goals through him, and our life together. It's an entirely new way of thinking. I see us as this team. We are not "one," but rather two individuals working toward a common purpose. Our goals and fears are aligned, and our separate talents and strengths help us to achieve our goals and defeat our fears.

Before I get carried away describing a marriage as teamwork, I must tell you that this "alignment of minds" has not, in any way, helped us play as a team in Pictionary. We still prefer to be on opposite teams. :)

Next we have the pedestal. It's a place many women would like to visit, and most of them who want to visit really love it, and want to move there. I am not one of those women. To quote Counting Crows, "you put your girl up on a pedestal, and wait for her to fall."

The pedestal idea, like the ball and chain, is another unequal and negative correlation. No one wants to be the ball and chain, and no one wants to be "off the pedestal." To be adored: it sounds fun and flattering, but it gets lonely up on that pedestal. You will crave an equal. Also, thanks to the Counting Crows, there is the reality of being held to too high a standard and disappointing the other. What you want is someone that sees and appreciates you for who you are. He or she does not feel held back by your presence or existence, nor does he or she feel worshipped and alone, held to impossibly high standards and about to fall from your good graces.

In reading The Shack, God discusses the relationships, modeled after His own with Jesus and Sarayu (the Holy Ghost), that He wants humans to emulate. It echoes none of the sexism that I find in the creation story: "Eve was created from man, she was second, she was created to serve man, she was created to keep him company..." Rather, God stresses the importance of equality and a complete lack of hierarchy. There is no hierarchy in a true relationship, only equal love and admiration.

You may be told at some point that it is always better when one person loves the other more. I have thought about this often. I can see it in other relationships, and I can see that it appears to work, but I promise you that it does not. It is cold in the shadow of another, and lonely on that pedestal. One person should not be "better" than the other. You should both have attractive strengths that balance and even out the relationship. Also, neither of you should be "boss." I know most feminists would agree with me, but this applies to men as well. You should never be subservient with your partner; that is not a "real" relationship.

Something to think about...

Marriage: The Series

I have decided to write a series on marriage, as I navigate the waters...

I am going to try and write at least one entry a week on a new, but related, topic. Hopefully these posts will be helpful to anyone who needs advice, or wonders, or is just interested. I also hope to make some sense out of this journey, and to complile my thoughts in a way that will help me measure our progress.

Marriage is

Marriage has been surprising.

It has been surprisingly wonderful and surprisingly difficult. Everyone tells you that it is hard, and it is. It is one of the hardest things I've ever done. I truly believe that each day that passes is a great accomplishment. It is a choice that you make--first in front of your fiance', and then your family and friends, and then, each and every day, without fanfare, with yourself. There are so many wonderful things about sharing a life with another, but there are a million, unpredictable little things that can go wrong. I wonder how marriages survive infidelity or the death of children, when at times it seems mine will not survive the "leftover wars" or a discussion of who will clean the kitchen.

Of course I'm being dramatic; we are not, and have not deliberated whether or not our marriage will last, because that is not an option for us. But truly, each day is a choice. Not just choosing to be married, but choosing to be a good spouse, and choosing to accept the other for who he or she is, truly. Within each day are countless choices to be made over the little things, from deciding whether or not to be mad over the annoying things that person does, deciding whether or not to be positive and supportive, choosing whether or not to do the hard thing and talk about what is wrong.

I promise you, dear readers, that talking is the best option. In a marriage, the one thing you can count on is that the other loves you. Your spouse chose you, and continues to choose you, and in talking through your problems you will probably be reminded of why you both bothered to choose each other anyway. Because you're in love, and when you are, there is no other choice.

Legacy

I have been asked to write many things in my life.
Recommendation letters.
Resumes.
Poetry.
Research papers.
Project descriptions.
Complaint letters.
Personal statements.

But never a eulogy.
I'm not sure I'd even really heard a proper eulogy. When my grandmother asked me to write a eulogy for my grandfather, the brave facade I had kept up in her presence came tumbling down. Little did I know that in 24 hours I would be at his bedside, and he would be soon to leave this world. When she asked me, I was taken aback. I was sidelined. I certainly hadn't thought his cancer had gotten that bad. I thought I had time. I had bought him a Christmas present.

I was silent.
She asked, "Korey, will you? Will you write something? You don't have to."

