This Little Light of Mine

For a beautiful girl who lived the only way life should be:

A star shooting across the sky- that's all I am, that's all anyone could ever be.
Bright, beautiful, full of life.

But it is only a flicker of light,

Incredible, yet gone away in a blink.

It makes no sense to race across the sky more than once.
It could never be as bright or as beautiful.

So why wish it to happen again? Or happen for longer than a wink?

One might just look away.

Only a certain few will stare up at the night sky,

Until their necks are sore and heads heavy,

Without the expectation
To see the light within the darkness.

So look, really look.

It won't last long.

I Would Put a Smily Face Here If I Didn't Think It Was Queer

I wrote a pessimistic blog post a couple of days ago about the fleeting quality of life, but I am too freaking happy to post it now. So here is a picture of my two best friends being their usual adorable selves.

"Love Should Make You Feel Good"

Last night was so simple. Everything was without excess, without superfluity. I am a big fan of simple.

As a disclaimer, let me first say I am not hard to please. In fact, I am predisposed to liking most things including crappy movies, TV shows that stay on the air for a week, food that looks as if it has already been digested. I still laugh at every episode of Saturday Night Live. Most of the time, it is hard to find the downside. I like that.

There are things I love as well, but normally, they are not things at all. I love a day spent entirely outside, a warm welcome, a face-to-face conversation about what matters, an hour playing with my dogs, a walk through the walnut trees and rows of corn, a meal made by myself, a cup of tea when my throat is sandpaper. Last night, however, was different; It was better.

With two stalls in the women's bathroom, broken light bulbs, and a base drum three inches from my nose, last night made me feel more than this "like" or this "love." The auditorium was filled with sound, laughter, screaming (the good kind), proximity to life. It was filled with real music composed of lyrics encouraging things other than teenage drinking or having sex with a really hot girl (classy girls don't kiss in bars, you fool). It was filled with new faces, strangers who had traveled miles to be there for the big parade.  I looked to the beautiful blonde and blue-eyed girl standing next to me and up at the band. I saw them all filled with life, with passion, with the glow of a bright future- all destined for greatness. I looked at them and felt full, a feeling stronger and more holistic than "like" or "love." Last night, there was nothing more I needed, nothing more I wanted. I was full of light. 

Sorry if the lack of leaves in this picture disappoints.

Things Said, Heard

Let's get off on the right foot.
Right then left. Walk with me.
Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle.
At all times?

All aboard!
Next stop.
The alarm.
Is it that time already?

I want to play! Teach me the rules!
Pass me the ball; I am good for it.
Run with me, a game of tag.
Hide and seek. You'll find me here- the bright, white sand.
Don't slip
but don't be afraid to fall.
Jump! Balance! Point your toes.

Tell me a riddle- never the answer.

Sleepless nights. Dreams of you.
Won't you stay? Stay with me?
It must be a phase.
Turn the page, silly girl.

Pick a favorite. Games of "what if?"
Already on my way.

Hurry up! We don't have forever.
What is forever?
As long as I breathe?

Hurry up! We don't have anything at all.
But this breath... possibly the next one.

How's one to know? Fill in the blank.
Test it. Try it out. Tell me what you think.

Will that be all?

For Pa

Searching through my memory, I more often remember the significant, traumatic things, as is expected. The time I was abandoned at an Old Navy. The time I got lost while skiing in Steamboat, Colorado. But here and there, I find odd snapshots- eating in the lunchroom in elementary school or swimming in the pool with my black lab.

But even the significant memories have their own strangeness- the ones in that moment, we had no idea we would remember.

Like it was yesterday:

The four of us had our own side of the table. A perfect square. The cards were dealt neatly, quickly, with authority, checked, memorized, placed in the identical spot. I looked across the dinning room table to my partner; the light bounced off his wide glass rims; the light blue they hid was his tell.

He flipped the deciding card.

I listened to the knock to the right, turning my head to the left, trying to judge the reactions of my grandmother and my own father at the overturned card.

When the ultimate decision came around to me, I called it. He looked at me and nodded- confidence. 

