A Written Riddle

And I remember thinking... if only I could write as neatly as a computer.

I was sitting in lecture last week, when my pofessor instructed us to gather into groups to answer the questions that he had put up.

I did as I was told, and grouped-up with two other girls.  One girl tore out a piece of paper and set it in the middle of the table.

“Who wants to write?”

...this is always a problem when a group of people is required to work together, and hand in only one sheet of loose-leaf paper.

Obviously, the girl who had torn-out the paper felt that by designating a sheet from her personal notebook, she had already contributed her share to the group. Why else would she have asked who wanted to be the scribe, so to speak, if she had had any intention of doing it herself?

Sometimes, you get lucky.  You get into a group and one kid at the table whips out his or her notebook, a pencil, and writes everyone’s names at the top of the paper, and poise, looking around at all of you with thier pencil just above the sheet ready to write, signifying their full intent on donating the paper and doing all of the work.  Most the time, if not all, you’ll find the reason being that these people don’t trust other group members to do the job correctly.  I don't honestly think I've ever had anyone complain about these people, for fear that mentioning so would lead to having to write.

As it was, the two gals in my group seemed to be friends, and I was the odd duck out.  It was clear to me that neither of them was about to pull out a pencil, so I "volunteered" as if I had the choice.

While we spoke and discussed I penciled in each persons' thoughts on the matter, forming their words into my own style of writing.  You know, how you hear someone express their idea in one way, and you write it in such a way as to twist their words to suite your own personal thought process.

Well paper-donator girl was watching me write down her verbal sentence, and exclaimed loudly,

“Woah!  You have really nice handwriting!”

I thanked her.  When we had finished and everyone was ordered back to his or her previous seats, I looked down at the group work I had written and gave a thought to what she had said.

I remember sitting in fifth grade, Mr. Nelson’s class, during a history project involving a large wheel littered with a made-up story.  It was a group project, and my job in the task was the final touch: to write the story on the board, and draw the illustrations.  

Well I took the project home that night, and I remember sitting at the kitchen table with it all laid out in front of me.  I drew the pictures first, so that I’d have enough room, and I later moved-on to the writing.  I remember erasing time and time again, hating the way that my words looked, how they “ruined” the board.  And I remember thinking... if only I could write as neatly as a computer.

That night, I wrote each individual letter with care, trying with all of my effort to write as if I had typed it all up myself.  It took me forever, and when I went to school the next day, I received so many compliments on my handwriting that I practiced the same method for everything I did that year.  In sixth gradeI kept my style but changed the way I wrote my letter “E” three times. Come seventh grade, I wrote everything in cursive because I felt it was faster, then switched back due to too many teacher complaints.

In eighth grade I wrote so small in an attempt to conserve paper that I had my teachers drawing magnifying glasses next to my scores, in fact, I can name at least four or five times that my style of penmanship has changed throughout my years of schooling, and I’m curious as to why that is. 

I can only decipher the neatness as being one thing:  My compulsive need to strive for perfection.

I can Depict my constant use of comas to define the difference in the way I think and write,

And I can tell by the amount of space in between my words just how much of a hurry I am in when I write something.

Although my time spent grading papers as a student aid my senior year of highschool has left me with the conclusion that men generally have the sloppiest handwriting,t is not just men that have bad penmanship. Women can write just as illegibly.  Why?  Why is no one style alike, and what does it say about the person? My mother, father, and sisters all have a different style than myself, so it’s not due to genetics.  It’s not something passed-on, nor something inherited.

So why after years and years does our individual handwriting look as it does?  And what does it define about us.

What does your handwriting, if anything, say about you?

The Many Faces of Faith

I used to go to church, and I used to love it.

The feeling of having something else to believe in, to have faith in, but life itself is unexplainable, it’s uplifting.

God is portrayed in many different ways in our society today, and he’s a touchy subject for some. 

