Searching for Love in a Young Generation

High school relationships rarely make it past the double doors by graduation, early marriages are a rarity are aren’t expected to withstand the trials of time, and marriages due to an early, unexpected pregnancy are considered a faulty choice by those that watch.

Why is it so easy to fall in love as a young person, but so hard to make it last?

In the beginning, no one can separate you, in the end, no one can stand to be around you together.  You go asking for advice, should we stick it out? Something just isn’t there anymore… that spark seems to have an expiration date for most all teens and young-adult couples.

If you take a few steps back, it’s almost crazy NOT to see it:

Women of a younger age often walk around advertising everything the good lord gave them, and men can’t help but notice.  Girls at the beach lay and watch the shirt-less lifeguard from across the sand. 

When the ties are limited to titles such as “girlfriend” and “boyfriend,” the loyalty tends to wane here and there.  When you’re young and not completely committed, you can’t help but notice that there are just SO many choices out there. 

When there are two rings, four children, and sagging body parts involved, the effort to make things work becomes self-less.

Not everyone believes that there is only one other person out there for them anymore. 

Teens like to get wild, they indulge in clubbing, drinking, and as they come of age, their hormones are skyrocketing and physical appearance mean more than they really should, especially when it’s put out there so willingly.  Leaving very little to the imagination.

Others are so tempting, and you hear stories of cheating and disloyalty like people used to discuss the Sunday paper.

Some people just can’t handle being tied down, others give it a shot and still can’t help but notice the other options surrounding them.  Then there are the few that are devoted and dearly worth the risk.

Young life is the definition of drama, struggle, mistakes, and faulty judgment.

But it’s also the center of desire, risk, living, loving, and learning.

“You have to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince.”

I always hated those words.  But their more often true than not.  Being raised as I was and being the personality I do, I’ve always known what I’ve wanted from a relationship.  I’ve always had my beliefs as to how they should work, the behavior to have and the actions to take when in one. 

Finding someone who mimics your beliefs is like finding a needle in a haystack.

Maybe harder.

The only advice I have, is good luck.

Keep your eyes open and your heart slightly closed.

Protect everything you have, and choose wisely.

Then choose more wisely every time there is a next time.

Love is a beautiful thing, but often mistaken.

These Colors Don't Run the World.

The stars and stripes amid the American flag have always represented the most powerful country in the world, the United States of America.  On September 11^th, 2001 America was attacked by a group of terrorists whose schemes shook our country to the core, killing innocent people and putting fear on the screen of every television nation-wide.  Our President made a promise to this country that we would reek justice, by starting a war that was meant to find the perpetrators, create a working governmental system, un-hinge the bad guys, and make sure no more attempts could be made that could forfeit our people’s safety.  We had our reasons for starting this war, but now after years of needless fighting, destruction, and death, Americans are singing a new tune with rallies and protests telling us to bring our troops home.

           

“THESE COLORS DON”T RUN THE WORLD.”  This visual piece is sending a clear message to its onlookers; for many years now, America has been considered the most powerful country in the world.  But power can and has been abused.  The terrorist attacks on our country do not give us the right to barge into the Middle East and take out throngs of innocent people as we try to find the masterminds behind the chaos.  And where does messing with the governmental system in other countries become our duty or business?  What started out as a war in Iraq has spread to other neighboring countries such a Kuwait and Afghanistan, and has been out of our hands for years.

America truly has become the bully of the world.  We are no longer the most technologically advanced, with the biggest army, the most powerful leaders, and it scares us. It scares America that other countries are catching-up.  So we feel need to have some say and get involved in every other country’s affairs to prove our meaning and worth, our willingness to get our hands dirty.

 But at what cost?

Many of the signs in the protest picture are about peace and evil.  Our country was shocked by the terrorist’s actions, coming into our country and killing our people… but what are we doing over there?  Why can we wipe out entire cities, and consider it a victory versus an action of injustice and evil?  Why do their innocent people with no part in the attacks, seem to matter less than the innocent people we lost on 9/11 at ground zero?  How many people in those countries will have to die, before America feels that it has had its justice, and can again sleep soundly at night. 

Another sign in the picture reads “END THE WAR IN IRAQ: TAX CUTS, NOT BOMBS.”

Who are we, to tell a country how to run things, when our own governmental system is corrupt in itself.  Our politicians can’t even handle half of its own controversies, much less that of another country.  How about listening to the people of America about their needs, before telling someone else how to run it’s own people?  We are biting off more than we can chew, simply because the more we dip our fingers into other people’s business, the more control we feel like we have over the countries that have proved that they are perfectly capable of catching up to our standards all on their own.

Though the visual aid given obviously speaks of the war in Iraq, it branches out to many other meanings for me as well.  As the world continues to develop, and other countries start to loose the training wheels, America is going to have to for-fit its pedestal at the top, and learn to work with others and share the knowledge and wealth of being a successfully developed country. 

I am an American, and I love my country.  But I also love what it has, and should always stand for.  The Land of the free, and the home of the brave.  The land of milk and honey, the breeding ground for dreams, and the soil of success and opportunity. A country full of heros, with leaders that make choices that will benefit, not destroy and corrupt.  What happened to our country will forever leave a scar, and was complete injustice, but we have brought many of the perpetrators to justice.  It's not just their lives that are continuing to be lost, but our soldiers as well.  

I say, that we bring our troops home. 

A Battle as Old as Time Itself

I don’t ever in my life wish to assume that being a parent is an easy task.  It’s a parent’s responsibility to bring up a tiny infant person and make them into a responsible, flourishing adult some day.  They have to keep them safe, they have to teach them right and wrong, and they occasionally have to make them eat their fruits and vegetables. 

