Ok.

I am not disgusted anymore. I've just needed inspiration!

And believe me, college campuses provide it.

Oh dear college, I will soon return to you for my master's.

The disgust is that I have cornered my thoughts into a mere blog.

Or, at best, that creativity punches me at inopportune times.

That I have yet to purchase a small journal to write in, that I have yet to remember I did buy one last year.

... where did that disappear to?

The disgust is that I have not committed myself to a thing in life that I love, and that I reap from.

And it is that I have handicapped myself with nobody's help and at nobody's request.

I ask myself again and again and again. Why do I only respond to extrinsic stimuli?

Certainly, this tells people that I cannot propel myself inwardly out.

It is all of this thought.

It is that I have no business to examine myself so much when I really need to just do it.

I just need to write.

But the disgust is that I have nothing to say.

peach, peace

I ate a peach with its fuzz and all for the first time and I watched its juices drip onto the wooden patio and land around my big toes.

I was afraid to eat whole peaches for silly reasons but today I decided to ignore my fears.

The juices ran down my fingers and my left hand caught the most. They went into the creases of my hands. They ran between the two rings on my left hand.

I was barefoot on the patio and I watched the peach juice drip everywhere and only twice did I start to gag because I thought the bite I took was moldy. Well the bites were not moldy, but I spit the chewed peach into my hand anyway and threw it over the patio's railing.

I wondered why I haven't tried this before.

I remembered that I grew up in North Dakota.

So I sat on the porch and pretended I was capturing a slice of my childhood that was yet unlived.

And I just let the peach do what it wanted. They're very difficult to control because they're so juicy and slimy.

I did not worry about work.

I did not worry about money.

I did not worry about school.

I did not worry.

Instead, I was free of those thoughts and instead, I wandered.

And in my wanderings, I began to wonder.

And I decided that unanswered questions are okay.

And that what happens, happens.

And I was at peace with these things.

I thought, briefly, that perhaps I could catch this feeling and lock it inside of me forever.

Then I remembered I am human.

I reveled.

This morning I went into my dad's woodshop with him, which is an experience few and far between in the past years of my preteen era onward. As a young girl I often (and most likely daily) visited Dad in his shop, usually making the 800-foot trek armed with donuts and coffee for his "mid-morning snack". I would let myself in amidst the buzzing of a machine or despite the saturation of furniture stain smell and I would sit on the floor with a hammer and nails and scrapwood. Dad and I would either talk or not talk at all and we'd sit there in his shop for minutes, perhaps an hour. He'd tell me about what he was working on and eat the food I brought and then I'd leave and walk back to the house.

I did that so often that the mere sight of woodchips, the singular sound of a saw, or the overwhelming smell of lacquer immediately reminds me of my father. I find a part of home in these things, and walking down the street or listening from my bedroom window to construction outside are gifts of memory to me that I greedily seize whenever I can.

This morning I walked into Dad's shop with him. It is a new shop, only about four years old, but it is nonetheless hopelessly dusty inside with mounds of woodshavings, piles of scrapwood, and papers of draftwork at his drafting table. I look around and breathe in deeply as he shows me the carvings for a bedpost, a stand-up bench for a judge. The half-done work is beautiful already and I am overwhelmed at the artistry my dad exudes. I smile at the dust-ridden rolodex that I remember from years ago. I know he still sifts through it despite the decrepit state.

I look at the machines, with their films of grime on them. As a girl I wrote notes to Dad in that dust. "I love you" or "Good job, Dad!".

I look around the room at there, balanced on a top rung of the wall high above everything else is the sticker my dad's had in his shop for as long as I can remember. White writing set against a deep blue says, "My boss is a Jewish carpenter."

So much has changed in this life. And so much remains constant.

Busy-ness drains not only time, but creativity.

(Or at least the busy-ness we sometimes encounter.

ie,

the kind I've had in my life recently.)

And so now I come to write and these are the things I remember:

I see myself tying my apron before I walk onto the floor at work, imagine the constant smell of soup in one of the homes I do therapy in, I see coffee beans pouring into a grinder or into an espresso bin, I feel myself cuddling under the covers at night, laying on my right side, pillow over my head. I see the digits on my phone light up as I call someone about flowers, someone about locking the keys in my car, call an old friend, call my mom, call the doctor, as I text you, text him, call the reception site, run to the art store, go to the bank, call about nannying, call to check in at work. I see purples and browns and greens, blues. I hear birds in the morning as I lie in bed and hug the pillow. Sun shines through the leaves on trees, on to my car's window, through the slits of a shade. More texts, more calls, more coffee beans, more breaks, some reading, more notes, less remembering. More therapy work, driving, filling up at this gas station, at that one. Stopping for food, always stopping for food. "Chicken sandwich, please!" I do not often like hamburgers. Driving, talking, planning, enjoying, burn out, sleep, waking, breathing, blinking.

Life is busy.

Life is rich.

But now I rest.

Matthew supports my bread business.

Est. Noon

Today my hands got very sticky with flour, egg, honey, salt, yeast, water, dill, and onions.

For the first time in my life I am making bread by hand. And it is completely awesome.

The event is that someone had a baby and they don't like fruit or caramel [which I cannot comprehend]. "I will make you bread," I thought to myself. And so I am. While babysitting yesterday, I scoured through The Joy of Cooking (and felt like Julia's betrayer), and came across a recipe for Dill Bread. My heart pounded, my eyes got big, and a large smile stretched across my face.

And so here I am, waiting for the precious dough to rise. I have stirred and kneaded it, pounded and rolled it. And now the ingredients sit together as they rise in the noonday sun and I sit here on my computer, catching whiffs of dill and onion from my fingers as I type.

This, perhaps, is epic. I have already started to plan for how I can work homemade bread into my schedule, and I have daydreamed about this experience morphing into my very own bread business.

Homemade bread is simply my favorite thing to eat.

Homemade bread is wonderful.

I will conquer homemade bread.

Today I am remembering how good the sun feels on my skin. I envision the days spent at the beach with friends in high school, how we'd call one another sometime in the morning and make plans to go lay in the sand that afternoon. How I would throw on a suit, squeeze sunscreen from its tube, scurry to look for a towel while Jessica waited in her Mustang, as Jordan pulled up in her Volvo. I always had a pair of obnoxious sunglasses and a book which I intended to read and never did.

We'd roll the windows down or roll the top down and drive down Highway 278 with either the radio or Regina Spektor's cd brazenly singing to the traffic. And we would sometime go to Sonic and we would sometimes honk at tourist boys and then laugh and drive off, over the bridge, onto William Hilton Parkway, and through the island until we came to Burkes Beach, where there was usually free parking.