"I will" I replied, "but I don't want to have to" I said, and I broke down. I sobbed. And the next day I drove to their house nervously, wondering what I would see when I got there. 48 hours later, in my living room with its bare Christmas tree (there was no joy in this house) and my dog, and my sweats, I sat down with my laptop and started to write. I made an outline. Yes, an outline. Because I am, and will always be, an English major. I wrote. The words came easily, and I cried as I went along, happy to cry, because I was alone, and because I thought that writing out these feelings and crying over them might cauterize them, and allow me to mourn each thought and then let it go.

When the day came, I had read this eulogy many times, until it no longer made me cry and I could speak it clearly. I dressed in black, and drove to the cemetery, and I smiled. The day was turning out beautifully and I was happy for that. When the reverend asked me up to the podium, I lost it. The little girl inside me screamed, "I don't want to! I don't want this to be happening!" but the grown up cleared her throat and told herself that no amount of screaming would help, he was gone, and I was eulogizing him.

What an honor. What a privilege. What a responsibility.

I hope I did him justice.

Rest in peace, Len.

What Sarah Said

I have yet to let this sink in and to compose my thoughts, but I had to write.

Tonight I said goodbye to my grandfather. We cut his Livestrong t-shirt in half down the back and placed it on his thin arms and over his bony shoulders in the hospital bed in his living room. As the scissors sliced through the bright yellow fabric, I knew there was no going back.

My grandmother wanted him in blue, to match his eyes. But she planned on putting him in the Livestrong shirt when it came to be the end, and so it did, and so we did.

I held his hand, and I prayed over him, through my tears, sobbing all the while. The only words that escaped my lips were prayers of thanks.

"Thank you, Lord, for giving us Len. Thank you for letting us be a part of his life. Thank you for sending him to my grandmother, and for the wonderful times they had. Thank you for sending me this man who loved me, even though he didn't have to. Thank you for letting his family share him with us so openly. Thank you for allowing us the honor of being at his bedside at this precious moment."

I cried for hours, until my ears were bleary and my throat raw. I cried noisily over a little blue book called "And then you were gone" telling us the signs of impending death, and ending with a poem, of death, and its being like a ship, which is sailing away from you, and then it is gone. But the ship is still somewhere, just not with you, and someone waits for it with open arms on the other end. 

My head aches, and my heart hurts, and I am getting into the bath that awaits me. It is after midnight, and the day of my grandfather's death is done. But the pain is only beginning.

I drove home listening to "What Sarah Said" by Death Cab, for these words, which had been ringing in my ears all day: "Love is watching someone die."

Something beautiful

I just wanted to share something that I thought was beautiful.

Last night, my grandma and my mom left the hospital to change and get some dinner after putting my grandpa to bed. They washed his face and hands and helped him into his pajamas, and then they watched as he fell asleep and they left. My grandma got a phone call shortly afterward from my grandpa's daughter, asking if his ex-wife could visit. Len, my grandfather, was married to his ex-wife for twenty years.
"Of course" my grandmother answered, and after hanging up the phone she turned to my mother.
"You know, she probably thinks I got the short end of the stick, but I feel bad for her."
"Why?" my mother asked, as would I, thinking of the twenty years his previous wife had, and the meager nine my grandmother has had with him, with four and a half of those spent caring for him as a cancer patient.
"Because I got to spend his final years with him."


She got his final, precious moments, and as sad as it will be to say goodbye, she will have the honor of having held his hand.

Am I broken?

Are we ever whole?

We, as a mass, us humans, with our weak bodies, but bodies capable of healing, do we have minds that heal? Can we ever heal our souls? Are we, once broken, never whole?

I am finding it difficult to sit here today, pretending as though the project I work on is the center of my existence. It is not. I have so much more I could be doing, so much more that matters. Sometimes you are so clearly called away, the sound is deafening. And yet, my responsibility to this place keeps me in my chair. I must work. I must get a check. I must go on. But today, oh just today, why must I be here? My family needs me.

Is it coincidental that as our country falls to pieces, so do all of our lives? Or is it this time in my life? Should I expect that, due to my age, it is inevitable that the people I love will start to grow frail, and that there will come a day when I am told their journey has come to and end? Should I have seen it coming? Probably. But did I? No. I hear the words "hospice" and "little time" and I think "when did we get to this point?" Where was I? Did I miss it? Was I not paying attention?

