"As much as the project is about the quirkiness of childhood, it is, more strikingly, a commentary on class and on poverty. But the diversity also provides a sense of togetherness. Everybody sleeps. And eventually, everybody grows up."
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Dancin' is best done with my Shaun Whites on.
Apparently, it's not very professional to walk into a job interview with a pair of grey and pink Converse Chuck poser shoes from Payless with bright blue shoelaces. But, this job interview, for a newspaper internship, was the first time I walked into a place to get a job, not knowing anything or anyone. No strings attached. No networking beforehand. I just walked in to see what kind of experience I could gain to sharpen my writing and photography skills. I had just finished my freshman year of college, and was looking to change my major to English or Journalism. Why not check out my local newspaper? I got the job, probably because they don't judge you by your sneakers. I do like small-town Nebraska. I wish I could say the same about other interviews. If I would walk into Teen Vogue with copycat ripoff shoes from Payless, it could be a different story. Duly noted.
At my newspaper job, one of my coworkers told me a story about a guy who inquired about a fashion writing job at a magazine. All he sent the editor was a Converse Chuck sneaker, with his resume inside. He got the job, too. Because he was so fashion forward. Mmhm. And because he consciously decided to be memorable with a shoe. At the time, Converse sneaks were HUGE. Wait, they're still huge, aren't they? And not just for hipsters. After my successful summer internship and after that story, I looked at (and wore) my grey and pink Chuck poser shoes differently. And I haven't been to Payless for sneakers since.
When I had to say goodbye to these sneaks, it was the first time I had trouble parting with a pair of shoes. I thought I might turn into a materialistic "sneaker-lover." I gasped one day and worried that I was going to end up having 40 pairs of sneakers in my closet and no more money from my internship paychecks because of my newly discovered passion for chunks of leather and rubber. That didn't happen. It was one pair at a time.
After I parted with my Payless sneakers, I decided I would get the real thing. I ordered online (my first time ordering online!) a similar grey pair of Chucks. I got some sweet magenta and grey argyle shoelaces from Hot Topic (we won't talk about my Hot Topic phase), and I was off! You know what? I had so many good times in those sneakers. I wore them almost everyday at school, because they had become molded to my feet. They were fashionable. Girls wore them. Guys wore them. I wore them. I even wrote a ridiculous romantic comedy of a story for Intermediate Writing class about a dreamy guy who wore classic black Chuck Taylor sneakers.
Please never ask me to share the rest of the story. And, I don't really think gliding men, who might be my soul mate, actually exist, whether they wear Chucks or not. I've stopped writing romantic comedies.
My (real) pair of grey Chucks, I thought, would have gotten along swimmingly with fictional Jack and his sneaks. So, those shoes and I went through a lot of soul-searching during my college years, especially when it came to mysterious guys with similar taste in shoes. It was no surprise that parting with them..the shoes, silly! was difficult once again. I said goodbye to them in the year 2008, after I had worn them for a couple of years. Here I am in Frankenmuth, Michigan, mini-golfing at a hotel on choir tour with my best buds Katie and Jenna. I never left school to go on tour without packing my favorite, and only, pair of sneakers. Oh, and this was also around the time I started wearing these fellas with corderoy pencil skirts. Ouch. You can never go wrong with your favorite pair of jeans and your favorite pair of sneaks.
Following my sophomore year adventures, I had a short-lived fling with some classic black ones with different colored shoelaces before I decided to try something different. I was inspired by my friend Johanna to try all-black cordoroy shoes. (I really like corduroy.) This began my rebellious phase of fashion experimentation, wearing all-black shoes with formal wear. "Dressing down," skirts and dresses. I've always been more of a casual kind of girl, and it's amazing how a pair of sneakers and a nice dress can make one a delusional combo of hip, rebellious, and edgy. Too bad I don't have a good photo of that time in my life. Probably for the best. Our time together, these all-black, corduroy Chucks and I is still a "to be continued" love/hate relationship. Because around the same time I was giving them a whirl, I discovered a different kind of shoe.