We would track across the sand and often complain of the heat under-toe. We would decide not to care and throw our Rainbow flipflops off and run across the white, loose sand to the packed, wet sand from where the water had just receded back to low tide.

We would lie our towels down.

We would drink our gatorades or waters or slushes and we would bask in glory.

Things we talked about never meant much, else I would remember them now. The importance of the beach was not the conversation. Of course not and rather, it was the purpose of being there, of letting the sun darken us, of watching the people from Ohio mill around and look for shells and sometimes we talked about how white their skin was before looking at ours and laughing at how white ours was, too.

The beach was about just lying there and letting the wet sand soak our towels. It was about twenty minutes on the stomach, twenty minutes on the back. About pretending to read a book and instead talking about inconsequential things. It was about taking pictures, and sometimes going in the water, and never feeding our food to the seagulls.

Near the end of our stay, our stomachs would be tight with irritated redness and we would cover ourselves and haphazardly talk about aloe vera. Then we'd suggest going to the mall to shop and always decided not to because we surely get caught in traffic.

We'd walk back over the sand, complaining of the heat.

We'd get in our car and decide we needed to find something to drink.

We'd turn the music up and lower the windows and swing our seats back and throw our legs out and we'd drive back through the island.

And we would be teenagers who cared not about insurance or scheduling or jobs.

As I filled empty plastic carmel bottles, I watched a first date between a shy man with awry blonde hair and an overweight woman with a slight smile, a boisterous laugh. The two seemed oddly matched and spent an hour and a half in the store.

She came in around six o'clock and ordered a Venti Green Tea latte. Her conversation with me was short, she looked over her shoulder a few times, and held herself without slouching. It wasn't until twenty minutes later that I realized the purpose behind these mannerisms. This woman, dressed in trendy attire with hair softly blown dry, was preparing for a first date. A blind date! (I served the man as well but cannot remember the interaction we had.) I proceeded to eavesdrop as I spent time with the caramel containers. (My grandmother likes to call this "rubbernecking" - a slight euphemism that doesn't present me as the strange creeper I can be.) And so, I rubbernecked. And I found out that this woman is a very hard worker - in fact, used it (it seemed) as a way to impress her cohort. She went to school during the day, worked at night, only slept once every three days or so.

Perhaps I always heard right when she said she had a child. "It's one of those Southern Baptist things" she told him. His face was red (perhaps anxiety?) as he nodded.

"I have my child to this day." She played with her latte. "Never gave her up to my parents like some people do."

That's honorable - truly.

Anyway. What was my point in this entry? Perhaps to try and capture the delicacy of a first date. Perhaps just so all you readers out there are aware that baristas are very aware of our surroundings.

At any rate, whatever my intent, I have failed again.

I am constantly reminded of the work it takes to be a writer. Who am I kidding that to sit here on my meal break on a Sunday night produces anything worth reading?

Yet -

yet.

I also remind myself that these moments continue to sharpen that which I have found and come to love. This unwarranted talent which I desperately wish to improve.

Upon maturity, I have noticed insecurities even adults harbor to which, as a child, I was entirely oblivious. The woman waiting in line adjusts her shirt hem and then holds her hand loosely over her stomach as she stands. Someone else keeps his head and eyes down as he walks to his car in the parking lot. He searches for keys in his pocket and shuffles down the row.

A woman does not stop playing with her hair, tries to get her ponytail to look perfect.

A man does not make eye contact during conversation. Perhaps he is unsure of what he says?

A woman refuses to smile widely, for fear her teeth are not straight enough.

I see teenagers glancing at the magazines on the stands. I see them watch how, every week, the glitz of airbrush presents flawlessness, how the teenagers look at those images, how they compare.

I see some people as part adult and part their teenage self, because there are moments I pick up on what may have been an experience that hurt them. In passing someone haphazardly mentions that they were the brunt of a joke, or make lighthearted jokes about their weight or acne as a fifteen year old. Maybe they reference low grades, maybe they were not good enough to be on the baseball team, the tennis team, to be a swimmer.

Enough, enough, enough. You are not good enough because you are too short. You cannot do it because you don't think the way I do. You are not pretty enough, you are not tall enough, spirited enough, happy enough, normal.

Why can we all be so cruel to one another?

Oh, to dream this dream: that we would begin to encourage one another and even to encourage strangers. We are all insecure about something. But what if we could unanimously let whatever "it" is go? Think about what a simple compliment from a good place could do.

When you are mad with someone and hold that feeling close to your heart in lieu of trying to communicate your feelings with them, instead of desiring to eradicate the anger from between you, instead of seeking after what is good and right, you choose death instead of life. Because festering in our own emotions of infuriation lead only to bitterness, leads only to broken friendships, leads only to everything that is not love, leads to the opposite of what is life.

Circa Sam Rit.

I think I'm drinking a green tea that's a mix between coconut, pineapple, peach, citrus, chocolate, cream, merlot, and chai.

My point is that there's a lot going on with it.

However, I taste the coconut the most.

And I absolutely refuse to try and extend this small concept into an extended metaphor that will then take up the rest of this entry. Instead, how about if you're interested in it, you can meditate on the idea that this little tea cup holds many, many flavors but that one is noticeable above the rest, that another is the foundation that all of the other flavors were infused into, and that it must sit in scalding water in order to steep out anything worth drinking.

Think about these things and ask Jesus if they're relevant to you. I found some parallels.

I am sitting at Barnes and Noble again because I love this place and I usually love their tea. Right now there is a gentleman in front of me, hunched over literature. I don't think he's looked up since I set my things down nearly thirty minutes ago. Then, there is a small group of loud middle-aged women who are planning a high school senior - dinner? prom? pep rally? Who knows. The only detail I've caught (except details about Krissi Harris' life and the co-chairman of an ..auction? She's new to First Baptist, you know) is that whatever said event is does not "require students to be cleared for graduation". What a relief.

Oh, new update: a father/daughter dance? How appropriate, considering my sentiments of late.

There is milk steaming in a steal pitcher off to my left. There is the obligatory mother with the stroller and toddler in the cafe. There are two (presumably) business women chatting with their 20 ounce drinks in hand.

Why can't I stop being enthralled by places like this?

Still more awesome than I know.

take

accept

run

jog

nod

shake

drool

laugh

sob

make

clap

cut

snap

tap

boost

smile

be

see

dream

vouch

send

go

create

save

throw

whisper

grow

love

step

toss

go

live

See how you have touched this life.

