Life – Page 2 – Tipsy Typer

The Lost Wanderer

We travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.

Tolkien is perhaps my patron saint of travel; the one whose quotes about adventures and struggles through the unknown have carved my view of what the world should look like. I’ve always felt a bit of a kinship with the hobbits; we are both quite fond of our routine, adore second breakfast and elevensies, don’t really come of age until our 30s, and are generally shy but capable of courage when the need arises. I couldn’t help but think of dear little Bilbo when I stepped out of my door two weeks ago, backpack slung over my shoulder and passport clutched in my palm. I had never even made it 1,000 miles from home (the distance between my town and Disneyland is somewhere in the 900 miles range), I’d only ever set foot in 4 states- and 2 of those don’t really count because I live right on the border between them. Now my little band of adventurers and I would find ourselves over 6,400 miles from home, covering over 13,000 miles in our quest for excitement. Little did I know, I would come back a very different little hobbit than I had been when I left.

Tolkien famously said that not all who wander are lost. Truthfully, I think my roaming came about because I felt truly lost in all the ways that mattered, and shackled to all of the things that didn’t. It is no secret that this past year was a rough one for me; my first pregnancy loss in January left me shattered and unsure of how to rebuild a life with the broken pieces left to me. I struggled with the things that normally brought me solace and joy. I had once been so sure of my place in this world and the future I had planned was crystal clear. But then the Earth shook, the crystals shattered and cascaded around me, crunching under the soles of my shoes. I was lost, unsure if my feet would ever set foot on the path I had taken for granted. Where do you go when the road is washed away by an avalanche? You wander, you blaze a new trail and see where it takes you. Mine took me halfway across the world to a places with new customs, accents and languages. It took me to a life I could still find fulfilling, even if it wasn’t the one I had envisioned. It took me to a place where I learned to depend on myself, and not rest on my own expectations. It’s easy to lose track of what inspires you when you stare at the same four walls, and traipse through the exact same routine day after day. In Europe I rediscovered my passions. I stepped into castles where kings and queens once walked, ambled through the streets and pubs that famous authors and artists once frequented. I saw the place where Lady Grey and Ann Boleyn were murdered (though history prefers to call them executions).

The memorial for the ladies executed in the Tower of London

In Westminster Abby I stood in Poet’s Corner over the final resting places of the great authors that still inspire my love of words. I stood in awe as I stared at the Rosetta Stone behind it’s glass case, and walked through exhibits of our histories and storytelling traditions that paved the way for writers like myself.

In Oxford I stood in the gardens that inspired Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I walked down the street that is said to have led to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardobe. And ornate door with a carved lion on the front with two golden fawns accenting either side of the door. You can look down the street to see the single lamp post that signifies the entrance to Narnia. We walked past the Eagle and Child pub that was once the meeting place for the writing group, the Inklings. Some of it’s members included Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Charles Williams, and many others. For Harry Potter fans, Oxford has ties to the movie franchise (though there are few literary connections). In a less literary (though just as inspiring vein), we even got to see Einstein’s chalkboard preserved with his own handwriting, tucked away in the basement of a science hall.

After a week in the UK we found ourselves in Romania. There is nothing more humbling than finding yourself immersed in a country that doesn’t speak your language. The impacts of communism were brutally apparent, and many people can still remember the revolution that led to it’s overthrow in 1989. You listen to the stories of the food cards and starvation, desperate times that led to people literally fleeing across the border for a better life. Perhaps listening to these stories would give some of my own countrymen a bit more compassion with the issues we are facing. Look into someone’s eyes when they talk about being imprisoned for traveling illegally to another country to survive, observe the desperation that caused them to leave behind everything they ever knew. Drive through the countryside where people grow their own crops and livestock because they don’t trust that there will be enough food in the stores. The lives that we all live are stories of their own, we are each the protagonist in our own tale.

We attended a traditional wedding that carries on for an entire day (the celebrations often last well over 12 hours, which is a big change from the traditional 3 days they once were). It is amazing to see the cultural differences in the traditions observed. No wedding is complete without a bridal kidnapping and ransom for her return, traditional dances that everyone learns from a young age, fog machines and sparklers that are taller than I am.

In Romania we carried on with our unofficial literary tour by roaming the halls of Castle Bran, the supposed home to Bram Stoker’s infamous Dracula.

The ‘secret staircase’ hidden in Castle Bran, once lost to history until a Queen decided to remove a fireplace and discovered this secret passageway.

We ate lunch on the back terrace of the home where Vlad the Impaler was born. The village was called Sighisoura, and thr old protion has changed very little since the 1500s, though it is still a very active city. People continue to live in the same homes that were occupied hundreds of years ago. We saw firsthand how Vlad’s story is told in a very different way within his country. While we view him as brutal and cruel, he is a hero to his country, a leader willing to fight for his people.

