Archive - August, 2011

for these are the [days.]

August 28, 2011 in lessons learned, my story, stories with 0 Comments

photo credit: http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&tab=wlphoto credit: Google maps

i know a girl who is a good sister, a good woman, and a good friend.

this friend is a champion of brave; traveling across the country for love. she believes in the good, trust in her Creator, and never forgets to stop and smell the roses.

she does life like i hope my kids do; with gusto, enthusiasm, and a truckload of trust in Jesus to pull her through anything and everything.

she confidently approaches each day, relishing the fact that her daily bread is already provided.

this friend reminds me that the tomb is empty, victory is ours, and Love wins. she reminds me to live like those things are true.

this post is for you, my dear friend, because you make me proud.

this post is for you, because you teach me about grace, forgiveness, laughter and spontaneity.

this post is for you, because this week you are embarking on a journey that most women would be far too scared to ever  take.

you are risking so much, taking a leap of faith, and jumping into the arms of Jesus who says you can trust Him.

you are giving all you’ve got to something that’s worth it.

you, my dear sister, are exactly the way you’re supposed to be. He has crafted you beautifully, inside and out, and He is using that beauty to shape the lives of so many people.

your story is a powerful testimony to the fulfilling act of trusting; and it is a story that cannot be told without the grace of God. your story makes much of Jesus. with each step you take in this journey, you pluck at a string within my heart that reminds me of the song God sings to us about being brave, courageous, and firm in our faith.

it encourages me deeply to watch you take each step, not knowing exactly how it’s going to turn out. that’s the beauty of trusting God: you never know how it’s all going to tie together, but you always know Who’s doing the tying.

we are women who like to connect the dots. we like to know how things work.

but sometimes in life, you cannot connect the dots until you are looking back.

it’s like the sewing of a tapestry: if you look underneath, it’s all of those messy strings going back and forth, zig zagged and tripping over themselves. it looks like there are a thousand mistakes, like there is no possible way that this could ever make sense, that it could ever turn into something beautiful.

and then, after some time, you turn it over. and it is a beautiful picture and you breathe in so suddenly that all you can do is exhale just as quickly and say, “no better timing.”

my hope, my prayer, my heart’s desire is that one day you will look back and see the beautiful tapestry God has woven of your life, specifically of this season. that you will be caught off guard as you reflect, and all you can do is exhale, thanking God for His perfect timing.

my prayer is that as you tell your story, you would turn others to the Story of Jesus. that as you encounter new friends and a new community, they would meet you and feel that they are reminded of Jesus, that they would nearly recognize you because of your resemblance to Jesus. that when they spend time with you, they feel closer to Jesus because He is so intertwined with your words and laughter and actions.

you are a brilliant beacon of faith, hope, and love. you represent a woman who is unafraid, a proverbs 31 woman who can “laugh at the days to come,” and you are a pioneer for all of us as we question what we would be willing to risk for love.

you, my dear sister, are an inspiration. thank you for being brave with me, for these are the days.

#thatssoessy.

to write or not to write. [indie ink]

August 25, 2011 in 20-something troubles, creative fiction, stories with 3 Comments

this is my first attempt at fiction in awhile, but indie ink has challenged me again. if you want to get in on the fun, follow it here and sign up here. this week my challenge was from kat who blogs over here. my challenge was “popular burger shop uses tainted beef patties.”

someone told me a long time ago that to write well, you must write what you know. well, i know that there are wars in far-off lands that devastate thousands of people on a daily basis. i know that there are natural disasters occurring far too often that are leaving far too many people displaced and injured. i know that there are politics to be argued, hungry children to be advocated for, and world peace to be found. when i decided to study journalism, i had all of these things in mind to write on. i was going to sit at a desk in a big, tall building in the middle of a bustling city and write about things that mattered.