Dear Dad,

I have called you more often recently because I have finally realized how close you are to my heart. It's not that I ever misunderstood your significance or even desired not to know you. Rather, in preparation for marriage as well as graduating from college, I have determined that there are a rare few people who know me and care for me as well and you and Mom do, and of late I've often thought about what it must be like for you two to have watched a life from beginning until now, and knowing that you each have an integral part in not only creating but nurturing that life. And sometimes as I drive my car or wash the dishes or put on my shoes, it will suddenly astound me; the depth of emotion you must feel about such a gift, and I realize that how difficult it must have been for you two to let me go when I was thirteen, and then eighteen, now, and then in the future when I'm thirty-seven, and fifty-three.

But be assured. You never have to "let me go". You and I, we are simply transitioning once again. Just like the time I began walking. And when I first started riding my bike alone to tennis practice. Or when I started driving and coming home later than you'd have liked.

The cliches, the phrases I roll my eyes at, the impending emotions between father and daughter on her wedding day. All of these things are beckoning me to explore them, explore how you and I fit them, discover how we are more alike than not.

I love you, Dad. I miss you, as you miss me.

You are ever close to my heart and for God's sake, I do not want to miss out on life with you.

"Know thyself" is what they told us at the College. "Know thyself" rings in minds of countless students, graduates and teachers, and people who visit the campus. It streams through the minds of people who do not visit it. It is an ever-present challenge set before each of us individually. Know thyself. Know who you are. And then follow the desires of your heart that are given to you.

Whitman said, "I contain multitudes." He envisioned himself at once as himself and the man down the street, the woman across the state, the child at the dock.

You contain multitudes. We could live together as friends for the entirety of an earthly life and I still would not know all of you. Perhaps even you would even still be learning about yourself.

The challenge to "know thyself" is one that, I am convinced, does not end with this degree or that milestone or a singular thought. Finding who we are created to be is an ever-emerging process that grants itself to us as we continue to live. There is no reason to be fearful of it or to reject it. There is only, ever reason to embrace it.

I am compassionate,

I am unsure.

I enjoy simple things but lend myself to complexities.

I am contradictory,

Loved,

Full of:

Grace unwarranted and Love unlimited.

I am ambitious,

too-sensitive,

overly eager,

emotion-oriented,

(getting better).

My face is not symmetrical. My eyes are blue. My hands are usually cold and my feet are most comfortable in large socks. At times I talk too much and wish to just be instead. I am busy-oriented, but rest is sweet. And I love to go to bed early.

I hate the television.

I love movies.

Celebrity magazines are a waste of time.

Internet gossip seems not to be,

but books are the best way to spend it.

Let us never stop asking who we are.

"You do not have a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear." (Romans)

"We are God's workmanship" (Ephesians)

One brownie, a glass of Shiraz, a leather couch. Then here.

Right now, I am home in my bed. I should be sleeping because I need to wake up at four to go to work, but I am not sleeping. Instead, I am blogging because - oh, how I have missed you! - and not because you are a blog or because you are the reader of a blog or even because I need people to read and "know me". I've missed the writing, the capture of details, of emotions, and meaning.

So, I will detail what is around me and then I will fall asleep (in all honesty, I really love making lists after my experimental fiction class had an assignment. Is really quite fun - would you be willing to try one?)

My phone is to my right, balanced on the upper corner of my mattress so that when it rings in the morning I have easy access to it (in an effort not to wake up my roommates). The phone is a cherry red Samsung with a small scratch beneath the "alltel" symbol and various other, slight scratches along the edges (presumably from dropping it over and again). It has a camera that does not work well.

My knees are up and my computer props against them. I'm nearly completely covered by a quilt that was made by someone very dear to me for my 20th birthday. It is colorful, with stripes of greens and yellows, blues, pinks, white, and red. The border is a dull green color with small white dots that remind me of birds.

And as special as my quilt is, what is really important is the blanket beneath my head. It props me up to read and write at night, but when I sleep it covers me. This blanket is misshapen, and one side is completely worn through. It is the blanket my Grandma Helen made out of scrap material for me when I was six or seven. She died soon afterward, and it'll be difficult to part with it when I get married. The only aspect about storing the blanket that appeases me is that if it is in good enough condition and if I have a daughter, she will be able to use it and love it like I have.

Then, I have this computer I type on.

Then, I have my engagement ring.

And, I stare at white metal rods above me. I sleep on a bottom bunk. Our room is messy.

I have tried to write tonight. There are so many, many things to talk about and there is such little mental endurance right now. And for that, I apologize. Tonight is an effort. It is not my best.

And with that, goodnight to you all. Best of dreams, best of sleep.

Approximately 1:45 p.m.

I am sitting at Barnes and Noble with my computer, checking my emails and responding to important ones and catching whiffs of my smelly feet. A man with a Venti drink saunters up to me and (in a heavy Italian accent) asks if he can interrupt. I begrudgingly abide (since all I want to do is play on the internet) and he proceeds to engage me in a conversation about Macbook computers.

"I notice you have one. You like it, yes?" Sips his coffee.

"Yes, I do."

"Can you download the different Internets for it? You know, I mean like the certain ones that have Google on them?" Leans in to look at my screen.

I minimize my webpages. "Yes, the computer actually comes with the Internet on it and you can download other ones."

"Oh!" He smiles. "That is perfect, so perfect. I was so nervous about that because, you know, I am a stupid little Mozilla boy. I like the Mozilla Firefox. What do you use?"

"Safari. It comes already on the computer."

"Oh! Good, good. I was nervous about that. I am just a stupid little - well you know, I am always on Google. Google everything - they know all about me. What about the iPhone? What do you know about the iPhone?"

I look at my red 2007 Samsung flip phone. "I know nothing about iPhones."

"Well what internet provider do you use for WiFi?"

"I am using the one for Barnes and Noble, which is the ATand - "

"Oh, yes! Yes, I see. You do not have a phone you plug into your computer and pft pft, have the Internet. I am stupid with those things, I do not know. You may know much more than me."

I itch my neck. "If you buy a Macbook you can take classes and they'll teach you how to use it. They have very good customer service."

"Oh, oh! That is good. That is wonderful. So you bought your Macbook and then you took the classes?"

"Well, actually I didn - "

"No, no! Of course not. You are too smart for those things. I am so stupid when it comes to this technology stuff. I just wsh wsh go into the computer and do not know what to do. But you recommend this Mac?"

"I, uh, yes. I do. I -"

"What, do you have the one with all the fancy things on it?" Sweeps in to look closer at my screen. There is a rail between us.