Statue of Vlad the Impaler in Sighisoura, the city of his birthplace. The ribbon tied around it is in the colors of his country’s flag

The house where Vlad the Impaler was born

The streets of old Sighisoura; unchanged with the exception of vehicular traffic (though it is still very common to see horses and buggies through the entire country)

It is a moving experience to see the world as others do, to experience cultures foreign to your own and acknowledge that you are the outsider in this beautiful place. It is compelling to see what humans have created throughout this world; the buildings, traditions, stories, and art we have brought into existence. Our art sustains us throughout history, leaving it’s mark for centuries to come. Though we may not always understand it (like the mysteries surrounding the Stonehenge), it will be there to be witnessed for ages. To walk through the halls of our past and pay homage to the lives that led to our own; this is a gift.

I stepped back through the same door to my home that I lad left from, backpack still slung over my shoulder, passport clutched in my palm. Yet, much like Bilbo after his return from the Misty Mountains, I was changed. My heart carried adventures, my mind held new stories yet to be told, my soul was lighter knowing I belonged to a greater human tradition. My home is still the same, the laundry I left unfolded is still sitting at the foot of my bed, my dog is still stretched out with his head on my lap, and I am still here clacking away at a keyboard. But I am not who I was. This lost little wanderer is finding her way back home.

More detailed posts about the different adventures from my travels will be coming in the next weeks, this was merely a tiny little glimpse. If there are any particular topics you are interested in, leave a comment and I will be sure to include it. Happy trails, my friends.

To Create, To Experience, To Live

You are a creative soul; that’s why you are here, that is how you found this tiny little hobbit hole in the great expanse of the internet. You dare to dream in the middle of the day, you find inspiration in the most unlikely of places. You, my friend, are a kindred spirit. You can see shades of the world that others cannot or will not acknowledge. You have a flame that burns inside of you; some days it is just an ember, and on others it roars with a passion that could rival all the stars in the universe. Your work is your physical soul molded by your own hands. You tirelessly give your energy to this creation without realizing the magic you are wielding. There is a beauty in the way you bring something tangible to life, something that was born from the firing neurons and synapses in your brain. You have a passion that demands to be explored, a gift that the world would be priveledged to experience.

Art takes many forms, some are more subtle than others. We are all artists to a degree. The writers, the painters, the musicians, the actors; yes, these are easily counted. But there are others: a chef who plays with the ingredients, a mechanic bringing an engine to life, a mathematician calculating the mysteries of the universe, a lawyer crafting an argument that turns the law on it’s head. Our mediums may be different, but our love is the same. The things that we give life to in this world are often the same things that also give life to us.

To make lasting art you must step outside of your comfortable corners. To breathe life into your work you must first soak up as much of it as you can. Your new knowledge will color your creations, bleeding into the corners, etching the nuanced edges until they gleam and entice the rest of the world. An art piece bursting with life is a piece that demands to be witnessed, it is a creation that carries within it the power to change the world. To invest in your work you must first invest in yourself. It doesn’t matter how perfectly crafted your sentences are if they drop lifelessly from your pen. Interesting things do not need a perfect presentation to be noticed.

Invest in yourself, in your experiences, in your knowledge. Let your interests guide you and teach you. Pick something that you love; a place you want to travel to, a book you want to read, a skill you want to learn- and dive into it. Find a class for tarot reading, go to the post office and get your passport, find your way to the nearest museum, watch a documentary on the Stone Henge and UFO conspiracy theories, go to a Chinese New Year celebration even if you don’t know a soul there, read books about people that inspire you. Never stop learning, never stop investing in yourself, never stop feeding your passions. All of these tiny things, these new experiences, these tidbits of random knowledge will find a way into your heart, your mind, and your work. They will create an authentic story, they will grant you a new perspective that you can share with the world.

You will create something beautiful, something that will resonate with people. You may not change the whole world, but you will have the power to change a single person. You will have the power to inspire them. Your work will find it’s way into their own, over and over again until we find ourselves staring at a beautiful tapestry of the human experience. After all, that is what art is; it is passion, it is the spirit personified, it is an interwoven story of all of the things that have made us who we are. Be proud to be a part of this tradition, be proud of your contribution to it. Invest it in, nurture it, and never be afraid to dive headfirst into it.

Out of the Ashes (the growth of a seed)

When a forest is burned, what grows back often does not resemble what was lost. The searing flames cut away the old, they leave the soil barren and empty. But in this emptiness a miracle takes place; something new is given a chance to live. The seeds that had remained buried and dormant for so long are granted the space they need to struggle for the light. It may be months before you see them peek out from the wreckage, but they always emerge. Humans are more similar to the forests than we ever dare admit.
It is an inevitable reality that we all must walk through the flames; it is the price we pay to truly live. Often times the person who emerges from the fire is far different than the one who stepped into it. Six months ago I was shattered. I stumbled through my days wondering how the world could still turn even though it had cracked. And yet now, the first green sprouts are beginning to bloom.