but as i sit at the intern’s cubicle inside of the big, tall building in the middle of a bustling city, where i spend many hours a week as a 28 year old intern, i am not writing about things that matter. in fact, i am not writing at all. i am thinking about what to write. because my editor has given me an assignment that i can’t quite grasp. in fact, it’s the only chance he’s given me in months. and it’s about food. more specifically, a particular neighborhood favorite burger place that has recently been accused of serving low-grade meat in their burgers. he wants me to expose them entirely, to rat them out to the public and outrage the customers, causing uproar, intrigue, and a high amount in newspaper sales. he told me that if i write this piece, i will finally show him that i’m ready to write about current affairs, politics, or relief efforts in other countries. i will finally get opportunities i’ve been waiting for since journalism 1001. the door will finally be open and i can soar through it with the dignity i’ve been scratching at for nearly a decade.

so what’s the problem with taking a family-owned-and-operated delicious burger restaurant and throwing them completely under the bus? well for one thing, they’ll be out of business in a heartbeat. that will put a lot of college kids in a panic when they realize their favorite late-night-food source is now gone. but that’s not the problem. it will probably give the city a bad name for not regulating the health code more carefully, which will reflect poorly on other restaurants in the area as well. but that’s not the problem either. i would have to write an eloquently compelling article that captivates an audience and paints a picture for weeks to come so that i impress my editor and finally gain some respect in this prison i call work. but even that’s not the problem.

the problem is that the burger place is owned and operated by my dad and step-mom.

martin luther king, jr once said, “the hottest place in hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict.”

mark twain was quoted as saying “it is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world and moral courage so rare.”

and ernest hemingway said, “what is moral is what you feel good after, and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.”

i guess you get the picture. and yes, i’m considering it.

i’m sitting in this big, tall building, thinking about ruining my dad’s dream just for the sake of achieving mine. i’m faced with a moral dilemma, a conflict of the soul. if i refuse the assignment, i may as well pack up my desk (and by desk i mean a two foot counter space in a cubicle shared by four interns) and say my farewells (no one really knows me. i’ve been here four years and the receptionist still calls me by the wrong name) and kiss my career as a journalist goodbye, because i won’t be getting any more assignments. if i go through with the piece, my dad would be crushed. after my mom died, he used his life’s savings to open this place and when the economy took a downfall, he had to downgrade his meat selection. he knew it, i knew it, we all knew it. but no one said a thing because we figured no one would find out, plus he loved this restaurant! and then some dumb girl decided to work (intern) in a newspaper office for way too long and get assignments that were way too infantile and never stand up for herself against her mean boss, and now the entire restaurant’s reputation is at stake.

so i sit. and i think.

and then it hits me like a brick wall, and i know exactly what i’m going to do.

don’t you?

[learning] slowly.

August 13, 2011 in comedic relief, lessons learned, my story with 1 Comment

reading through my old papers from a creative writing class i took in college, i found this. enjoy!

 

I used to be a slow learner. It used to take me forever to figure out how to do things. I tried to hide behind it in little ways, never acknowledging the kids who asked me why I still wore Velcro shoes, or why I had to place a finger after every word I wrote to ensure I would leave the proper amount of space. Mom used to tell me I was just more dedicated to my education, so I took my time. It didn’t bother me; I never noticed it. I eventually learned how to tie my shoes and correctly space my words, it just took me a little longer than everybody else. I even eventually got faster at learning things in general. But, like I said, I used to be a slow learner.
I remember the day my parents bought me my first bike. I was turning eight and all I wanted was a bike. All the boys in my neighborhood rode bikes and I wasn’t about to go against the Day Street norm. So, a bike I received. It was army green and just my size – once Dad adjusted the seat. It was from the second-hand store because Mom said we were “on a budget” but it didn’t matter to me. The reflectors shone bright as beams of light and the handlebar even had a horn. I was ecstatic, to say the least. I felt like I was on cloud nine as I began to mount my very own bike for the first time. It fit me perfectly and it felt natural to be seated on it. My hands gripped the rubber handles and I saw the reflection of my glasses in the metal handlebars. I gripped so tight that the rubber ridges left ridges on my palms.

I gave it a little bounce. I liked the way the tires sprang me back up. I was lost in the moment, bouncing and gripping. It was sensational.

“Now Rach,” Dad began. “You haven’t quite learned how to ride a bike yet, so for now we’re going to have to attach…”
Don’t say it, I thought. I know you’re not going to make me use…
“…training wheels.”