Now I sit here, trying to focus on the In Design formatting on my desktop and the stacks of phone calls I need to make, and the projects that must be found and written about, and yet I can barely see the monitor through my tears.

And I just don't care. There are some things more important, more sacred than this. I know that.

East of Eden

It has been suggested that I blog about the reason for my title, and so I shall.

East of Eden is, first and foremost-easily-recognizably my favorite novel. If you would like my reasons why, you'll have to ask (set aside some time).

I also chose it for a far more complicated reason. In my worldview, which is specific to my life experiences and point of view, East of Eden symbolizes my position in life right now.

My point of view was forever changed in one semester during which I took an entire class on Paradise Lost by John Milton, in its original language. I deciphered it, with increasing speed as I went along (the initial pages were incredibly laborious, and I had been known to spend over an hour on one page). The masterpiece is the story of the fall of man, but it is told in a way that is incredibly groundbreaking to have been written when it was (1667 to be exact). John Milton wrote the story beginning with the angels being cast from Heaven and falling into Hell, and his perspective, as all of ours are, was deeply tinged with his own life experiences. Having recently been jailed for his association with Oliver Cromwell, Milton wrote from the confines of a prison, while his own prison walls began to close in on him, as he was becoming blind. In addition, his disappointment at having backed a regime or movement that was overthrown and dismissed colors the travails of the outcast angels fighting to make a place for themselves in a Heaven that they thought was unfair. Satan is the hero in this epic poem, and Milton associates with him more than he does any other character. Milton's view is that free will and the will of God at times contradict one another, and conflicts arise.

Reading this poem is no less than a profoundly impacting life experience. I cried, I laughed, I felt lost and I experienced triumph unlike any I'd every known. It has colored my experiences ever since, and enhanced my reading of East of Eden as well.

The experience of living East of Eden, in my mind, is similar to the experience that Milton's Satan had living right outside of the Garden of Eden, looking in on Paradise and having not a single hope of experiencing happiness there. While that may some sad, Eden was not to last, and the happiness experienced there only soiled Adam and Eve's perception of "real" life, a life in which they now have free will, but heartache and pain. Thus, the dichotomy between free will and paradise. You cannot have both. You must choose.

I could argue that Satan was better off outside of the garden because, aside from his longing for something he would never possess (at least not in happiness) he could see beauty, and he knew it. In our post-lapsarian world, we will never experience Paradise on Earth, but understanding what it could be and knowing that it exists allows us to always strive for more, better, fulfillment and experiences. It is hope, while at the same time, being realistic to the knowledge that what you hope for will never be fully attained. This may seem to be a contradiction, but if I can explain it correctly, it is precisely the intersect of optimism and pragmatism.

What you really strive for is not perfection, or perfect beauty, or perfect happiness, because there is no such thing. You strive to be closer, and to live in the glow of such things.

I think that is we could all be content to live in the glow of perfection, we may breathe easier. On the other hand, I describe myself as on the brink of perfection because there are certainly times when I am the outsider, staring in longingly and wanting paradise so badly. I need to learn to be content in the glow, to be content at my place in the world, East of Eden.

Yes,

I calmed down.

Thanks for asking.

;)

Come on, America

My forebears fought. They fought tirelessly for me to have certain rights which, by the way, were labeled as "unalienable" in our own U.S. Constitution. And yet here we are, undermining them with decisions that move us not in a direction of positive change and supporting the document that this (once great?) nation was founded on, but in the opposite direction, toward all that we despise. Have we gone this far to REMOVE rights from taxpayers? Have we come so far to encourage MORE GOVERNMENT INVOLVEMENT in our everyday lives? Do we really want to INCREASE NATIONAL AND STATE DEBT? Can you sleep at night knowing that you have RIGHTS which other AMERICAN CITIZEN DO NOT?

I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't.

How many women had to be beaten and bruised, tortured and STARVED for our right to vote? And yet, many of us decided not to use that yesterday. How many couples, forced to live in silence because their love, which crossed race lines, was ILLEGAL? How many women, victims of rape or incest, had to resort to DISGUSTING and UNHEALTHY practices to abort the babies they could not bear had to DIE before we passed Roe Vs. Wade and HOW MANY TIMES ARE WE GOING TO CHALLENGE IT? More importantly, you religious conservatives, where were you to help SCARED YOUNG WOMEN and try to save their lives, rather than bombing clinics, threatening, harassing, and brutalizing employees, and protesting things which, by the way, are not even legal? WHAT DO YOU CARE MORE ABOUT? Being right? Forcing your Bible down the collective throat of this nation? Or the well-being, health and safety of its citizens?