"No, I just have the basic one. But I - "

"What is different with the fancy one?" Leans back out.

"Um..more memory. Maybe another type of - "

"So you are saying I should save my money and get a Macbook, eh?"

We look at one another. I nod.

"Well yes. Yes, I am."

"You have been so helpful. Thank you, thank you!"

"You're welco-"

Walks away.

Bring your empty coffee cups, your weary minds, your bloated eyelids. Across the counter, hand us your ware, the tear of your day, and your tired burdens. Give us money for it and we can do anything for you. I look up and see you walk through the door, see you block the sun for a moment, and watch as you carry your legs and arms and core across the tiled floor to my register. You use your hands to hold yourself up at the counter and you stare at the menu. You tell me you don't even know what you want, and that is fine because I do not mind waiting. Eventually you say you just want a coffee. You just want a black coffee and no room. Just black, okay? You are so tired. I tell you how expensive our coffee can be and you breathe heavily and you give me your credit card. Let's just charge it to credit. I swipe it, you wait. Then I pour your coffee. I watch the dark liquid splash around the cup until it nears the rim and I cap it with a lid and I hand it to you and you thank me. We exchange pleasantries of, "Good luck at your job tonight" or, "You've made it through the day!" and then you leave.

I have the power to caffeinate the masses.

Where do you feel at home?

in bookstores

under my covers

in a car on a roadtrip

wherever I'm making coffee

whenever I am making food

under large oak trees

in a poolchair, in the sun

anywhere inside or outside my parents' house

with Matthew

with an idea and access to pen and paper

on a couch with a cup of tea

in my bathrobe, napping

From the overflow of his heart a man speaks.

We first feel. And then we speak. This concept is one that I love, that I keep coming back to meditate upon, that reminds me to maintain my heart. It spurs me on to think about things that are good and truthful and right. Because when my heart is taken care of, when my eyes first look inward at my spirit, when my sights are set on what is good, then out of my mouth springs encouragement for others and admirations of beautiful creation.

It is as if when my heart is in a good place I can experience life entirely differently. Instead of ignoring it, I am perceptive to the sun beaming through my window. Rather than irritation when my roommates' alarms ring brightly, I take advantage of waking up earlier than expected. I get excited about a cup of coffee (actually, I'm always excited about that).

And when these small, good things are tangible, then my heart is full of joy and thankfulness for them. And eventually it will be full so that it overflows into language, and my speech will be edify others.

Until that happens, I'd like to practice silence in the mornings because I don't see why I wouldn't want to seize the advantage of sensitivity to all small joys while I can.

Hereto, I have neglected this blog for 10 days.

I cannot say I am sorry for any reason except that I've now no record of my thoughts the past week, and I'd much like to maintain recording them for this reason, for that reason.

I once journaled nearly every day and, sadly, the habit escaped me. But as hypocritical as I am about it, I hold onto the posture that journaling in a real paper/pencil combo journal is not only relieving, it is nearly a necessity.

Now that I cannot fathom catching up on my thoughts this past week, I will forgive myself the discrepancy of not retaining my goals and subsequently vow to keep on with what I have started. Why have I convinced myself to write upwards of every day? Because most of it is absolute trash that one good idea will eventually spring from. I am convinced that the discipline of this exercise I've set before myself will, at some point, provide something of substance that I can reap from this blog to use in my real writing. Until then, the mere act of practicing continues to sharpen the skills I learned at undergrad, and I do not, do not want to become lazy and lose those or forget my passions as I sat in a wooden desk and took notes.

Right now I have a ridiculous bugbite on my neck that will not stop itching. Since I have sensitive skin, my neck has blown up into a red conspiracy of raw skin with the single white bugbit beaming from its center. Bugs and their bites disgust me. (I also didn't creatively use "conspiracy" like that on my own. Well, I used it on my own, but I didn't think of it by myself. It comes from Fitzgerald. He says, "Her outfit was a conspiracy of pink and purple."

He's such a clever man, isn't he? At any rate, I don't even know which short story that comes from.)

“Who has but once dined his friends, has tasted what it is to be Caesar.”
Herman Mellville, 'Moby Dick'

When you grow up what would you like to be?

I wanted to be either a paparazzi photographer, a social worker, or Celine Dion.

Paparazzi because I thought hiding behind bushes and taking pictures sounded exciting.

A social worker, most likely spawned from the Meals on Wheels we took part in.

Celine Dion because someone told me (in fourth grade!) that I looked like her and also because she was quickly becoming the famous voice of Titanic.

Then I found out that the paparazzi are a despised breed.

Then I became too concerned with myself.

Then American Idol rejected me.

And so I decided to try and write because in the end, all I really want to do is capture truth. And I discovered that even this takes work. Even this requires a vision. Even this demands I maintain persistence because anything worthwhile requires it.

Eventually I will buy a good camera.

I will help others.

I will still sing in the shower.

Modified, yes. But why not? My former self would thank me.

I finally found out how to switch the background of my blog. Not such an eyesore anymore, and three cheers to the friend who helped me!

Today is Friday. I intend to rest. And you know, I've been thinking about this quite frequently lately. I've realized how thankful I am for what I am learning right now - suddenly the pressing deadlines and schoolwork are behind me and there's a freedom that comes with that which is new. Not better, just new. And exciting. I can afford idealism. I can afford to begin pursuing so much more than schoolwork. My mind accepts the invite and tends to wander everywhere on a daily basis because I am no longer forced to submit it to a certain author or text. This is how it is new.

I'm sure that parts of my excitement also lie in the fact that I am engaged, and in the preparation for marriage I have become exceptionally excited for what's to come.

But for now:

The water faucet to my left is running. The dishwasher is spinning its cycle.

My hair is in its sad excuse for a ponytail, but it grows a small amount each day (thank goodness).

It is overcast, but it isn't cold.

It is breezy and not yet rainy.

I'm getting over my cold.

Yesterday was my last day at the retail place.

I look forward to so many things but I am content in this moment. This precise moment, and the ones to follow it. To find rest in the present - whether amidst chaos or not - is something the Lord has been teaching me of late and embracing it fully is, I am testament to, a way to live fully. I am a princess with treasures more than I know what to do. I am rich with life.

Post 19

How about just meditating today.

Words are not always necessary.

UPDATE!

I got the job. WHOO!

Now ensues the obvious: When, Where, How much?

Oh, all of that will come. I am just happy to have a job (and two, nonetheless!)

Details about the interview to follow when I can gather my mind enough to really describe things well so that you, dear reader, do not fall asleep.