They say that there are three different events in your life, three different times that you will give your heart fully to him, or believe in him even if you never have before.

1)   The birth of your own child.

2)   The death of someone you love.

3)   Your own death.

I never questioned God until I got to Junior High school.  My first year there was awful, and the years that came after the first proved to be as equally bad.  It was the first time I had ever realized just how mean people could be to one another.  I was picked-on and prodded.  It caused me to begin loosing faith in someone that could create people that treated others, that treated me, the ways they did.

Faith is to roll the windows down, chuck the directions, and deviate fearlessly from the origional plan. 

High school proved to be equally as bad.  I barley remember my first two years there.  I spent all my time keeping my head down, trying to avoid exsistance.  I was convinced that if people didn’t know I was there, they wouldn’t be able to find anything wrong with me.

About mid-junior year I met a boy whom, in the beginning, made my whole life worthwhile.  I felt loved, I felt accepted by his friends, I felt welcome in his home and loved by his family.  Being introduced to new people and new places, and escaping my sheltered little life once in a while, opened my eyes to the idea that there are a lot more people out there that I realized.  And they were good people.  My faith was re-built.

I’ll never forget standing in church that Sunday after he ended things.  I refused to sing, I refused to listen, I refused to participate.  My temporary sanctuary was gone, and I didn’t have anything left to believe in.  That summer I made mistakes, I stopped eating, I pulled away from anyone that I had been close too. I broke-off connections, new relationships, and let go of oppertunities until those people that I had let down found renewed faith in me, and convinced me to give faith one more shot. 

The only light in my life was the only thing that kept me trudging through it; my job.  I got through the day at school just so I could go to work and see everybody.  I was accepted when I was there, I was safe when I was there, I had friends when I was there, and I was good at something when I was there.  The only bad in people I encountered while at work was in the customers, and I found that with a smile and an apology, maybe a free pizza, I could fix that.  I could CONTROL something.  I could figure things out.  I was trusted with important jobs and could get them done better than was expected. 

The happiness attained from my job gave me the faith to keep going.

I could write my whole sob story on here but I doubt anyone has interest in reading it.  This blog is supposed to be about the definition of FAITH, so let's get down to the nitty-gritty question bouncing through my nervous system:

It’s a baby’s name, its an object, it’s an adjective, it’s a noun,
but what is it really?

What is it to you?

I would look it-up in the dictionary but to do so would be a waist of my time, because I believe that definition is wrong.  Faith is like the word “perfect,” it’s a universal adjective/noun/name/object/word/phrase whose definition refuses to apply the same to each individual persons lives. 

Maybe to you faith is hearing an uplifting song.  Or going into a test telling yourself you'll do fine.  Jumping out of an airplane with a parachute on your back, or talking to someone who has passed with the belief that they might be able to hear you. 

Faith is a name,

Faith is a feeling,

Faith is a wish,

To me, faith is something I can’t control completely, but my reactions to things can help it grow or fade dependant on how I let myself feel.  It's what keep me getting out of bed in the morning.  It's what keeps me trying to fix my wrongs and forgive other's. It's what gives me the strength to pick-up and move on when my efforts in life fail.  It keeps me looking for the good in people and accepting t hat there is always going to be bad, but the bad in people itself is another universal and personified definition that also means something different to everyone. 

Life is one big constant test of your faith in people, in events, in God, in anything really.   And the only way to get through it, is to have the faith that you can.  

To Live and Let Stand

"To remember and not yearn for the past, is to deny how you became."

Image borrowed from flickr.com

Just down the path is a pond that I used to go canoeing in at the end of every summer.

Off the edge of that pond is my second home as a kid.  I grew-up there with my best friend, and my second parents, who believed in anything I did.

In the next cul-de-sac is a house that another bestie used to live in, that I built forts in, played dolls in, and licked the bricks on the fireplace for a dare at a sleepover.