There is pain in the loss, in the knowledge of what can no longer be. But there is a power too, when you realize that the worst has happened and you are still alive. You find a new purpose to fill your empty spaces, you pay tribute to the person you were before, and you learn to love the one you are rebuilding. It is not an easy process to grow a forest again on scorched land. It takes patience and kindness in a world that doesn’t always foster those two ideals.

When you find yourself lost in that barren landscape, one question echoes through the emptiness: what will you allow to grow in that broken place? This is the distinction between us and the forests we love- we get a choice to foster and cultivate what is left when the world changes us.

Give yourself permission to grow again, do not clutch the arid landscape of your life before. This is perhaps the hardest thing you will ever have to do; to acknowledge your pain and the way it has transformed you, to forgive, and to take the first steps towards healing. It will take time; all beautiful things do. But you are worth it, your journey is not done.

You have to feel it- everything, though there are days you may think you will break under the pressure of it all. The only way to grow is to let those rains wash over you. If you fight it, tuck it away, run from it- the pain will only make you hard and bitter to the world. But opening up to it will transform you.

Often those who have been through the worst that the world can offer are the ones who show the deepest kindness and compassion. These are the ones who will willingly step back into the flames carrying buckets of water to create a path for those still lost in the fire. These are the ones who took their broken pieces and patched them together with gold; they respect and acknowledge their damage, and are made all the more beautiful for it. Growth is not easy; it will be the greatest struggle of your life. But give yourself permission to do it anyway.

I struggled for a long time. It took me six months to realize that I was angry with myself for things I could not control. It took me half a year to acknowledge that I wasn’t willing to let myself heal, that I didn’t think I deserved it. I was carrying around so much grief, and I didn’t know what to do with it all. But you see, grief is really just love overflowing. I needed a place to put it. So I decided to start with me.

I sat down and wrote myself a letter. I acknowledged my pain, why I was so angry. And I forgave myself. I was finally ready to take that step. And then I did the thing that had scared for half a year: I gave myself permission to continue on with my life. I won’t say that I ‘let go’ of what happened or that I ‘moved on’ because I don’t think that’s always possible. I didn’t want to move on because that felt like forgetting; and that is something I won’t ever be okay with. But I acknowledged that these broken fragments are pieces of me that will always be here. I am a kinder person for them. The journey is only just beginning, and it takes effort every single day to keep growing, to show myself love and kindness, to remind myself that I deserve both. I was burned to the ground, but I survived; and now it is time embrace the girl who was strong enough to grow from the ashes.

I Carry Your Heart With Me (a story of love and loss)

Disclaimer: this post deals with miscarriage, so please proceed with caution if this is an issue close to your heart.

I had a dream about you. You were swaddled all in blue, though I still don’t know if you were a boy or a girl. Knowing me, you still could have been either (I already had a picture ready for your nursery that talked about how all colors were baby colors). The dream was so simple and so peaceful. We were at home, just our little family. You were fussy, but content when I finally fed you. I carried you, I held you, I cuddled up with you and gave you tiny little kisses all over your chubby cheeks. We were happy. I woke up feeling content as I rubbed my tiny bulging belly, saying good morning to you.

I don’t know if that is the moment that you left me. You slipped out of my life as quickly as you joined it, silently and without production. I like to think that it was your final gift to me- your way of letting me hold you for the first and last time, for the only time. A chance to look at you, live out the dreams we had been planning. I like to tell myself that you wanted me to have that solitary moment to remember, a single space in time when the world was the way it should be. I like to think that you wanted it too, that last little thought before you slipped away from me.

I learned that I lost you on Monday. The doctor looked at me and I just knew before she even said those words. You were gone, and there was nothing I could do to ever get you back. “There’s no heartbeat” are the cruelest words in the world. I’ve never known that kind of pain. I’ve never felt that kind of helplessness. I was not merely broken, not shattered; I was crushed down to dust.

A few hours before I was planning your gender reveal, I was plotting out your nursery and looking at cribs. I was excited for this life we were going to share together; you and me, partners in crime, your daddy and the dog hot on our little heels. It broke us both to lose you, to lose the future we had planned.

Some people may not understand the love you have for someone you have never seen, but it was earth-shattering from the start. From the moment I saw those two pink lines I loved you with every fiber of my being, every atom in my soul. I was yours and you were mine, my love. I didn’t need to see you or hold you to feel like your mother. Now I am in limbo- one foot in two different worlds. I feel like a mother because of you, and yet I have no living child to care for. Does it still count when my sweet little baby had to leave so soon? Does it matter that I know what it felt like to feel you under my skin? To talk to you? To watch my belly grow? Does it matter when I never got to hold you?