My cloud quickly evaporated. As I left my position of excitement, I could already hear Michael Spencer and little Steven Ebelheir laughing.
“We also bought you a helmet and matching wrist guards. We don’t want you having any accidents!”

This was getting worse and worse by the minute. What’s next? I wondered. A leash-harness so that I don’t wander too far on my four wheeled bike?
Though my disappointment sank heavy at first, I bounced back with resilience and regained my original enthusiasm for my new hobby. I began riding my bike every second I had. My street had an excellent hill and once you reached the tip top there was a huge flat part – perfect for a beginner like myself. All my free time went to riding my bike. I even remember getting my hair cut and all I could talk about was my bike.

“What kinds of dolls do you like to play with these days, Rachel?” Coleen asked me.
“I don’t play with dolls, I ride my bike!”
“She doesn’t play with dolls? Not even Barbies?” She seemed shocked.
“No, she loves riding her bike. If you had asked me what I thought my little girl would love, I would have said Barbies, too. Turns out you just need to give her two wheels and she’s a happy camper!” Mom replied.

My younger brother almost never spoke. He was either too busy sucking his bottom lip or sleeping. But every once in awhile, he decided to contribute to the verbal dialogue that surrounded him. Usually when he piped up, it was like ice cream on a hot day, and you wanted to be sure to listen.
“Four wheels,” he corrected. This was not one of those ice cream times.

I trained on my bike like a runner for a marathon. It was all I could think about, and every day I rode just a little bit longer. I would race home after school and practice riding before my friends came home from their after-school activities. I didn’t want anyone to see me in my training wheels. Unfortunately, my friends would catch me every once in awhile and as they raced past me on their perfectly-balanced two-wheeled bikes, I would grimace and pretend that maybe they didn’t see my secret little helpers. Months passed of this charade. Slow learner or not, this was getting ridiculous. I was going to have to get rid of these soon or say goodbye to my social status in the neighborhood.
The day I rode without my training wheels was monumental. I felt like I had crossed a bridge that I would never even get to; a memory that will be filed right next to my wedding day and the day I hear the first cry of my newborn baby. With the wind in my hair and the sun on my back, I rode like a pro. No longer was there the annoying sound of the extra wheels on the ground. No longer was all my dependence on those little wheels; I was all on my own balancing like a pro. As I heard Papa in the distance screaming “Way to go, Rach!” I knew that I had accomplished a major feat, and I could not wait to show off to my friends.

The next event I remember quite vividly. In fact, it is probably one of the most traumatizing experiences I have ever had. A new boy had moved onto Day Street. He was eight years old and had no siblings; a perfect addition to our cohort. I journeyed down my driveway and into the street where Michael, Steven, and a few others were gathered in a semi-circle.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“We need to meet this new kid, doy!” bellowed Steven.
The new kid – Jonathan – slowly left his driveway. His overwhelming precaution made his feet move so slowly, I thought he forgot how to make his legs push the pedals. He slowly rode over and I heard a sound that triggered my gag-reflex. What is that? I wondered. I couldn’t place the familiar noise. Then I saw what made me both incredibly happy and unequivocally scared all at the same time.
Training wheels. His bike had training wheels. I wasn’t the last eight year old to use training wheels! It relieved a part of me that still thought I was the slowest learner of all. It was both refreshing and nerve-wracking, all at the same time.
We began to interrogate Jonathan. We shot several questions at him and found out he watched the same cartoons as us, but had never cut a worm in half. Tim told him about the vitamins in ants and Steven began to tell a joke. It was the only joke he ever told because it had a bad word in it. Steven’s mom told him he couldn’t use that word, but he did anyway. I never told on him though because Steven was bigger than me and one time he sat on me when I wouldn’t give him my Dilly Bar.

Jonathan did his best to only give one-word answers and I was about to write him off as the “shy-and-quiet type” that Mom always said my brother was. But then he took in a deep breath and looked around at all of our bikes. He checked them out like he was taking inventory and everyone fell silent. He then seemed amazed as he realized the one similarity between all of us.
“Wow, you guys ride your bikes without training wheels?” he asked.