We fought for equal rights, and I was raised to believe that we are constantly moving toward them, but today, TODAY I DOUBT THAT. Today I have nothing but fear and doubt for the well-being of this nation. We are sick.

I don't believe that abortion is morally "right." I do believe in extenuating circumstances, but in my life, I make choices for myself, and I would not choose to have an abortion. BUT DO I GET TO DECIDE FOR OTHERS? Is an abortion ban upholding the greater good?

I am not a gay American, but does it hurt or even AFFECT me that some Americans are? Is it my place to tell these AMERICAN CITIZENS that they are not WORTHY of the rights I have? Is it my place to prevent them from collecting the estate of the person they have CHOSEN to commit their lives to? And in our fractured times, when the divorce rate soars and it seems all around us that marriage is broken, society is seen accepting children born out of wedlock and the dissoltution of vows and dreams, WHO ARE WE TO PREVENT LOVING COUPLES FROM CEMENTING THEIR LOVE in a way that straight Americans enjoy? Is it a big deal? Well marriage was a big enough deal to me that I went throught it. Isn't A CIVIL UNION ENOUGH? Is it for you? It's NOT for me. Next time you drive across the state line into Nevada, imagine that you were no longer married. Flying to D.C.? Well I hope your plane doesn't crash along the way, because your marriage isn't recognized. You have NOTHING.

So maybe I "chose" not to be gay, or maybe I was not born gay, either way, I am not. And because I am not, I suppose I do not honestly know whether or not homosexuality is a life choice. But I can think of HUNDREDS of other life choices that I do not agree with, and NONE OF THEM ARE PREVENTED BY LAW. None of them.

Could we have spent 63 Million Dollars elsewhere? Stopping other "sins" like RAPE, MURDER, ROBBERY, ADULTERY...the coveting of our neighbor? Sins that actually hurt Americans? Gay marriage is a VICTIMLESS CRIME, and if you wasted your time voting against it, congratualtions, you're un-American and a bigot. Have a nice day.

Why I try

I wrote in my last entry about my frustration with writing and the disconnect I felt to myself, and this was the response I received:

"now ...believe. believe that you were created to write. believe that the world needs you to create art through words. and then move forward. move forward in this understanding of who you ARE, not who you have been since denying your love for reading and writing. because really, korey, we're all afraid of pursuing the passions that reside deep within the darkest corners of our souls. they're daunting. seemingly too irresponsible and frivolous. but that's who you were. who you are moving towards, is a person that believes these are the very things that will change the course of humanity. we need you to do what you love. i'm with josh. let me know how i can help."

She also quoted from The Alchemist: "people are afraid to pursue their most important dreams, because they feel that they dont deserve them, or that they'll be unable to achieve them."

Was that written for me?

Now I sit here, sifting through reasons why and why not.

It may be true that most of my last novel is now missing--somehow misplaced on a flash drive I cannot locate. The previous novel, well I have re-written the ending five times and never liked it. I don't have much time. There is laundary to do. I have been working a lot...

I used to have days where words just came to me, and I'd sit down wherever I was and jot them down furiously. These days, I feel lucky to remember what I want to write on my grocery list. And so, I will leave you with this: while I gather the strength to try to succeed, and weather whatever response comes of that trying, I ask that you ruminate on this today:

Sometimes you just might get what you need. Now, you can call them what you want (coincedences, good luck, what have you), but I call them angels. I don't visualize feathered beings who travel the world with harps or in old-fashioned nightgowns, waiting to save George Bailey. I see them as God's way of communicating with us in a way that we will be receptive of. For you, a burning bush might totally rock your world, but it wouldn't do it for me (I'd just call 911). My angel was in the form of my friend, Krysta. She showed me, even across the digital connections of two computers, that God's love, promise and hope can transcend all else. She also encouraged me to see my doubts as a challenge that should only increase my willingness to perservere.

She reminded me that we are so lucky, and blessed, that we are fortunate beyond belief. This alone should incite confidence in me. She says: "we still have more solutions and more hope and more potential to see the light at the end of the tunnel than majority of humanity. why?" Because we believe in something bigger than all else.