Job hunt = successful.

Now, onward to pursue the GREs and continue wedding planning.

Also, I want to honeymoon in Guernsey. That is a small English channel island. I dream idealistically because as far as I'm concerned, at some point one of my ideas is bound to become reality.

Well now I've decided to try getting creative so that this blog looks appealing without ever having to read it! (And by that I mean that I've changed the font to blue.)

But as I simultaneously work on those efforts, please note that I realized yesterday that I've not mentioned my job search and results of late. And so, as I sit on my bottom bunk and drink (much too strong) coffee with my friend's foot dangling in my face from the top bunk, I will tell you the little I've learned. Helpful or not, here it comes.

First of all, I have learned to be absolutely persistent. For a week or so, I felt as if I was applying to one job every day. That is, Whole Foods, Starbucks, nannying (did I really apply? Eh.), SKIRT magazine, Carolina Autism, etc, etc. I wrote many a cover letter, copy and pasted many manager's email addresses, eagerly awaited many phone calls, and maintained the retail job.

When I interviewed for Starbucks, I was ecstatic to think I would be making lattes with them again, although I did prepare myself mentally for what I fondly call the "coffee pores". That is, after a day's

work in that environment, I leave steeped with coffee bean smell and chocolate splash

es on my arm. And I get home with a red, oily face after working at a high pace for hours amidst the espresso, and if I do not shower before sleeping, my bed will smell of the coffee shop for days. What I mean by "coffee pores" is that coffee literally inhabit my pores.

Anyway.

A wise friend told me that on cover letters I should not talk about "job experience" because that alludes to temporary work. What right-minded business folk actively seek temporary workers? Stay away from that phrase, folks! Sadly, I'd already sent my email, and so the help my friend was giving me made me question my abilities rather than help at all. But, for you reading this, now you know if you didn't already.

Also, put on your resume that "If I do not hear back from you by (date), I will call you to follow up." This alerts the potential employer how serious you are about the job. Again, I did not do that.

0-2

Bleh.

So then, you've those three tips I've learned:

1) Persistance

2) NO "work experience" talk

3) Give a date you want to be contacted by

With all of that said, I did not strictly abide by these rules, but rather wrote honestly and genuinely and sent all papers off with prayers. Thankfully, yesterday I received a call from Carolina Autism and have an interview in... one hour and a half! (That is, 10:30). I am incredibly excited about this opportunity, and will spare no details upon documenting my experience here.

I have the following fantasy:

I will work at Starbucks for a year or so, along with my job at Carolina Autism and meanwhile will begin freelancing for a smattering of publications

(including and not limited to SKIRT magazine). Eventually I will join a staff of some sorts and be a full-time writer with them. However, I will long for the days I was able to read wonderful writers' thoughts and write papers about them, and I will realize (in my later 20's) how much I want to go back. Matthew will tell me to apply to any graduate school I would like to go and I will go on to get my master's and finally, PhD.

Somewhere along the line my thoughts will morph into something of importance.

And I will write and write and write.

But for now, I will continue to dream as I drink my coffee with nonfat milk because we're out of half and half.

Can you imagine standing amidst the rubble and snowfall of a storm and looking at this mountain?

This photo was taken in Lassen Volcanic National Park in California. Much of what

we wanted to see was blocked off because of a horrific storm days before (which also ironically delayed our flights into San Fransisco), but without that storm there would not have been snow atop the mountain.

It was breathtaking. I imagined standing at the top and cringed when I thought of the hike.

Matthew and I drove the forty-five minutes from Redding, California the day before, hoping to drive through the park (of which he'd kept a surprise until the last minute). Sadly, the fog was so dense that the troupers were not allowing people into the park. It most likely had something else to do with the massive amount of snow on the roads.

The next morning we left early and traveled to Lassen again, with high hopes. We stopped at a small gas station to get a cup of coffee to share and I stayed in the rental car while Matthew went in. When he came back he told me about the old men who were sitting around a table together and drinking coffee. The gas station apparently worked doubly as diner, and as we drove away I imagined they were just about to get cards out and gamble away quarters like my grandfather used to do when I was very young. In fact, those men reminded me heavily of Grandpa Everett. I pretended those men were his friends at coffee and he sat amongst them in a flannel shirt with his robust stomach. Almost 2,000 miles from where he lived in Minnesota and over a decade after cancer took his life, I saw those men through a window in rural California, and Matthew said one sentence about them, and rushes of my childhood, of old nicknames, of his jokes came flooding back to me. And the car rolled over the hills and we shared the coffee and listened to either Bjork or The Beatles and we sped on toward Lassen.

And then I stood in front of that mountain and realized how small we are and how important those men are to one another.

And I asked Matthew if he'd like to be like those old men one day. And he smiled.

And so you would think I'd keep along with writing every day if it were as easy as blogging.

But no.

This, even this, I need to be reminded to do. BUT - I cannot be too hard on myself. Rather, let me just tell you this:

Encouragement is imperative. Tell people when you appreciate what they do because it's a high chance you will not realize how much it means to them. Thank you.

And so these meanderings from the day:

I remember much of today, but in such flashes. Don't you find that true for yourself, too? Mostly, there are colors and shapes in my mind that materialize but a moment as if to say, "Remember? You worked today, you ate today, you read today, you emailed, you did that and you did this. For an hour I did what? Yes, you wasted that time [or] that time was well-spent. You were productive, you were lazy." Flashes. Recollections. I see the flash of a large rectangle desk with fake wood - the register area at Gap. I remember a window I looked out of when I was in a friend's car minutes before I was at work, I smell the leather seats and I can still feel the ribbed steering wheel under my palms, can remember the shapes of the chairs I sat in when I got my hair trimmed at noon, distinctly recall the exact colors of the highlights in Casey's hair as she cut mine and we talked about wedding plans and about her young daughter. I remember walking out of the hair salon and wincing for fear of a breeze but I was greeted by the sun beaming onto the street corner and into my eyes. I squinted. I remember the mother and her son who walked into the store today and I laughed to myself as I watched the young boy stick his hands into his pockets and saunter after his mother with a swagger far superior than my own.

I remember reds, blues, khakis, and purples. I especially remember purples.

"Aesthetics" is what you would call it, I believe. Sensory, perhaps. I do not know the technical terms of it. Do you remember in colors and shapes, in smells and textures? I remember going to a party, talking with a friend whom I hold dear but rarely see, if ever. We spoke of New York, of Pratt and its atmosphere - the artists, the creative genius, the ambitions, the potential. We spoke of her sister, who feels at home there. I remember the yellow package I received from them, thought about when I was determined to study photography at Pratt. How easily we let dreams drift.