My face got hot. What I wanted to say was it’s okay, Jonathan! I wanted to say that not everyone knows how to and it’s hard, it’s so hard. It took me like months and months longer than any of these boys and that has nothing to do with me being a slow learner – it’s hard stuff to ride a bike without training wheels. I wanted to scream reassurance at him so that he knew he wasn’t the only one in the world who hadn’t learned by now. I wanted to say all of that. Instead, I said something entirely different.

“Yeah, we’ve been riding without training wheels for like a year!”

You know those moments in movies where someone says something really stupid and everyone who is watching the movie is screaming at that person to “take it back!” and “tell the truth!” but the person in the movie can’t hear them because they aren’t paying attention to the most obvious things in the world? That’s kind of how I felt.

For a good 35 seconds, everyone was eerily quiet. Then Michael Spencer looked at me. I have failed to mention thus far that Michael Spencer was two things to me; my neighborhood friend, and the boy of my dreams. I secretly believed we were going to be in love and I doodled his name on my Lisa Frank binder in places no one could see.

He stared at me long and hard and before I knew what to do, he spoke.

“Whatever, Rachel! You just got your training wheels off last week!”

It took approximately .3 seconds for everyone to erupt in laughter, and even less time for my face to turn bright red. My heart dropped into my stomach and felt like it was going to fall out. I probably shouldn’t have said that, I thought.

As they all rode off, New Kid included, I sank slowly into my army green bike seat. Mortified and completely demoralized, I headed home. The scene could only have been more pathetic if it had started raining.
I hung my head low as I took off my wrist guards. I didn’t know why I had lied and I didn’t know when I would regain respect from my peers. In later years, I would learn that it didn’t really matter what they thought. I learned that it’s okay if I take a little bit longer to learn things. But, like I said. I used to be a slow learner.

terms and conditions – indie ink parte dos.

August 11, 2011 in 20-something troubles, comedic relief, lessons learned, my story with 2 Comments

back again for some indie-ink writing challenge love. to join the fun, register here, and follow them @II_Challenge. this week, i was challenged by Kelly, who blogs here . and i challenged Stefan with “the top 5 scenarios that make you uncomfortable.”

happy reading!

my prompt was “Terms and Conditions May Apply”

…to a full-time job.

If you’re an average American, you grew up in a household where mom and dad (or stepmom and dad, or just mom, or grandparents, or legal guardians, or dad and dad, or any other non-traditional parental unit) dropped you off at school at 7:30am on their way to work and then came home shortly after 5:00pm. You got used to them coming home, feeding you, tutoring you, bathing you, fighting with you about bedtime – and then winning said fight – and then tucking you in. Arguably, the worst part of your day was between the hours of 8 and 5. Not only were you forced to be separated from your parents (who are still the coolest people on the planet), you have to spend the day exercising your brain in ways that sometimes make no sense at all. You’re spending eight hours getting bullied or learning fractions or being taught how to put spaces in between your words when you write. You spend 18 years in this manner; somewhere along the way it translates that all of this is adding up to someday when you will have a full-time job – a career into which you have already invested a lot of time, passion, and energy. You then spend four, six, eight, or more years studying at the undergraduate and/or graduate level, and you get a little more excited as you can taste this “someday” a little bit more distinctly. Promises of huge paychecks and purposeful work is the undertone of your 200-person lectures, and the commencement stage is like fire under your bare feet as you leap like a gazelle off into “someday.” You can’t wait to finally spend those crucial eight hours a day completing award-winning tasks and smiling like Buddy the Elf.

And then you get offered a full-time job from the first place you sent your resume that pays six figures and you live happily ever after, making money saving lives and taking names.

Oh wait. That didn’t happen to you? Yeah, me neither.

There are some terms and conditions to having a full-time job:

You might hate it.