It's been described to me as the centerpiece of Christian faith. The idea that in our darkest times God can bring light. That when we despair, we must remember to hope, and to have faith. There are times when He delivers, and we must never forget.

I find that I can see this more easily in the lives of others. In particular, Krysta, who is so amazingly talented and confident, she's like my dream alter-ego on steroids. To hear that even she fears...it takes my breath. Earlier this year, I was gifted with Lisa, an incredible friend who continues to amaze me with kindness that knows no depths. If she were the poster child for Christianity, everyone would be lining up for conversion. If Christ is the reason for the light she has inside of her, everyone would want it. Recently she has fallen upon dark times, and my heart goes out to her. Of course, when I look at her, I see something very different from what she must see. I see purity of soul, potential, strength, wisdom, and generosity. I see a person that no one could help but love and a person who could accomplish absolutely anything. These are the thoughts that we should be able to turn inward, and imbue our lives with an increased confidence and vigor.

How do we do this? Does it begin with my expression of these strengths in others, to teach them what they have and what they are capable of? Is that my calling? Or must we find it for ourselves?

Life is not perfect

...but there is beauty in the inperfection.

At least I try to think so.

I had received some bad news. I was already home from work because I wasn't feeling well, and I get a message that my grandpa is in the emergency room. He has been completely "out of it" for lack of a better phrase, for weeks, and yesterday he was doing really badly. The thousand fears that crowd the far-back, dusty reaches of my brain started to creep up and crowd all of my everyday thoughts. At a million miles an hour these monster thoughts hurtled at me: it's the chemo, but what if it's not? He'll go off of the chemo, and he'll be better, but when he does, it's over? What will my grandma do? What can I do to help? Nothing. You missed your chance. What will I do? Live with regret, it's your only choice.

I was shaken, by this, and by other thoughts, running out of the dark corners and into the light.

I cried yesterday, to my husband (yes, it still sounds weird), and said these words, and as I said them, I shook: "I don't do anything that is me anymore."
I hadn't meant for such a revelation to come forth, and yet, here it was.
"I don't write, I don't draw, I don't even read anymore" I said, my frustration coming through in violent spurts of tears.

"You have to make time for it, then" he said.
"Well that's easy to say," I retorted, stubborn in my sadness.
"What can I do to help?" he asked.

Just like that, my stubborness gave way. There is nothing he can do, because I have so much to do. It's completely my fault. I am in an artistic "no man's land" because I've been upset, overworked, and stressed out. But here I am, continuing to make job searching, writing, reading, or drawing a priority. I let the other things in. I do.

They say acceptance is the first step toward healing, so...
Now what?

blank page

I used to love to see a blank page of paper. It was enticing and wonderful, freeing. I remember even eyeing the blank pages in the beginning and ending of books, and I saw only possibility. It even overwhelmed me then, thinking of how I would fill that page with the perfect drawing or story. The blank page was too valuable to waste.

The blank page has become my empty computer screen. The white stares at me, the cursor blinks as if yearning for use. And why? The computer blank page is forgiving. If I make a mistake on it, I can always press delete, and just like that, blank returns. Unlike a pad of my favorite drawing paper, the computer allows many new documents, one after another, seemingly with no end.

so why?don't?I?write?

Frustration, Validation

This week has been intense. The highs and lows have seemed stronger, more diluted than normal.

For starters, married life is, in a word, wonderful. I don't know how or why it has changed us both, but it has, in ways that are both nearly-noticeable and astounding. I have tried to explain the ways in which Josh seemed to change, almost immediately. He has always been sweet, kind, and devoted. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and it's one of my favorite things about him. But something else was different. It is as though the weight of the ring on his hand has caused a seriousness about him. He has matured somehow, grown up, and become just the slightest bit more intentional in dealing with me. Apparently I have changed as well. Last night Josh came in, all smiles, to thank me for being "the best wife ever."
"That was fast" I responded. "How did I manage that already?"
"You've just changed" he said "you were great already but you seem so much more easygoing. Trusting. It's great."

Is it confidence? If so, I am the world's biggest proponent of the importance of marriage now. It's not just legal, people.