How can I feel so lost without you? You were a part of me for so long, and yet it was just a fleeting moment. You were supposed to be safe. We waited to tell everyone, waited to know you would be with us forever and always. We did everything we could. I was 19 weeks on the day when my world shattered, but it felt like eternity, it felt like we had been meant for each other since the dawn of time. We should have been safe. The chances of losing you were only 1-3%. ‘Bad luck’ is what what they chalk it up to. We just had bad luck. What a phrase at such a time. It was meant to comfort, but it only left me with more questions. Why us? Why you? Why now? What was the purpose in all of this? How do we move on with our lives knowing you won’t be in it?

You deserved better. You deserved a chance at this messy life. And I wish I could have given that to you. I wish it had been in my power to fix it. I would give the world to hear that whoosh-whoosh of your heartbeat again. I would give up my forever if it meant that you could come back and live the life you were supposed to have. I would do anything for you. But I am only mortal, and I will never know why someone so special and so perfect had to be taken before they ever had a chance.

Perhaps it’s better that you weren’t touched by this cruel world. Perhaps it’s enough to know how deeply loved you were already. You were our little Jelly Bean, the hope in a world so full of pain. You will always be ours, you will always be the little love of my life. I don’t know if I could ever survive this again, but I know that I would do it all one more time just to know you, just to have you growing in my tummy for a little while. I would feel this pain all over again if it meant another moment with you. You, my dearest little love, were worth every tear and every single crack in my heart.

To anyone out there who has been there or who may find yourself on this path, to all of those who struggle with fertility and wonder what your future will hold: I see you, I love you. I know you only feel like you are being strong because you don’t have any other choice, I know the anger and the fear and the pain. I know you don’t think you could ever survive this. But you will. There is a silent army standing right here with you. One in four women will know this pain, and virtually everyone will be touched by it at some point in their lives. You are not alone, even at your darkest moment.

I am the one in four. I will never forget my little love. None of us will.

Weeds and flowers (the dandelion is stronger than the rose)

We tend to demean the the things that harbor an inner strength we will never be able to touch. We look down on those who remind us that being broken does not mean being defeated, or that being unorthodox does not mean being unwanted. We sneer at the strength of those who do not bend to our will, those brave souls who will never allow the crashing waves to erode them. After all, a dandelion can grow through the cracks in the pavement, and yet we snidely call it a weed.

Did you know that the only difference between a weed and a flower is intention? A weed is something you did not plan- it sprung up of its own accord without apology or permission. A flower, however, was wanted, planted, cared for and nurtured; it was intentionally cultivated. I find it strange that we give such a negative term to these brave little blooms who brazenly display their strength and resilience.

I think I would rather be a dandelion than a rose; in many ways I think that perhaps I already am. I am not conventionally beautiful, no, I have never been guilty of that crime. Nor do I make up for my lack in grace with my winning charm- I am awkward, uncoordinated, too quiet, too loud, too anxious, too serious, too silly, too much of a dreamer, too much of a realist; too much of this and too little of that. And yet here I am, still standing, probably where you didn’t want me to be.

I am not sure who decided that those little yellow buds and delicate wishers were a nuisance instead of something to be celebrated. Surely it was not I; this little girl who proudly plucked and presented the bouquet of sunshine for my mother. Surely it was not her; this woman who would carefully put them in a vase in our kitchen for everyone to see. Perhaps it was those few souls who feared the things that did not need them; a rose will need your guiding hand, your love and attention. But not the dandelion, no, it only needs a little patch to call it’s own and to be left to it’s own devices.

I tend to discover the most beauty in the things I could not plan for, the moments that sprout up unannounced and unexpected into my life. There is no edge of anticipation to taint them, no expectation to warrant disappointment. My favorite moments in life were ‘dandelion’ moments; unexpected, perhaps occasionally unwanted, and yet they brought color to a drab world. My writing is like a dandelion- these words that color my soul, though they were not planned, not thought out, not properly executed. They were not the career that I had spent years attempting to cultivate. They simply existed, always right there, surviving when nothing else could.

End it on a good one

I rarely dabbled in organized sports growing up, often preferring to play on my own terms with my own friends (we will pretend that my lack of coordination and fear of letting other people down had nothing at all to do with it). I always had a blast, learned a lot and made new friends. But there is one lesson that stuck with me, a quote that my eighth grade volleyball coach used to call out at the end of every practice, “end it on a good one.” We would get into position and keep pushing until we got it right for the last time of the night. It didn’t seem to matter if we failed most of the time, if practice was a complete disaster- we would always rally to find a way to end it right. I don’t know why this one little lesson stuck with me all these years later; I’m on the cusp of 30 (where the hell did the time go?) and I still catch myself saying this- at the end of a long day, at the end of a hard year- always end it on a good one.