Behind my house is a park, newly renovated now, that we used to be spies in, where I played tagged, and found out that jumping off swing led to twisted ankles.  It’s where I got asked out by my first boy, and the paths around it are where I leaned not to rollerblade when walking your dog.

I have invaded the library down the road many boring summers.

The pool in my backyard has seen many games of Marco-polo and mermaids.

The sidewalk down the street watched me and a friend fly off my electric scooter.

The park a-ways-away has seen us crush berries and jump off stones, and creep on skater boys.

The pothole that forms every winter down the street has it out for the frame on my car.

The playground at my elementary school was dominated by the four musketeers many years ago.

The girl’s bathroom in that school up the hall from the lunchroom has seen the braveness of a janitor named Norm, as he rescued a helpless fairy doll.

The corners of those streets saw two young patrols, one a great captain, one always tricked into caller, keep its children safe.

The pizza shop up 42 saw an outstanding crew, and a group of friends and memories that were the sole reason I made it through high school.

A house in Lakeville saw a group of kids who needed a break form life once in a while, supplied by two people who always cared about them.

A dirt road in Prior Lake saw spinning cars one night, twirling around in the gravel with scared, yet excited passengers.

The taco bell saw them many nights after work.

A look-out called Trout run saw me through the times that I needed to be reminded that the world is so much bigger than me.

The caribou down the road is where I met with friends to talk about life.

And my bedroom is the picture of my personality, my sanctuary.

I could write so many more memories.  That flicker through my brain as I realize I’m leaving my home this summer. To truly move onto something new, somewhere new.

Everything I know, everything I love will always be in this town.

All my memories, all my pieces.   This place BUILT me.

And I don’t want to leave it.  Or the people it still has.

I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like, to not be able to come back to my old house in a year.  To not be able to walk in my own room.

I can’t walk into the pizza shop I loved nowadays without being told to leave  if I don’t plan on buying anything.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me that makes these kinds of connections with the places I’ve been, if I’m the only one who has this much trouble letting things go.

It seems sometimes, like it is just me.

Wake me-up, Arizona. 

“Your actions, not past, but present and future actions, and your actions alone, should determine who you are to people.  Not what is said of you by others.”

R.I.R(egret)

I hope everyone finds the irony in this sentence impeccably clear and easy to decipher:

“Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today.”

I am deathly afraid of Dying.

I was sitting in the Hayden courtyard at Arizona State a few days ago, a sketchbook in my lap and a lot on my mind. I thought about how my life is going.

Going on vacation across the country from all and any of your problems allows a person to sit back and look at them from very, very far away.

It is the best view.  

Your head is clearer, you're not pulled in the directions of the moment, and there is no rush to make an urgent decision on the matters at hand.

One of my good friends and I are not, at the moment, getting along so well.  In fact, we are not even talking.  Our friendship began falling apart when life for her became foggy and strings were pulled, tearing loose and falling apart. I noticed her moods change, I noticed her values change, I noticed her obligations take a different course even before the turmoil between us started churning. And I felt I was left behind while she moved forward in a new direction without me.  I’m not saying I need to be at the root of every decision, and first on the list to hear of news, but the things that go on in other’s lives are important to me.  I like being one they can talk to and come to for advice, and being cut-off so abruptly I just found myself missing her. 

I can’t help but wonder, if she misses me.

I have always said, and I feel others would agree: that I’d rather people feel indifferently about me, than hate me to the point of wanting nothing to do with me.

The situation made me think about all the connections I’ve made in my life.  Will it be enough?  Am I a decent enough friend that people would miss me if I ever were to end-up six feet under due to some uncanny event?

How would they remember me, talk about me when I’m gone.

Will they have good memories, good things to say.  Will they even bother to show-up for the funeral, or find better things to do?  Did I try my best to do enough good in other people’s lives?  Did I make positive connections with people, did I help them when they needed help, was I self-less enough to impact them in some way, shape, or form that they have the ability to care for me like I care for them.