Other highs: I started road biking. I really like it! (shock and awe). I saw my friend Lisa, who I have missed dearly as she recuperates from surgery, and who I have prayed for more fervently than I have prayed in quite a while. I have gotten to revisit and share my "teaser" wedding pictures with family, friends, and even co-workers (I'm proud of them, okay?).

I've also been dealing with a frustrating and exasperating wedding vendor who has given me many momentary "yucky" feelings about my wedding. Thankfully, they are passing.

My work has a tradition of decorating a person's office or cubicle when they get married. After seeing this about 6 times since I worked here, I was excited to see what they would do to mine.

They didn't.
It felt rather like a bad day in high school, when you realize that everyone hates you, and they aren't ashamed of letting you know it in subversive but very public ways. Even having them ask me about my wedding (and therefore acknowledging that they knew about it) feels...wrong, disrespectful.

But these things right themselves.
I talked to my amazingly talented wedding photographer on the phone and I felt my insecurities melt away. I was able to remember how incredibly blessed I am to have worked with such a talent and a positive soul. I am so blessed that I was able to marry the man I love, especially now. I had a wonderful day, it was beautiful, breathtaking, and special. Why is it so easy to brush aside compliments and praise and focus on the negative? I will choose not to.
My mom sent me flowers at work. I called her, laughing, to ask why she did so.

"So your co-workers would know you got married. And your desk will be decorated."
I smiled, for what felt like the first time in ages.
"I love you" I said.
For knowing what I need when I don't. For reminding me what is truly important. For reminding me that the silly things I get caught up in truly amount to nothing. For reminding me that I am loved beyond measure, whether or not I am well-loved by my co-workers.

I got home from work and my husband wasn't there yet. I decided to pass on the love I was feeling, and I made him cookies. He walked in the kitchen to a mouth full of cookie dough. I could only smile. My life is ridiculously awesome. It's just not fair. I should really try to spread it around.

"I really like my ring" he said.
"So do I" I said. "It looks good on you."
"No" he replied. "That's not it. I like having it on. I'm glad to have it."
"Great" I said, and I turned around to hide my smile from him. It spread across my face like wildfire.

What more could I ask for?

A thin slice of perfection

The day was clear, crisp, and vivid, giving the appearance of having been freshly scrubbed. The air was brisk and cool, trees shuddering mildly in the mid-morning breeze. It was beautiful.

I awoke with a stomach ache. The hotel phone rang, ending whatever dreams I was having for a robotic wake-up call. I sat up, feeling the tension in my gut. I was nervous.

I showered, carefully and slowly, trying not to dwell on what could happen that day, or even what would. As we loaded my Maid of Honor's car with item after necessary item I told myself, "breathe it in. Breathe in the beauty of this day." I felt as though I were floating, somewhere outside myself and looking down on the scene before me. Could it be possible that nothing was going wrong?

As the makeup artist was finishing with my makeup, I started to feel emotional. In response, my bridesmaids, relatives and closest friends that they are, began to sing and dance. I should thank them, and Rhianna, for the un-smudged eyeliner I enjoyed that day.

When it was finally time to put on the dress, I was elated, nervous, and just not feeling myself. I walked up to see my groom, and my breath came in short, choppy spurts of excitement. I saw his back, the line of his shoulders in the black tuxedo, and my breath caught in my throat. I held back tears as I walked toward him. We were nervous with each other, as though it was our first date as bride and groom, and neither of us knew what to say. We giggled and held hands and just the touch of him anchored me. I felt whole again. We loosened up in front of the camera, and we were suddenly there, in the moment. Our wedding day. And we loved every minute of it.

The smile that nearly never left my face was not plastered on by the protestations of others, it was genuine. This was our day. We were surrounded by people who love and support us, and we had not a doubt between us that what we were doing was anything but right.

Throughout the day, my emotions swelled and calmed like a mild ocean tide; momentum would build, feelings would intensify, and then flatten, but with the promise of return. The sun shone fiercely through the cool fall air. Leaves rusted, trees swayed, butterflies played in patches of sun-dappled branches. My husband looked at me, his smile laden with nerves and joy, and my heart melted. My dress swished pleasantly around me, my nose filled with the aroma of rose-scented geraniums. The hand that held mine, now adorned with a heavy band of metal, squeezed mine three times, our secret message to one another, I love you. It gave me strength, joy, and peace of mind. It reminded me why the trials were worth it, why we had pushed so hard to make our relationship work, to make it great, why we had put so much time into preparing this day until every tiny detail spoke the language of our hearts. It reminded me of the power of good, the joy of family, the mystery of love. It gave me hope and the promise of wonderful days ahead. It reassured me that every trial would be met with the tried-and-true team we have become, and that nothing would conquer us.