Let’s be honest – you very well might currently think that the worst part of your day is still between the hours of 8 and 5. Sometimes, entry-level jobs are just another medium used to show you something you don’t like at all. After spending your college years scheduling your classes no earlier than noon and never ever never scheduling more than two classes back-to-back (more than 4 hours of sitting? #rookiemistake) it comes as quite a shock when someone requires you to be showered, fed, and energetic at the sharp hour of 8:00am. Not only that, they then require you to spend roughly eight straight hours sitting down in front of a computer. Albeit a paid requirement, it still sucks as you watch your ass slowly take on the shape of your office chair. It’s exhausting doing mundane work like that, and it’s impossible to do it once you lose passion for the work you’re doing. What started out as the perfect post-grad opportunity has now diminished your will to live. You begin to hate the sound of your alarm at 6:30am, and 2:30pm comes with a cement wall of exhaustion, bringing with it a headache and an inability to remember what it’s like to ever not be sitting in this office chair, in front of this computer. Drinks after 5:00 with your fellow 20-something coworkers who are also having quarter-life crises becomes therapy. You come straight home and watch reruns of Let’s Make a Deal and TLC specials until you crash into your bed. You really might hate having a full-time job because it is nothing like the dream that you were promised.

You might change your bedtime.

 

There were days when I thought going to bed before 2:00am was a sign of weakness. When you’re in college, your peak hours are between 10:00pm and dawn. This is when life happens – the studies, the parties, the getting-into-trouble-moments, the Define The Relationship talks – everything except sleeping. You learn how to function off four hours of sleep by overloading on caffeine and processed sugar.

Once you get a job that requires your attention shortly after sunrise, you change your sleeping habits. You slowly start to get tired earlier and earlier into the evening. The day you feel sleepy at 8:00pm, you start to lose your mind. After months of working in a full-time job, you might not even be able to recognize midnight if you saw it walking down the street.

You might form habits that will stick with you forever.

You will go from being able to splurge on $5 lattes every day on your way to class to being forced to make coffee in your crappy apartment that looks nothing like the already-furnished on-campus cottage you used to live in. You discover that maybe a spoonful of sugar and a drop of milk may not be the preferred flavor in your coffee, but it sure tastes a lot better than the over-priced creamer feels coming out of your bank statement every two weeks.

You will learn how to budget: When you work in a bar, you treat cash like Monopoly money because it’s just always in your wallet. When you want to go on vacation, you work doubles for a week and then you take five straight days off. When you get your paycheck, it gets spent like this: rent, beer, fast food, Starbucks, that new pair of shoes, beer, Red Bull energy drinks, fast food, happy hour, and DVDs from the $5 bin at Wal Mart. When you have a full-time job that pays a set salary, you learn that you get paid at the beginning of the month and that’s it (For you lucky kids out there, you might get paid again on the 15th, in which case I stick my tongue out at you. #privileged). Once the reality of this pay-period kicks in, you spend your money like this: rent, student loans, car payments, and boxes and boxes of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese. You then set money aside that you cannot spend immediately, and use it towards gas for your car, groceries, and savings. If you run out of this money, you don’t get to buy energy drinks or ukuleles off of eBay just for the hell of it. You have some money, you spend it, and then you don’t have that money again until the 1st of the next month, which always takes forever to get here. You learn to wait for the 1st, to spend/save wisely, to cook chicken and eat it throughout the week instead of living your life through drive-thru windows.

You will learn how to cherish your weekends. It doesn’t make sense that Saturday is so far from Monday, but then Monday comes way too quickly after Friday. Sunday afternoons begin to leave a bitter aftertaste as they quickly go by. On a Tuesday, 5:00 never arrives; on a Sunday, it comes and goes like a Lindsay Lohan tabloid.

You might start to feel really old.

The ache in your bones on a Friday afternoon feels different every week, and the fact that you know about things like life insurance plans and which gas stations have better prices, begin to make you feel like a 50 year old trapped in a 24 year old’s body. I am told that this passes; that after a few years in the rut of wake up, work, watch Netflix, go to sleep, I will begin to feel a little more inspired and a lot less disappointed.

If you can deal with all of these things, then you also realize that having a full-time job isn’t horrible. It’s actually kind of fun. Yes, we all miss the days when we could make last minute decisions to go to a midnight showing of High School Musical 3.  But there is an end to every chapter in order to make way for a new one. The terms and conditions aren’t so bad after all.

mean girls and bubble gum.

