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.

Ahh Corporate America

Sometimes I think you own me, you, the company I work for. After all, you tell me where to be, and when, you decide when I work late, and you "highly suggest" things for me to do during certain lunchtimes. Tonight, as I lay in bed, listening to the soft breathing of my sleeping man and soft snores of my sleeping dog, I get that sinking feeling. I am not in control of my life, of my destiny. Sure, I want to be helpful, I want to be a useful employee, but does that mean forgoing any mention of a life outside of the office? Not in my mind, it doesn't. 

I never pictured myself in Corporate America. Of course, I never pictured myself doing anything realistic which I wasn't already doing. I pictured myself as a college student, forever. Or perhaps on tour with my imaginary band. There was a point in my life where I really thought it was reasonable to not be working while I planned my future wedding (to whom, at that point, I had no idea--a Baron, perhaps? A Rockefeller?). I really never pictured myself dressed to impress while impressing no one but the meager reflection on my monitor. 

Before I let myself get carried away in who said what to whom over the cubicle wall, or who wore jeans (jeans! can you believe that?!) to work on not-so-casual Friday, I had to stop my mind from spinning. No matter how much control the corporate world has over me, it can't stop me from sitting on the shower floor at 10 p.m., letting the water rinse away the memories of my day. They can't stop me from sitting, cross legged and in my bathrobe, facing the glow of my monitor, at 11 p.m. while I write about my feelings. And as much as anyone I work with would contradict this, they cannot tell me what I can and cannot do in my unpaid hour lunch. That is my hour. 

Perhaps it's selfish of me, sitting up late and taking this time for myself, and depriving the Corporation of the employee they deserve tomorrow, one operating on  full nine hours. But this is my time, and I'll do as I damn well please.

On the precipice

I am about to turn 24 years old. The past few years of my life, more than any others, have brought more change than most years. I know the frenzied pace will soon slow, and I welcome a little stability. Graduating from college and changing my status, held for as long as I can remember, from "student" to "full-time employee" was a difficult one for me. Harder still will be the change from a "Miss" to a "Mrs." Changing the name I've always had, the three words that identify me on this earth, apart from almost any other (benefit of having a relatively unique name) will be difficult as well. I'm not sure how I feel about it, although I understand the benefits and even the necessity of it. I will turn 24, an age that seems much older than I could possibly be. I will celebrate five years in my relationship with my fiance. I will have a bachelorette party, which I think will really, more than the dress and the food tasting, make this whole wedding thing sink in. I'll register for gifts, and attend my own shower. (My first shower! For me!) and then get married. Wow. This is an intense little spot I'm hangin' out in...