2018 is at a close, and the fresh promise of a new year is awaiting us just mere hours from now. This year I’m not dressed up, I’m not out with a big group of friends, I’m not drinking- I’m pretty boring I guess. But the funny thing is, I’m ending the year doing exactly what I love, something I neglected more than I should have these past months. I’m sitting here writing, spilling my heart on paper with my dog curled up contentedly at me feet and the man I love just feet away playing a video game (ironically, his favorite thing to do and something he has been too busy to enjoy this past year). It’s simple and special only because it means something to us.

2018 was a mixed blessing for me. One year ago today my dad was recovering from the accident that almost killed him. I remember being so thankful for the small miracles as I sat with him and helped him recover that winter. 2018 was the year that my weaknesses helped me discover my strength. I took care of my dad while trying to work and go to school full time. I was in a car accident that left me shaken and injured myself. My car didn’t survive, but I was lucky that it wasn’t worse. Months of pain and treatments taught me how fragile and also how strong the human body can be. I struggled through anxiety attacks and a terrifying slip into depression because I wouldn’t stop pushing myself so hard. I still remember what it felt like to carry that ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach, to collapse on the bathroom floor at work as an anxiety attack stormed through me. I remember how it took months of ‘self care’ before I felt normal again.

2018 was the year of the ‘almost-house,’ when we were finally going to buy one and I was so excited. It was a dream finally coming true. It was also the year that we backed out of it because something just didn’t feel right. And one month later I thanked my stars that we listened to our instincts because Link (my dog) got hurt and lost the ability to use his back legs. The money we had planned on using for a down payment turned into the money that paid for the surgery that let him walk again. Now he’s as feisty as ever, chasing the cat up and down the stairs in the house we’re renting- seems like a pretty fair trade to me.

2018 was also the year of miracles, the year of change. As of today I am 18 weeks pregnant with our very first little one, something I’ve wanted for such a long time. My tummy is just popping, the little bulge evident under my old t-shirts that I will continue to wear as long as I can. Truthfully, those first months of pregnancy were some of the hardest I have endured, but now that I’m finally on the other side of the morning sickness and fatigue (and with a new appreciation for how amazingly tough women are), and I can look back with more gratitude than I could muster at the time. I didn’t think it would ever really happen, but here we are, about it turn another chapter in our lives. 2018 started out harder than I could have imagined, but in a matter of months everything changed.

I’ve been thinking and re-evaluating, like I do every year. And I came to a simple conclusion: happiness doesn’t always have to be hard, and sometimes the best thing you can ever do is listen to your instincts. You don’t have to push yourself to the breaking point to succeed, and the journey will always be more important than the final destination. I had a goal last year, one that I pursued relentlessly, one that I thought I wanted. But in my quest to fulfil that goal I forgot about enjoying the journey. I twisted it into something it never should have been and sacrificed my own mental health in the process. I ignored the things that I loved, telling myself I would have time later. I would have time to write, time to spend with people, time to play with the dog, time to just exist as I am. But time isn’t guaranteed and good intentions will only take you so far.

So for 2019 I am taking a step back and simplifying. I am trusting my instincts and following my heart. I am writing again, and I can feel my soul uncurling as it awakens. I am playing with the dog and making plans with loved ones; I am doing all of the things that mattered to me, all of the things that fill my soul and help me center myself. This is going to be a year of change, a year of growth, and fresh promises. It’s going to be messy and imperfect, but all of the best moments are.

Happy New Year everyone, I hope you live this next year as authentically as you can. I hope you learn, I hope you grow, I hope you enjoy the small moments and appreciate the lessons of the harder ones. And if things get rough, I hope you remember that a single day can change your whole world. A year from now you will be a completely different person; I hope you love that person and cherish every step that got you there- the ones that you danced over and the ones you fought and clawed for. You deserve a beautiful year, and I hope you get it. Until then, lets end it on a good one.

The love of a dog (you heal me and I heal you)

“He was able to walk today without any assistance.” I clapped my hand over my mouth and shut my eyes, feeling the prick of tears. Yesterday you couldn’t; I didn’t know if you would ever be able to do that again. Those who say you are just a dog have obviously never loved a creature quite like you.

We weathered through a week of hell as you lost the ability to move your legs, curled up by my side on the floor, carrying you to appointment after appointment as we searched for the cause. It was one week of terrifying questions and focused observations; you comforting me as much as I was comforting you. And then our miracle man solved the mystery; wheeling you in for emergency surgery while we waited. It would be six hours before his exhausted voice would tell us you were okay, though it would be days before we would learn if you stood a chance for a full recovery.