I remember hugging a friend goodbye, remember laughing with someone about something fleeting, remember beginning to lose my voice because of a cold and of yelling over noise.

Remember, remember. Practice and do not forget because - my gracious, life is so precious.

She looks at me and laughs with her entire face - eyes wide, mouth open, cheeks pointed. She turned two years old last week and today we sit on the balcony and blow bubbles. Her parents' house overlooks Charleston's harbor and the mid-morning sky is bright against its horizon. We take advantage of the sunny day by opening the doors of the house to play with soap and wands on porches, and as the sun beats on my lower neck, as she crouches to dip her wand, as a white car drives by, I smile. I breathe through my nose.

"La!" she cries to get my attention.

"La-a!"

I look. She is blowing bubbles over the edge and laughing hysterically again. I ask for the wand. I dip it into the mixture and blow a few bubbles. The breeze is greedy with them and we both watch as it proceeds to disperse them from one another. The translucent spheres lazily drift to another brick building, to the top of a "No Parking" sign, to a tree. But there is one bubble that goes higher, and then higher still. It is with this bubble that I become intrigued. I ask myself if the altitude will pop it, wonder if it will encounter a bug. But neither happen and the bubble continues to dance on the wave of a breeze as it capers to the ocean. The sun is high in the sky and my eyes begin to burn as I try to watch the bubble. It rises higher still into the blue sky so much so that eventually I cannot make out its shape but instead, I only see two bright spots where the sunlight most catches the bubble's surface.

"La!" She is trying to get my attention. For a moment I break my gaze and stop to help her. When I look up, the bubble has disappeared. I search the sky momentarily, knowing that it is fruitless. And although I cannot find the bubble, I'd like to think that it did make its way all the way to the waterway, carried by its breeze. I'd like to think I am as light and as free, but then I remind myself that while my body may not allow for that lightness, my spirit is certainly just as free. In this thought, I am content and I lean against the outside wall of the house and breathe.

Previously Written on Receipt Paper

Endless streams of cotton and polyester, or angora rabbit - "Will this shrink? Does it fade? How about the jeans? They'd better not stretch too much." The spandex, the wool - "It's irritating! My gracious, don't you have a tank top? Oh, that's perfect, so soft! How does it look? Mom, I really need your opinion. I really need..."

Then a family walks into the store, an entire family and their grandmother. I am folding brightly-colored shirts and the matriarch walks over to me to ask for a seat. "Of course." I stop folding and motion. "Follow me over here. See this bench?" I situate it. "This will be perfect." I close the door to stop the draft. She sits, we exchange quips about being old, about being young, and she rests on the wooden bench and drinks coffee from a cardboard container with a lid.

She watches her grandkids. There are two boys and a girl. The granddaughter, a slightly overweight, timid girl with a shy smile picks out a deep blue shirt. She changes in the dressing room and walks the length of the store to where her grandmother sits. She wears the blue shirt and a black pencil skirt and walks hunched, because (it seems) her confidence has not yet caught up with her age. She bows her head so that you can only begin to see her smile. But, I notice her mannerisms and how pretty she feels as she stands in front of her grandmother and the lady's "Oh, darling's!" and "How pretty on you's!"make the girl giggle and look from side to side. Her ankles are crossed as she stands, and her body sways side to side as she balances. Her mother looks on as her grandmother eyes shine and she sips her coffee and sit on the bench. The girl brushes hair behind her ear with her hand. She folds her hands behind her back. She remains hunched. She looks at the dirty white floor tiles.

Then,

"Excuse me? I need a size. Can you please find a size 8 long? I want the dark blue wash and I can't find it. I don't mean to be any trouble but I love this fit so much. I actually have another pair just like it at home. My husband thinks I'm crazy! Okay, so size 8 long. Can you please see if you have it?"

She stands in front of her grandmother for a few more minutes. Then she changes and they leave without purchasing the outfit.

I had many ideas about what to write today, but it's an off day and all I can think to do is sleep before a friend comes over to make dinner.

Also, the picture I just put up is obnoxiously huge. If you know how to fix it, let me know. Otherwise, please bear with me yet again as I work out kinks and such.

"Now, a coffin maker spends the day hammering wood as fast as he can get it, while the body of a 6-year-old boy decomposes in the ruins of a school." (New York Times)

No, Haiti is not the first or last to experience a disaster such as this one, but they have experienced it nonetheless. Donations, prayers needed.

Prayers, please.

A tart, a chip dipped in spinach, a carrot on the side

Please revel in your friends. That is, be aware of those whose eyes light up at your story when you tell it for the third time in one night. Remember? That story about the kids you nanny for - about the time the little girl said...oh, that's right, I've already told you this one, haven't I? She just shrugs and tell you it's no matter - "Tell the story again!" she says. You're at the climax of the story, at the punch line. And so you do finish it, even though she already knows the end. And her blue eyes shine with admiration at your excitement. You are grateful for that, but there's no need to thank her with words. Instead, thank her by suggesting a coffee date. And at that coffee date, let her tell any one of her stories as many times as she would like. And your eyes will shine at her punch lines.

Be aware of the friends who cook you food. The ones who are willing to try new recipes with you, who know the distinct difference between havarti and guyere cheeses, who cut up sixteen onions with you and, as you both weep from the odors, reminds you how good the french onion soup will be. Savor the meal with this friend; the food you partake in represents the attention your friend gives to small details. She is worth every compliment you give her. The tears from onions are worth it.

The friend whose schedule and yours never matches so often so that you resort to jokes about meeting in July, about a coffee date in 2012. Behind the jests are desires to be with one another, to share lives over a drink, over a meal, over arts and crafts. In my experience, it is worth all the mundane efforts to find a time that works, the "How about 4:00?" that's met with an "Oh, that's the exact time I need to babysit". Or, "What do you think about Saturday?" and you must say, "Can you believe I've just scheduled something else?" And she laughs and says we'll try again in a few days. Albeit an hour when you finally do meet, her mannerisms as she plays with her skirt and uses her hands to tell stories remind you that whatever time you have together is precious, so incredibly fleeting. And then, then, what about your friend who lies on your bed at midnight and reads pages from a book she's let you borrow. You doze off, imagining the "what-ifs" of your life - if it was like that character's, so bleak and uncertain. She reads, and gives the New Yorkers accents, and the Parisians accents, and you doze off. And you sleep.