August 9, 2011 in bible verses, jesus, lessons learned, my story, stories with 3 Comments

the thing about girls is that we are all kind of wired the same way. some of us would never admit that, but if you truly sit back and evaluate yourselves, you would see that we actually all kind of basically the same in some ways. sort of.

wow. now that i’m off to a really solid, committed start, let me explain. i’m just going to put it incredibly bluntly: there are some mean girls in the world. and not like, the rachel mcadams kind. because that movie was actually awesome — both in writing caliber and in meaningful message. i mean, rachel mcadams was hateful, definitely.  but please get tina fey and lindsey lohan images out of your head while you read this. because i’m talking about so much more than a movie.

i think there is a serious, devastating lack of respect amongst christian women.

ladies, are you ever mean? do you ever get so mad or embarrassed or hurt that the ground feels like coal on your bare feet? does your anger or embarrassment or self-deprecation overwhelm you so much that it manifests itself in hateful words? and do you feel incredibly satisfied once you shoot out the witty array of snarky words? do you catch her eyes as you completely defeat her with your rhetoric? when she looks completely distraught, do you feel bigger?

let me break it down.

we are taught how to be good daughters. when we are little, there are well-thought-out VBS curriculums that do a phenomenal job at teaching us how to be good daughters. with bright colors and simplified Bible stories, we learn to be obedient and to be forgiving toward our siblings. we learn to share, to say sorry, to repent.

i remember when i was 7 or 8 we were at a vons grocery store getting milk or something else that a family of 5 frequently runs out of. when we were paying for the milk, i saw a packet of bubbilicious bubble gum that just simply. looked. divine. so i grabbed the packet of gum, put it in my pocket, and went on my merry 7-or-8-year-old way. as we were driving home, the gum felt like a ten-ton-fireball — i had to get it out. as i chewed on at least three huge pieces, making a giant wad in my mouth (the only way to eat bubbilicious bubble gum), my dad noticed my bulging cheek. “rachel, where did you get that gum?” silence. (well, slobbery chews. but no words.) “rachel, did you take that from the store?” my face got hot. i think i drooled. i’m always a dead giveaway under high-pressure situations. instant tears and a quiet “yes.” was all i could get out.

we immediately turned around. my loving, purposeful, sometimes-not-so-patient, teacher of a father marched me right back to that same cashier who had just facilitated our milk transaction. my dad held my hand — and by held i mean death-gripped it — and told me to give the gum back to the cashier and to say sorry for what i had done. i had to sit there with a sore cheek and a wet face and tell a lady i had never met before that i was sorry for breaking the law and hurting her feelings.

i haven’t stolen since.

we are taught how to be good wives. there is some great, Biblical, transformative teaching on how to be a good wife. the Bible has plenty of good wife examples: esther, abigail, sarah, elizabeth. there are examples of bad wives, too: job’s wife, michal, samson’s wife. premarital counseling is highly encouraged in christian culture, and there are plenty of resource for that. there are internet forums, faith conferences, and church groups that are overflowing with wifely wisdom. there are plenty of married women who are currently reaching out to young women in order to show them how to be good, faithful, loving, supportive wives. as a young woman who desires to one day become a good wife, i am confident in the abundance of resources around me for that time, whenever it comes.

we are not taught how to be good sisters. this is a specific teaching that i have found very little on. don’t get me wrong — the Bible is filled with instruction and stories that will continue to sanctify us and make us more like Christ, which will ultimately make us good sisters. i know that. there are incredible christian women who do nothing but respect their fellow sisters — they exist; my life is a testament to that truth. but i really am finding that there is a serious disrespect among christian women. and it needs to stop.

ladies, have you ever watched helplessly as a girl in your youth group flirts with your boyfriend?
have you ever disliked the girl that one of your guy friends is dating, and bashed her behind her back to all of your friends?
have you ever been intentionally betrayed by a girl who claims to love Jesus?
has a girl ever said anything bad about you behind your back? did it feel like a slug in the gut when you found out?