Ever since you were small you made a game of testing my patience- pushing every single button your little paws could reach and then, unsatisfied, chomping on the remote for good measure until every last nerve was frayed and exposed. You, my dearest little love, were always meant to be my test. And my heart never stood a chance. You were mine and I was yours. Has there ever been a more beautiful tale to tell?

Like a sword pounding against a rock, I always felt helpless and blunted by you. You tested me in a way that I was unaccustomed to, in a way that I was wholly unprepared for. What I didn’t know was that you were my whetstone, sharpening me, strengthening me for the road we were destined to walk together. You turned me into a sword strong enough to fight both of our demons. We protect each other like Sam and Frodo; gentle and fierce.

It seems we were often at odds, you and I; fire and ice learning to balance the other. It was a dance we knew so well as we pushed and pulled at one another. We were constantly teaching the other; you reminding me that the world is meant to be lived in and explored, me coaxing you to understand that gentleness is always the best approach when facing others. I would protect you from the wayward squeakers as you liberated them from their plushy prison. You would protect me from the dangerous intruder you caught peeking through the living room window (to this day you have not realized that it is your own reflection).

Our battle of wills brought us together, though the road had been a bumpy one. I am not sure when we stopped antagonizing one another and became allies that could rival the best stories. It seems it happened slowly and then all at once. You were mine and I was yours. I wouldn’t trade a moment of it, every single sacrifice was worth it to have you in my life.

You see, what you don’t realize is that you have always been my talisman- my happily ever after in a world that I dont understand. You don’t care that I’m weird, extremely awkward and constantly anxious. You never once doubted in my abilities, though I often doubted myself. You simply loved me, finding joy in those tiny moments we spent together. You are my patronus, keeping the darkness at bay. You are my adventure, my reminder, my friend. You are my rock, my touchstone.

So right now, my dear little love, let me be yours. Let me help you the way you always helped me. Let me be the one to guard the door and keep the monsters in their closet. Trust that I will protect you during this difficult journey we are beginning- even from yourself at times. You will be okay, my darling. You are so strong and resilient. You have always tested me, but I have always tested you too. Now we are in this together, fighting on the same side as you slowly heal. Its going to be okay, my little one. After all, this is not the first monster we have faced. We made one another stronger for moments just like this.

Paper Wings and Winding Roots (be brave, my dear)

We are told to be brave, to leap without a safety net and teach ourselves to fly. And yet we are warned of Icarus, whose waxen wings melted when he soared too close to the sun. We are told to hold onto our roots and bury them deeply in the Earth, lest we forget where we come from. And yet we are warned against rigidity, and how those afraid to move will never get anywhere. We are taught to be all things, to reach for every moment this world has to offer. But we are warned be realistic and understand that dreams do not come true for all. We are taught to be everything and nothing, to break the mold, but be a cog in the wheel. It is no wonder it takes us so long to figure out if we are birds or trees, both or neither. We wander this world in search of answers and new questions. We wait for the lightning strike that will sizzle in our soul, sparking within us a fury and direction, a passion we cannot contain, showing us a path hidden amongst the stars- a path made only for us.

Can I let you in on a little secret? I don’t think there is one- a road to follow, stepping stones that will lead us forward, illuminating the path ahead. I think we were made to be wanderers, to dance in the fields as well as the skies, to climb the trees and swim in the lakes- we take two steps forward, one step back, spin in a circle, run a mile, fall and rise, rise and fall. There is a beauty in the chaos, a mystery in the motions. We are not meant to follow paths, we are wild at heart, no matter how hard we try to pretend otherwise.

As humans we like order, we like consistency; we like to point at our destination on a map and trace the road that will get us there. We have far too much faith in this system. We built cities in grid patterns, installed lights two by two to illuminate the paths we made while blotting out the stars above. We search for the recipe to perfect happiness, read books by people who found their own as we scan for the secret ingredient we could steal to find ourselves on that same peak, all the while ignoring the desperate plea from our own heart. We ignore who we are to fit into the mold of who we are supposed to be. We ignore the wild, unmanaged forests until we need an escape, a way to get back to nature, a way to rediscover our souls. So why do we insist on ‘finding our path’ when paths were never in our nature?

We are wanderers, searching for the illusive fluttering beauty known as happiness. We are adventurers, praying to uncover a well of passion and hope within ourselves. We are birds, soaring the skies and daring the sun to melt our wings. We are trees burrowing deeper as the storms rage around us, trying us knock us down to size. We are everything, we are nothing, we are stardust and promises.

I’ve spent forever searching for a meaning, taking classes, finding a good job, buying books, saving money for a house, for a car, for a vacation. Planning and planning and planning to see the world, but ignoring the wonders in my own backyard. Step by step I dutifully followed the road they promised would lead me to a good life. The scenerery changed, but my heart did not, my soul was tired as I plodded along, bored with the directions given to me, exhausted with the life I found myself in.