What about your best friend? Oh, what is that? Why yes, we are engaged to be married. Yes, it's all coming up soon. Ready? I can't imagine being more ready. His eyes..? You've asked about his eyes. Why, haven't you ever heard they're windows into the soul? My father said that, too. Oh, his eyes. Well, if they can tell you anything then let them.

His eyes are honest and kind.

I am a Gross Person

For the following reasons -

I babysit for a family with four children every Friday. This has been consistent for the past year, and I've enjoyed being with the children because of their exuberance and unpredictability. They are all unique in their own right, and one child in particular is especially hilarious with his anecdotes as he shares his perceptions of the world with adults.

An example -

A few months ago, Matthew and I were at the family's house for dinner. We were dating at the time and not yet engaged. Isaac was having trouble figuring out how Matthew and I were both adults and spent time together but weren't married. And so, as dinner neared an end, Isaac ran away from the table to play and came up to me a moment later. He asked me to bend down and whispered in my ear, "Loywa, is Matthew yo' seestee?" (since he doesn't understand "boyfriend", obviously "sister" is a logical label).

Then, last week after babysitting for them again, I was speaking with Isaac's mother. She and I were exchanging his funny stories and sayings and right before I left the house she told me this last one: A few weeks ago, Isaac asked her if she had hairy armpits like "Lowya does". He was obvious confused over the fact that "Lowya is not married to Matthew and she has haiwy awmpits". He then asked his mom if she had hairy armpits like Laura did.

Hmph.

I approached Isaac about that conversation today. He and I were playing legos on his floor and I decided it was time to discuss the elephant in the room. As he haphazardly put together a makeshift robot out of the miniature legos, I toyed with my lego helicopter and said, "Isaac, did you tell your mom that I have hairy armpits?"

"Yes," he said. My face turned bright red.

"Why did you tell her that?" I bit my lip and started to take my helicopter apart.

"Because you do." He threw his robot into the lego pile and moved on to another toy. I sat and pouted for a moment.

I went to the dermatologist about a month ago due to what I call chronic dry skin and a smattering of blemishes. She put me on a strict regiment that I've followed, with which I've had good results. Until recently.

I believe my shampoo and conditioner have, of late, adversely affected the skin around my hairline. This includes small bumps that are not white heads but do not disappear, even with the Aczone I rub into them nightly.

BUT

today I sat in my silver Honda outside the apartment after driving back downtown and looked in the mirror to notice these bumps were actually blackheads. Huge ones! I couldn't believe my eyes. I then proceeded to eliminate all of them from the surface of my skin. Thank goodness I'm parked behind an SUV, I momentarily thought.

Then, I found a huge one. And the only reason I say this is because you mustn't imagine the actual blackhead but rather the entire situation. I was sitting in my car, poking at my face and suddenly my eyes got wide as I inspected the tip of my finger. Then, embarrassingly enough, I actually contemplated whether or not to send a picture of the blackhead to Matthew (when we first met, we were amazed at how much dead skin you can rip off your leg after a sunburn, so I thought it was fitting). I even got my phone out to see if I could take a quality picture to show the size against my fingertip.

But, I decided not to send him the picture in the end. I did something further disgusting, like flicked the thing somewhere, and then I began to put my phone back in my purse. As I leaned over to do that, I glanced out the window and saw two girls my age sitting on a cinder block fence, ten feet away from me. They were polite enough to pretend they didn't know I was directly in front of them, but we briefly made eye contact so that I'm certain they saw the entire episode. And there they sat, just as if nothing happened! One, with her long blonde hair in a headband and a teal t-shirt on, and the other in houndstooth or the like, and both just glancing around at the trees and sky with smirks on their faces.

What was I supposed to do? I grabbed my laptop case and coffee traveler and quickly got out of the car, with my dignity destroyed and the side of my face swollen from prodding.

Stolen Thoughts from a Wise Friend

today I am going to copy/paste this thought from another blog because I think it's important to meditate on:

"[Jesus] went to where the people were and allowed them to come and listen....He asked the Samaritan woman at the well for a drink of water, then waited on her to take the conversation further...did not force himself on anyone but he took a step out and allowed that person to take a step forward before he continued. If we want to be like Jesus [we need to] build relationships and earn the right to be heard. This look[s] different for everyone and may look different in every situation but what we can all do is look for where God is at work already and go there."

Good Morning!

A few thoughts as my minds meanders through the morning:

I should upload pictures onto the blog.

Also this:

I am amazed at how the Internet connects us to people who either are or have been significant to us in the past. For example, my high school english teacher. Not only did we connect on Facebook a few years ago, we recently connected on here as well. One of the women who inspired me to pursue a study in english and writing can now read this or I hers. At any rate, I thought it was all very poetic and wanted to share that with the seven people who follow and may read this.

I slept in today. Ladies, gentlemen, do not underestimate the depth of rest we reap from sleeping as the sun shines through a curtain on our windows. Maybe this isn't for everyone, but I encourage everyone to try it. This morning I slept until 9:45 and I do not regret it.

Alas, I have neglected my promise to begin writing about universal ideas on here. Still, I sit and write about myself, which really could be a bore. So then, if you continue on with me in faith, you will not be disappointed. I first must learn how to work this blog, etc.

I work at the retail job today. And then have dinner with the six girls I currently live with. Intermittently I intend to enjoy the sun.

C'est la vie!

To make up for not writing on Sunday

Currently:

Sitting in a swivel chair that is not mine.

Ankles crossed, propped on my bed.

Folded pair of gray leggings, strewn mess of a new purse, blue socks, pajamas, a thank you note, and one flower crafted by a young boy, made of Charleston palm fronds.

The light is on. Also on the nightstand is: one plastic red cup with hearts on it, water in the bottom, a roll of toilet paper used as makeshift Kleenexes, a sampler of Armani perfume, a tile with a photo of Matthew and me, a card from my grandmother that says, "Have a fun day on your graduation. Sorry I have to miss it". A black hair-tie, assorted bobby pins, a note.

I have: coffee breath, hair in a headband, a cardigan on, sun-kissed cheeks, a cough that lingers from the fan spinning dust in the air all night, and I must use the restroom.

Today marks: exactly one month since I graduated college with my English degree.

Also: I am going to two vintage consignment shops to look for bird-cage veils for my wedding day.

Furthermore: I cannot wait to be married.

But: Lord-willingly, we won't have children for awhile.

Admittedly: I am still too selfish for kids.

Amen.

Notice: My purple African Violet has grown so much that it is too big for its pot. This flower symbolizes renewal and growth to me, as I received it as a gift and promised to nurse it back to health. It was nearly dead with four leaves at that time. It now has over thirty leaves and countless blooms.