i don’t have an answer to this problem. not yet, anyway. but there are a few things i know for sure: we are supposed to be better to each other. we are supposed to be good women to each other. comparison thieves away our joy. taking something that belongs to another girl is painfully cruel. judgement always hurts the person, especially when it isn’t founded on factual truth. i hear stories all the time of girl-on-girl battle and it breaks my heart. we were made to love each other, to lift each other up. we were made to be daughters of a King, who calls us to be pure in heart with gentle and quiet spirits. we are supposed to be kind, not mean.

dear sisters, please be kind. please be so intensely and passionately pursuing the heart of Jesus, that you are able to love your sisters out of the overflow of that Love. please be so confident of your place in His heart that you never feel the need to compare yourself to other women, to take what is theirs, to speak hurtful words, or to gossip and slander. please saturate all of your interactions with love, even when that means you have to have a hard conversation that is filled with apologies and iron-sharpens-iron moments. please uplift your sisters — we need each other more than we know. we need to be strong, good women. oh, we need it far more than we will ever know. <3

best postsecret EVER.

August 7, 2011 in comedic relief, Uncategorized with 0 Comments

indie ink parte uno.

August 3, 2011 in creative fiction, my story with 5 Comments

I’m cashing in my proverbial v-card for the Indie Ink challenge. If you want to join the fun, you can read all about it here.. Also, be sure to follow them on twitter @indieink. I was given a challenge by Jo Bryant, who blogs here. And I gave a challenge to Jamelah, who blogs here. Happy reading!

This was my challenge:

 

Every night when you sleep, he comes to you. He calls you to follow; you do, to a train station where the dead are waiting to board. He holds out his hand, you take it and board the train, going to…

 

And then I always wake up. Usually in a cold sweat, or sometimes in a disoriented haze. But I always wake up.

 

It seems significant. I listen for a man’s voice, and I follow it, which leads to dead people getting onto a train, and then I wake up right before I figure out where I’ll end up when all is said and done. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the pictures so vividly. Recurring dreams are like that, so they say. You go about your day as if your coffee didn’t taste different, or your walk to work didn’t seem longer, and then all of a sudden something will happen that triggers the memory and it all floods over you. And if you’re like me, you can’t focus on anything else until you figure it out.

 

But I never do.

 

I’ve tried piecing it together. I even saw a dream specialist, whatever that even means. Is that an actual trade? Or does she laugh wildly as she spends my $95 on cheap wine and red meat? But I digress. She told me that the fact that I listen to a man’s voice means that I’m submissive to men in my life. Wrong. I try to feign amazement. She also thought that the train station represented my previous life, which took place in the 1920s, and I rode a lot of trains. Wrong again. Previous life? Is she for real?  And the fact that I wake up before I get on the train means that I don’t know where I’m going after I die.

 

After I die.

 

I don’t question where I’ll go, that’s why this is so strange. Maybe I’m just eating too late in the day, and it is giving me some weird visions. I know where that train is going so why is it that my body keeps waking up before I see it? I want to know what it looks like, I want to figure out how it smells and lock into my mind the way the wind wisps while I stand at the front of it, whatever it is. I feel like if I could just taste a small piece of it, just have one concrete moment to hold onto, that maybe I would live my life in a way that didn’t question where I was going after I die.

 

Live my life in a way that didn’t question where I was going after I die.

 

I don’t live in a way that appears confident of that. Most days, I am a shell of a person who is confident of that. I think that’s why I always wake up – because I know somewhere deep in my heart that I don’t deserve a glimpse, not just yet. Each time I wake up, I have bittersweet jolts of motivation to live today, at least today, like I know where I’m going.

 

And then by noon, the world has crept in and nothing makes sense anymore, and the only thing in focus is this task, this bill, this annoying person on the other end of the phone who just Won’t. Shut. Up.

 

And I’ve ruined my second-trillionth chance to make today worth it.

 

The waking up is strangely my favorite part.  Even though my tally is way up there, it’s another chance every time. So I’ll take the recurring dreams, as long as I get the recurring wake-ups.

Because it feels like redemption over and over again.