Diamonds, Spades, Clubs, Hearts beating. Trump, Bauers, Euchre- the game was more than tradition.

The last trick and the one up my sleeve. 

Card laid, card played.

The win.

The smug smile from my fathers face slowly became one of an ungracious loser. The competitive gene runs deep.

He reached across the table and grabbed my hands, half the size of his own. Pride radiated from his blue eyes. My grandfather squeezed my fingers twice but doesn't let go.

I cannot remember letting him go.

Selfless Selfishness

I am exhausted. In the last 24 hours, I spent 50% of my time standing, or as I like to say workin' dem corners, for the Habitat for Humanity change drive, and the other 50%, I have been sleeping. I went to bed at 11 o'clock last night, which was a Friday (sad) and the earliest I fell asleep all week (sadder). But honestly, how selfish am I, only concerned with my own needs, problems, qualms of the heart, if you will? While shaking my can (for the change of course, you perverts!), the only thought I had as I faked a smile and took over the role as pedophile from Safety Village (handing out candy to children) was why on earth didn't I eat breakfast? I was starving, thinking of Potbelly, forgetting where I was and why I was standing there in the first place.

Habitat for Humanity was why I was there. The organization is only possible with the little things- the pennies, the nails, the smiles, the individuals- coming together to build something bigger than anything possible alone. Yet, I lost sight of the end goal- that big, beautiful house for a deserving family. Forgetting is an easy thing to do. Throughout the day, I think about the things that concern me. I think about my grade in Biology, my flavor of my yogurt at lunch, my hairstyle for the moment, my chaos that is my schedule. But every once in a while, I remember there are people around me! Think of their problems! We each have our individual stories. Mine, in comparison to so many others, is a fairy-tale. 

Once upon a time, my mother had thyroid cancer. The Wellness House, a non-profit cancer support center, was a place my mother could talk to others going through similar, or sometimes worse, situations. It was also a place where I could play with other kids to give my mom a short break from raising a little brat of a child (that's me!). 

Now my mom, cancer-free, and I volunteer at the front desk and in the kids' camp at the House. And for that short time each week, I set aside my problems; I stop trying to perfect my life and, instead, touch the lives of others; I stop trying to make myself happy. 

Behind that desk, I genuinely smile, looking into the eyes of each participant as they walk in, watching them crinkle as they smile back. And, surprisingly enough, it is when I stop trying to make myself happy that I am happiest.

So I help others get asked to homecoming and I smile and I wave with feeling even when I don't want to. When I put aside whatever I want for just a minute or even an hour, instead of constantly trying to find happiness, I feel it.

Make others happy. You will be surprised how wonderfully selfish it can be.

Can You Hear Me Now?

What are my intentions? Well, let me be upfront. No matter how hard I try, I will never remember to write in this thing on even a weekly basis. I can hardly remember to pack my lunch or grab it before I run out the door to jump in the car of whichever friend I have guilted into driving me to school that day (if any of you are reading, just wanted to throw a thanks again out there!) But there is one thing I can promise you: I will utilize the first person with pride.

I am so sick of "one must" and "a person can" and "infer" and "demonstrate" and all the words that are slowly, but surely, causing me to clench my teeth when I sleep. I blame my English upbringing. In AP Language and Composition (the class I took last year), we analyzed the eloquence of Hawthorne or the unique style of Dickens or some other dead contributor to my homework load. As I wrote about the works from these truly great writers, I would lose the personality in my own words. I stopped writing as I would speak. That's all writing is supposed to be, right? The words we say, thrown (or perhaps a more graceful, purposeful verb) on a page so more than those within my immediate company can hear what I have to say. But, as I wrote, I wrote with detachment, callousness. Off of a white blank page, callous is one of the last words I would use to describe myself. Hoarder, Narcissist, and Cocky come way, way before Callous. I refuse to portray myself as anything but who I am.

After all is said and all is done, words remain; etching gravestones, decorating love letters, personalizing checks, we leave behind what we wish future generations could have heard us say. So readers, here's to writing with feeling, with passion, with wit and with spark. Here's to leaving something for others to Leaf Through.