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.