Did I tell people enough that I love them.  Did I remind them enough how much they mean to me, that I missed or was thinking about them.

Was I a good Friend? A good Person? A good… Anything?

I love people, and at the same time, they drive me absolutely bonkers.

But it is people that make life here worth every second of every minute of every day.

And that, that is what I am afraid to leave behind me.

I am not worried about all the technology I’ll miss out on. Hell, I don’t even know how to use half of the stuff we’ve got now.

I’m afraid of missing out on my kids’ lives, my grandkids, their kids and grandkids.

I’m afraid of possibly gong into a second life without being able to remember all the people I love and care about so much in this one, without having them with me. Without knowing them. 

I’m afraid of the END.

I’m afraid of the end of friendships.

Of Family.

Of Experience.

Of Love.

Of Moments.

Of Time.

Of Life.

And though it’s something unavoidable.  Something so unbelievably out of my control. Who I am while I am here decides who I will be remembered as when I can be here no longer.

Though it may be pointless for me to fear something I can’t change, it’s even more pointless to change the fear of fearing what I cannot change.

Because it keeps me Living.

It keeps me Breathing.

It keeps me aware of what does and should really Matter.

Of who and what I want to BE.

And, for the most part,

It Keeps me Sane. 

Live, Laugh, Love, and Impact.  

It's plain. It's simple. It's all we've got. 

Coming HOME.

I'm sitting in the airport waiting for my flight to Phoenix, Arizona.  I had no problem getting through security despite all the new techniques that have been installed, and a nice old lady in a blue suit helped me read the screen to find and direct me to my gate. 

Now, I wait. I'm anxious to get there but the weather outside the window I’m seated by looks beautifully intimidating: gray in the distance with sun peaking through the clouds. It's the ever-changing Minnesota weather that brings me all the seasons and unpredictability. I'm headed for sun but it's decently warm today. Only a light spring coat is needed.

The airport reminds me a little of my high school. There's more diversity in these hallways than a global confrence. I hear Spanish, German, French, Aribic, Russian, and some other international dialect that I can't desipher being spoken in the seats around me. I see different cultural dresses being worn and foods being eaten. It's kind of cool. Like I've been thrown into a melting-pot of colors and personality. I can't help but wonder where everyone here is headed and why.

There's a man across form me who is sound asleep. Partly why I chose to sit here. He is dressed in a three-pice tux, his hair is combed and his shoes shined. Despite his exterior ambiance he looks beat to exhuastion. He has big bags under his eyes and he's frowning in his sleep. I wonder when's the last time he's been home.

Galmourous and exciting as it is to hop on a plane and discover somewhere new I couldn't do this all the time. I see little kids getting restless and crabby, teens bored and sleeping with thier iPods blasting, and adults exhuasted and busnissesmen stressed. This is no place to live out your life. I feel bad for him, the man sitting across from me. He almost gives you this sense of being lonley. I wonder if he has a family waiting for him in Pheonix, and he's just returning home from some kind of a business trip. Or maybe he just kissed his wife goodbyeand this is his flight to a conncection in Pheonix that is headed somewhere further. 

As fun as it is to sit on a plane and talk to the person next to you, to go out and discover the world, all the attractions, scenery, and cultrue it has to offer, to head off to new places and see all the new hings, I feel it's impecibly important to have someplce to come BCAK to.

A family, a home, a job, a pet, even weather. I'm excited to be leaving everything for a few days, to see a new state and the boy I have waiting for me across the country, but I'm even mor thankful to have a place to come back to. A place where my seeds were planted long ago and continue to grow. I'm excited to get home and lay in my bed, to be woken-up by my dog, forget to seal the toothpaste in my bathroom and to hit that pothole down the street that will eventually be the end of the frame on my car. 

“Home is where the heart is.” I dont care if you live in a penthouse in New York City, or a cardboard box in the middle of the sidwalk, where you come from will always be more important than where your headed.