Perhaps what I need is to stop searching, to stop looking for the path that never existed. Perhaps I need to learn what wandering feels like, to tear up the map I’ve been trying to draw and truly look around this place I have discovered. It is not perfect, in fact, it is far from it- but I’ve learned that imperfections are the things I am most drawn to. I want chaos and the beauty of mother nature. I want to wander and throw caution to the wind. I want to dig into the Earth, swim in the seas and soar through the clouds. I want to soak up every story ever told and hear my own words ringing in the voice of another. I want it all, I want nothing. I want roots, wings, and maybe some gills. I don’t want paths and trails, I want stardust and promises.

Squiggly feelings and sleepless nights (hello anxiety, my old friend)

Have you ever leaned back in your chair too far and felt that jolt when it seemed like you were falling? Have you ever missed a step when you were walking down the stairs and suddenly your stomach was in your throat and your heart was pounding in your ears? It feels like that. But it doesn’t go away.

Have you ever watched a scary movie and felt your body tense waiting for something to jump out at you? Only it doesn’t, so you just keep peeking through your fingers and holding your breath? It’s like that, but without the giddy excitement of knowing that the monsters on the screen can’t hurt you.

Have you ever been driving down the road when your seatbelt locks up for no reason, as though it thinks you are about to crash even though everything is fine? And you have to sit there, locked in for a while, unable to really move? That’s what it’s like.

You are fighting phantom enemies with a smile on your face because no one else will understand. You are calm as a cucumber on the outside while your stomach is full of squiggly jumbled lines, your heart is pounding, hands sweaty, and you just can’t catch your breath. It is a strange moment when you find yourself trying to convince your own brain that you are okay, that everything will be fine, that you will survive this false alarm it has raised.

What people don’t realize about anxiety- I know when I’m being irrational. I know when my brain is looking at shadows and screaming ‘monster.’ But I can’t stop it. It’s not just a thought process; it’s a physical response. It’s like a migraine; I can feel it coming, but I have no power to change it. It is a tidal wave that rolls over me, washing me out to sea. And it’s so damn exhausting trying to paddle back to shore against the current.

I am not always like this. I can be the girl who (outwardly) rolls with the punches. I can be the girl who kicks ass, takes names, and dances backwards in high heels. I can be the girl who argues the intent of Nochlin’s essays on institutional powers, debate the merits of Ravenclaw vs Hufflepuff. I am the girl who can be serious, or funny, sarcastic or plain annoying. I am the girl who can be a lot of different things.

But I am also the girl whose heart was hammering so loud in her chest that I thought it might break the skin. I am the girl who discreetly made her way to the bathroom to fall apart in the middle of the workday. I locked the door, slid down the wall and sat with my head in my hands, eyes shut, gasping while trying to remember how to breath as the panic rushed through my veins, leaving me weak and terrified. Then I stood up, brushed myself off and went back out with a forced smile. I made coffee, joked with coworkers and answered the phone that just wouldn’t stop ringing. No one knew. Not a single soul realized that I was broken and terrified inside. Not one person noticed the way my eyes darted, the way I continually tapped my fingers and toes to expel the excess energy, not one person noticed the cracks showing through my carefully placed facade. No one knew that it wasn’t the first time. No one knew that it wouldn’t be the last.

I’ve had anxiety for a long time; it ebbs and flows, some moments in life are much harder than others. Some days I face my ‘normal levels,’ usually surrounding social situations. And then there are times where I spend months in a constant battle of wills with my own brain, phrases like ‘self-care’ and ‘I’m just tired’ forever on the tip of my tongue. As I write this, I can feel the squiggles inside squirming. I am jumbled up and desperately hoping I can keep my head above water. I’m writing this in hopes that I can bleed some of these emotions away; if I can capture them with words and release them into the world, diluted and harmless- then perhaps I may find a moment of peace. Perhaps I will be able to sleep for just one night.

If you don’t know what it feels like to see your own worst enemy in your eyes; then I am thankful. I hope you never do. But I sincerely hope that you remember those like me who do their best, even when it isn’t good enough. It is exhausting to spend your day hiding your monsters and your nights trying to slay your demons. It is exhausting when you lose power over your own thoughts, over the very things that make you who you are. It is exhausting to always say ‘I’m sorry’ over things you can’t control.

I had many reasons today to be anxious; I have been feeling that shadow creeping over me for some time now. I knew that today would be difficult. And yet, do you want to know what pushed me over the edge into a full blown attack? Keep in mind that I know it will sound silly; as I said, I am well aware when my fears and anxieties aren’t rational. But I can’t stop them. The little barb that managed to rip open the storm clouds overhead was a tiny thing- I finished my book and didn’t have another one to start.