The cliches hold true for a reason; people describe their inner feelings as best they can as attempts to share emotions with people they care about and as a result we are left with love being described as: fireworks, blooming flowers, chills on our necks, or butterflies in our stomachs as our breath becomes short. There are so many overstated metaphors, used over and again to try expressing what love feels like. How is it possible to describe it? It isn't.

But you and I both know we've had such moments as the above sayings try to encompass. What I mean is that whether we'd laugh and shrug away our feelings or not, we've felt "fireworks", been "short of breath", perhaps - even admittedly - experienced "butterflies".

Just now I was walking home and as I crossed the street at an intersection, I was overcome with the presence of love in my life. What I mean by that is the ability to be vulnerable with others, to feel at ease amidst imperfections, to know that there is forgiveness for mistakes, for saying the wrong thing, for mixing up coffee date times.

I suppose in this moment I have so many thoughts regarding what I think and how I feel about love that this blog post comes across scattered and disjointed. Perhaps it makes sense, perhaps it means nothing to whomever is reading this. [Doesn't that further support the stereotypes of how love makes us act? Here I am, trying to describe to you the depth of my feelings and my thoughts and I am miserably failing.]

It's alright. Perhaps next time I'll take time to edit my attempts at a post about love, or perhaps again I'll revel in the confusion that arises from trying to adequately express how love makes me feel. At any rate, I know love is Divine.

This just in:

I am not entirely original, which should come as a surprise to most of you.

Here is what I know:
Today while I labored away at my retail job, I helped customers complete transactions across the POS (that is, Point of Service). One exceptionally cheery lady was buying clothes for her daughter. We talked about the plight of contemporary graduates and I haphazardly mentioned that, in order to record my meanderings, I started a blog. She was floored and told me all about her daughter's blog page and how she has recently, and avidly, started reading blogs written by "single and engaged early to mid-twenty year-olds who are out of college and jobless".

This intrigued me immensely. Somewhere out there in the virtual realm, there is an entire community of us - women with degrees who cannot find jobs and, along the way of attempting to find and secure something, begin blogs. The customer told me that in her experience the blogs are written by women who "exercise, eat yogurt, and walk their dogs". It's true that I was flattered to automatically enter into this stereotype, but what is more true is that I do not own a dog and I do not exercise. However, I do often eat vanilla yogurt. So, maybe it works.

Alas, all of us bloggers must find one another. We ought to band together for the common cause of ..well, for the common cause of..

...

hm.

Oh! Here: We MUST band for the common cause of union through having the same ideas, to celebrate ambition, so that we can cheer to our passions, ignite and spur one another on toward achieving our goals, propel our ideas into the realm of action, thwart feelings of isolation, feelings of worthlessness, feelings of "I can't do this". We must honor one another, challenge one another, support one another, unite! Unite! We must band!

Oh, bother.

Look, I need to be honest here. I was called in for an interview to Starbucks on Monday. I think there's a good chance I will get the job because they're hiring and I've previously worked for the company for three consecutive years. So really, I may have found a job. But, I do not regularly exercise, I do not have a dog, and I do not plan to make a career out of Starbucks. So then, I find every reason to maintain my blogging work, so that I can still document happenings, etc. You know the bit.

And I promise I will begin to be more thought-provoking. I can see how people easily become attached to their blogs. Here, I've found a sounding board that allows my free-association not only to run its course without interruption, but I can also make it available online for the entire world to see!

The world wide web is ________________.

Thank you for reading.

I should explain myself.

The title of this expedition is "The Graduate Who Could" for these reasons: a) I recently graduated, b) the job market is nilche c) NPR always counts the statistics of how many graduates are not finding jobs and d) I am very hopeful that I will, in fact find a job. Therefore, loosely based off the children's book "The Little Engine that Could", I've decided to document my experiences, frustrations, and/or the fruits of job searching in "these hard times".

Therefore, even though my name is Laura, my blog name is entitled "esperanza", which is Spanish for hope.

First Post

So.

This is my first online post.

....

I mean, this is it. I can actually publish myself online. After three and a half years of rigorous English classes, this is what I know:

I could have skipped them and become a self-publisher in the virtual realm.

Oh, but I only joke. Here I am, finally joining the "blogsphere" willingly, excitedly, expectantly. Expectant of what? These fleeting thoughts are my expectations for my quaint blog page:

Firstly, foremostly, and primarily, I have created a blog in an effort to will myself into believing I can be productive without scholastic deadlines. Of late, I have felt rather inadequate as my days pass and upon reflection I realize I've done nothing but participate in four or five separate coffee dates wherein meaningful and worthwhile conversations are held, but which I leave with no more money than I originally had (less, in fact) or any more - how would you say it - I leave without anymore goals set before me. That is, coffee dates are good in so many ways, but I have become so encapsulated with them that it seems I am more privy to sipping from a warm mug and reminiscing childhood or discussing gender and sexuality rather than really pursuing that which I am passionate about. This passion is, of course, writing. And so, this blog primarily serves to support my insatiable want of purpose and feedback with my writing. I no longer turn in homework assignments to receive them back with comments. I've been through the alleged "ringer" of college, made it out, and now aimless wander the streets of Charleston in search of coffee, a job posting, of freebies from businesses.

Secondly, I told many, many people that I planned to do this for the above reason and I stubbornly refuse to go back on my word. So, this marks the beginning of my blog journey. Whether or not I maintain it is yet to be known. Honestly, there's a chance that if I'm not encouraged to, I will disregard this entire effort - which is just part of who I am (that is, feeding off of extrinsic incentives, which is actually quite shallow, yes?)

And lastly, I would love for this to be a place I can come to and sort out my thoughts, to delve deeper into why I think this or how that affects me. What I mean is that this entire bit with Haiti has been on my mind, and I often have insights while working my current retail job that I am not apt to share with others for one reason, for another. Here I am, blogging. Writing. If anything, this will be a good practice for me.

But for now, I need to go get the sweet potatoes out of the oven. We're having roasted apple sweet potato soup for dinner, and my responsibility was to bake the potatoes to perfection. (Which is another I love to do, but I do believe a blogging site was already based off cooking and ahem, made into a movie. In fact, I loved that movie and I love Meryl Streep, even if that's not how you spell her name.)

Here I am, sitting on my bed on the lower bunk with a beer to my left and a wall to my right. The potatoes are starting to burn and I have ushered in a new concept to my recently-shifting life. Here, here is my blogspot. Welcome to it.

I hope it's mutually beneficial.