Perhaps it is for these reasons that my smile seems different somehow. Life, in all of its unpredictable and often mundane glory seems a little sweeter. My course in it seems a little more true. There are heavens on this Earth, and we will find them. But we already have the greatest of all, which is love.

It's a weird, weird world.

I attended two parties on Saturday night. Not because I am popular, because it's just "that time of year." The first was an anniversary party for my fiance's grandparents. It was bittersweet for us, as we make time in the middle of our busiest time to attend, and they are not planning on attending our wedding, which has been planned for a year and 5 months. Of course my better half is struggling with this, and starting to become really hurt by it, despite his eternal optomism. The second was a birthday party for my little brother's girlfriend. It left me confused. I wonder how it's possible that my brother and I can be so different. He, surrounded by his friends, a myriad of tattooed, pierced, black-wearing boys who, despite their offbeat appearances, are so darn sweet. I sat and talked with one of his friends, a past member of Riders for Christ, who told me about the dissolution of his marriage while he spread the word of God to an alternative crowd. His wife wanted more time with him, didn't see the importance in what he was doing. Behind me, a group of youths passes around an infant, around 6 months old, patting her head and holding her tiny hand. The infant's mother, young and wearing a revealing top, retireves the child and balances her in the crook of her right arm, her left hand free to cradle a glass bottle of beer. Moments later, the baby has her hands on the bottle, her mouth over the opening, as the youths laugh.

Talking to my dad (also at the party) a young man, much older than my brother, probably around 30, approaches us. He is shirtless and covered in tattoos. He moves erradically, popping left and right and figeting with his arms. I have a laughable knowlegde of drugs, but I assume this man was using them. Meth, perhaps? He looks at my dad and says, "I really want to sleep with you." My dad, as cool as he is, had no comment. He sputtered, and then the man said, "okay not really, that's what I keep telling all the girls at this party and they walk away."

Later, a woman, in her late forties I would assume, ambled up to my fiance and I and began to talk to us. I use the word "talk" loosely, because she barely could. Her face had a droppy look to it, her hair was stacked messily on top of her head, and she had the slow, sloppy speech of a person who had been drinking for hours (or days?). She was smoking non-stop, cursing just as much, and using really explicit language with some of my brother's friends (most of them are 20 years old). And by explicit I do not mean a few obscenties, I mean XXX.

She grabbed my arm roughly and said, "who are you?," her breath reeking of cigarrettes and cheap beer. "I'm his sister," I say, gesturing toward my brother. "Well I don't know how you put up with him, he's an A**hole," she drawls, in my face. I cringe slightly from the roughness of her breath and the talon of a hand wrapped around my wrist. It was like my own personal Hell.

How does he put up with these people? I look at him nervously, trying to get him to come and save me from this vile woman. He walks up and tells her to "shut up," looks at me and says, "she's a crazy alcoholic, just ignore her," completely within earshot of my new friend who flicks her cigarette toward him, sloshing beer onto the ground and hot embers onto my shoe, uncomfortably close to my big toe.

I excuse myself from her company, stating a need to use the restroom. As I walk toward the house, someone calls out to me again: "your dress is beautiful" the voice says, I spin around as thin, cold fingers encircle my left wrist. I don't like to be touched. Personal space is a necessity. I try to hold my position so as not to insult this creature, thin and lanky, with hair that ranges from black to platinum blonde. Her eyes were encirled in thick black eyeliner, and they stared right into mine. "You look so beautiful. I wanted to tell you that." I stammered, "thank you, I...I just came from an anniversary party, so I suppose I'm overdressed."
"Oh no" she coos, "you look perfect." I thank her again and slip away, this time to find my mother and push her out of this backyard and into the street, toward her car and home. I will follow her.

At the back gate sits my brother's dog. The dog I held in one hand as a puppy. He is much larger now, but just as sweet. I take his face in both hands and look into his eyes. I feel like I should whisper in his ear, "you don't belong here." He is calm, completely serene in the midst of the chaos. Not unlike the infant with the beer bottle earlier, although I'd already given up on her. She is as good as lost.