At face value, it’s comical really. But the truth behind it is a bit deeper. My books are my escape hatch out of a world that I can’t control and into a realm that makes sense. There is order in my books, I feel grounded in them. They give me something to cling to in a world that sometimes appears far too foreign to me. They are my touchstone. They distract my brain when it wants to scream and wail; silencing these damned thoughts and giving me a respite from the anxiety that plagues me. When I feel the pressure that foreshadows an anxiety attack, I dive into the pages of another story to keep my brain from focusing on those imaginary little demons it conjures. When that life preserver was ripped away, I found myself drowning again without the hint of land in sight. My brain started screaming, and I was brought down to my knees.

That’s what it’s like; that’s how frustrating and irrational it is. I am normally a strong person who can carry the weight of my own little world, and yet when anxiety strikes all rationality goes out the window. I can be knocked to the ground by a missing book, by a ringing phone, by an oddly-phrased compliment. Anxiety and panic can be debilitating; though many don’t fully grasp what it means for those of us who continually struggle day after day. For those of you who do not face this battle, be thankful. I am so glad you will not find yourself in these trenches. But please, have compassion for those of us you find here struggling. To my brothers and sisters in arms; you are brave, you are strong, and you are not alone. We are in this together, allies in this war against ourselves.

Hopes for Another Year (birthday wishes)

Today was my 29th birthday. Gulp. That’s right, my friends, the 365-day countdown to a new decade begins right now. I feel like I should be veering towards an end-of-twenties crisis (like I did last year), but I didn’t. I kept waiting for it, for that slight tinge of panic as I have that sudden realization of my inevitable mortality- but it never came. Nope, instead I enjoyed my delicious mimosa(s), I wandered around a historic mansion (which led to some awesome new story ideas), traipsed through a shady part of town to see an old garden, and ate lots and lots of chocolate while hanging out with my fur babies listening to the rain outside.

Every year I blow out the candles and make the same wish. It is the same one I make when I see a shooting star. I have never told a soul what it is, out of some odd superstition that never really left me when I grew up. I won’t say the exact wish, because I still feel a bit of loyalty to the childhood version of me that would cross her heart and promise herself that she would never tell. But I will tell you that it had to do with happiness, with contentment, with finding that spark of strength within yourself. It was an abstract dream about a world in which I wasn’t always the person that I undoubtedly was. This year I will be retiring that old wish, putting it away in a dusty box along with the old dreams I outgrew. That’s because at 28, I finally figured out how to make my wish come true all by myself.

It’s true that my life is not at all where I expected it to be at this stage. But its also true that I’ve been through more than I could have imagined at this point in my life, I am a different person than I was when I drew up the picture of what my life would be like in my 20s. And I’m okay with that. I’ve always taken the scenic route, following the long road home; so it isn’t really a surprise that it took me this long to start figuring my life out. 28 was a big year of growth and change for me. I had to do a lot of soul searching, I had to face a lot of fears and crack my heart open over and over again to bleed out the poisons I had given sanctuary to. I had to embrace the people that lift me up, and step back from those that held me down. I had to sacrifice, I had to be selfless. I had to be a calm voice of reason when my world was upside down. I had to be brave, I had to acknowledge when I was weak. I had to invest in myself. I had to proudly claim who I am as a person and tell the world that I was worth it. I had to start living the life that I always talked about. 28 was a hard year, but it is also the year I have been most thankful for. I took root and grew towards the sun. And I’m not done yet.

29 will be no different. Changes will be constantly on the horizon, my life will continue to shift and morph into something that I may not recognize in a year. But I’m so excited for this new adventure. I have so many hopes for this coming year; perhaps that’s why it doesn’t scare me, getting older- because I see so much more waiting for me up ahead. I’m not just aging, I’m still growing.

This year I dream of finishing my first degree (at the very least I should be really close by the time I hit 30). I dream of finding a new house that I can call my own. I dream of focusing on this blog and my writing in general. I have been so scared of truly investing in my writing, and I think I need to do this for myself. I need one year of being brave and daring with my words, tossing my stories out into the world to do as they wish. I am so sick of hiding from who I am, from shrugging off my writing. I am ready to own it- like it or hate it, at least it will finally be out there. I dream of taking a trip to somewhere I have never been. I dream of being healthier with my lifestyle. I dream of perhaps finally marrying the man I’ve been in love with since I was a young, idealistic 20-year-old girl. I dream of reading more books and living more stories. I dream of another year full of growth and changes. It’s time to pull together an ‘end of 20s’ bucket list to inspire me for the next year.

Cheers to one more trip around the sun, my friends. Getting older doesn’t have to mean you are aging. Growing up doesn’t always mean growing old. The best way to remind yourself that your life is worth loving is to actually live it. I’m not going to let myself down this year.