There are a lot of people that I know, who have come to believe that I cannot possibly have been the easiest child to raise.  I’m a very independent person, I keep to myself, I like to do things on my own, and I like to do things my own way.  I will jump off the cliff as many times as I possibly can before I go to an instructor and ask if he or she can help me find an easier way down.  Naturally, this leads to me making many foolish mistakes, angering some people, and usually doing much more work than I would have had to, had I just asked for help sooner. You can call it pride if you want, but I call it learning.  I can honestly say that I have never been arrested, come anywhere close to commiting a federal offense, nor have I done half of the things most kids my age get into.  I got a few “C’s in high school.  And that is what most of my punishments growing-up were for. In my own personal opnion, I am still college bound, I am still alive, and I’m still a good kid despite all the temptations around me despite a few average grades.

Many a brilliant human being that has worked in careers involving children has, in some form, said “It’s not what we can teach our children, but often what our children can teach us.” As hard as it seems for parents to grasp this context, by age sixteen we really do have full-functioning brains of our own.  We are capable, because of our parents, to make good decisions, and decide for ourselves what is best.  We do stupid things sometimes knowing they are dumb, but if it’s a choice we want to make, good luck stopping us. 

Parents are not supposed to be your friends.  I believe that there is a thin line to cross there.  Most kids I know want to be able to tell their parents things, but they are afraid of being punished, or being told how to do something, or what they should have done instead.  They want to be able to cry on their parents shoulder about a break-up without being told “I told you so,” or given some drawn-out lecture about things they themselves already knew. 

“If you knew it was a bad idea, then why did you do it?”  This one is my favorite.  Oh I don’t know mom and dad, when you broke a lamp playing soccer at age thirteen, I bet hiding it seemed like a good idea to you too.  Can you tell me what your reason for throwing out your sisters favorite doll clothes was?  I bet your reasons seemed pretty solid to everyone but your parents at the time too. 

We will always need our parents.  I’m not trying to disclaim differently.  They are smarter only because they have truly gone through every same aspect in life we ourselves are coming up to experiencing.  And though they only mean to warn you about avoiding the bad stuff and help you with the good, a lot of the time they go about in a completely wrong way of carrying out those good-intended actions.

The battle between parents and teenagers or young adults will always be a constant fight.  There are parents that are pushy, that try to live their dreams through their children, that need to have something spectacular to brag to the other parents about, that talk bad about their children, that always push them to be more and do more than they themselves want to do or be.  And there children who want to please their parents and will do things they hate just to make them happy, children who will rebel authority, who have their own dreams and are determined to follow them, who let every decision be made for them, or who get into criminal offenses or a bad group of friends despite the words from the wise.  There may never be a perfect example of child understanding parents or vise versa, but the key is to decide wisely how much you care about what other’s think of you, be-it that group of moms at the church or your group of friends in school, and how much your decision that others may not approve of mean to you.

I’ve chosen to try my hardest in life at the things I choose to do, despite anyone else’s blessings, and if they truly love and support me, they will cheer me on no matter what those choices happen to be. 

With Wisdom Comes Years

I remember one specific Saturday, about eleven years ago: it was early in the morning, say maybe seven, and I was up-and- running.  I ate my cereal while I watched a few cartoons, went downstairs and made a few fairy dolls, played some barbies, had a sandwich and a juice box for lunch, went for a dip and game of mermaids in the pool, got out, dried-off, and laid in the grass.

While laying in the yard, I remember my mom yelling out the screen door that dinner would be in a few minutes, and that I wasn’t allowed at the table in my swimsuit so I’d better run and change if I wanted anything to eat. I remember wondering what in the world I was going to do after dinner.  I had already done everything that day that I could think of, why was this day taking so long to be over with?

I wish for days like that now.  My days off work seem to fly by, where as when I was younger the suckers seemed to have no end.  I used to get bored easily, now I can’t seem to find enough time in my day to do everything on my list.

I never believed people when they said that the older you get, the faster the years seem to go, but it’s true.  Especially on the good days. 

I was driving in the car this morning and I passed a lot of different people, all distinctly much older than myself, and I wondered, what it felt like to be forty or fifty and to know that your life was already half- over. I wondered that if I asked any of those people for a grade of their life up until that moment, what kind of answers I would receive.  Are they satisfied with their pasts?  Did they accomplish all they’d wished they would up till now?  What was the number one thing, if they were given the chance, that they would change, and what would they leave exactly as it was? 

Of all the lives there is for one to live, I have always wanted only one version.  A home, a faithful husband, children, horses, dogs/cats, and a large green yard for them all to enjoy.  

As perfect as that all may sound, there’s always dirt in life that you can’t avoid; arguments and differences with friends or family, deaths, accidents, sicknesses, weaknesses, and etc.  My grandparents and parents always said to me “with years comes wisdom,” but I agree only to a certain extent.  Yes, as you age you experience more and learn more, but more so that with that wisdom comes years.  I don’t exactly know how to describe to you the difference that I see between those two sayings, but there is a distinction to be made between them.  They don’t, as similar as they are to one another, say quite the same thing.

To me, it says that at any age we are capable of learning anything and everything there is to know about life.  And as we get older, the things we experience are essentially the same, just put within a different setting.  Kids were mean on the playground and kids will be mean in high school.  Some bosses sucked when you worked at the local DQ and others in your later career will be the same.  Decisions between candy needed to be made when you had only quarters as profit from your lemonade stand, and decisions between name brands and generic can be difficult when you allow yourself half a paycheck to go shopping.  The harder you work, the more you can receive.  Friends come and go, boys come and go, and the world keeps turning a full circle no matter what is happening at the present time. 

  With the wisdom you’ve always had comes only more years to use it wisely. 

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.