Boys' Skater shoes. And what better skater shoes than those from a skater? Target's new line of Shaun White Shoes. I was browsing the shoe section at Target when I spotted a rack of skater shoes with a big W on the top of the tongue. They. Were. So. Cool. But I walked right past them. A lady was nearby browsing the women's section, which was right next to the shiny Shaun Whites. If I picked up those sneakers, she may have given me the you're-too-young-to-have-a-son-to-buy-those-for-but-you're-too-old-to-wear-them stink eye. She probably wouldn't have done that, because I'm sure she was a nice lady. She picked out some really nice professional heels...what I should have been thinking about. I pretended to try on more mature women's shoes, like a pair of black heels and a cute pair of ballet flats. She finally left the aisle, and I bolted toward the grey, size five boys' Shaun Whites. I tried them on, keeping an eye out for onlookers, or people that stink with their eyes. They fit perfectly. And they were so roomy. Like they were made for me. I put them back, though, and told myself to head back to the black heels.
But, no! I couldn't. I racewalked back to them and snatched 'em up, hiding them under my new Target blouse. I couldn't hide them for long because I had to check out soon. I started making up a story of how I was going to give them to my hypothetical nephew for his birthday...in case the cashier asked. She didn't. And even if she did, I'm really terrible at lying about shoes.
From then on, it was me and my Shaun Whites. I wore them to painting class, where I got a dab of yellow acrylic paint on them. You can still see it. I wore them almost everyday at school. Did I mention how comfy they were? I've also dreamt of pulling a full-size skateboard out of my magical pocket and skating off with it. I couldn't do that (or have that fantasy) without my Shaun Whites on. One of the most memorable times together was...a Swagger Party. With my best friends. In the blacklit basement of my guy friends sort of off-campus house. What we call "the blue house." I participated in a swag contest with my Shaun Whites. We won. We swagged to "Chain Hang Low" by Jibbs. The best (and only) Swag Party I've been to in my life. We danced the night away. My friend Steph and I have this thing we say sometimes:
"Dancin' is best done with my Shaun Whites on." It's true.
After a tiny hole started forming on the inside of the left shoe, I decided I would wear them at camp. Again, I wore them everyday. We spent the whole summer together, my Shaun Whites and I. I dripped tye dye on them the first week of camp and spilled spaghetti sauce on them almost every Sunday during kitchen parties at Springs. They got wet in the summer rain. They're surprisingly water resistant. Paint, dirt, food, children's spit, sno cone juice, adventure canoeing mud, grass stains, horse poop, and good times stuck to those shoes. I hugged people in them. I got to meet campers in them. I had to say goodbye to campers in them. I cried in them. I laughed A LOT in them. After sweat, probably blood - not mine, and tears, I now have to say goodbye. They're also pretty gross. They're no longer the shiny grey they were when I first laid eyes on them. But it's sometimes hard to find a pair of sneakers with such good character.
I'm getting a similar pair of Shaun Whites. Blue ones this time. We're moving to Chicago together. I know we'll have a great time. We all know I'm not really going to grow up and get those black heels. I think I'll always have the heart of a wannabe skater kid. Don't worry, though. I'm not going to wear them to my Rolling Stone or Skateboard Mag job interview. I might just wear my chucks with my new black skirt. Or maybe I'll just send them a shoe.
At my newspaper job, one of my coworkers told me a story about a guy who inquired about a fashion writing job at a magazine. All he sent the editor was a Converse Chuck sneaker, with his resume inside. He got the job, too. Because he was so fashion forward. Mmhm. And because he consciously decided to be memorable with a shoe. At the time, Converse sneaks were HUGE. Wait, they're still huge, aren't they? And not just for hipsters. After my successful summer internship and after that story, I looked at (and wore) my grey and pink Chuck poser shoes differently. And I haven't been to Payless for sneakers since.
When I had to say goodbye to these sneaks, it was the first time I had trouble parting with a pair of shoes. I thought I might turn into a materialistic "sneaker-lover." I gasped one day and worried that I was going to end up having 40 pairs of sneakers in my closet and no more money from my internship paychecks because of my newly discovered passion for chunks of leather and rubber. That didn't happen. It was one pair at a time.
After I parted with my Payless sneakers, I decided I would get the real thing. I ordered online (my first time ordering online!) a similar grey pair of Chucks. I got some sweet magenta and grey argyle shoelaces from Hot Topic (we won't talk about my Hot Topic phase), and I was off! You know what? I had so many good times in those sneakers. I wore them almost everyday at school, because they had become molded to my feet. They were fashionable. Girls wore them. Guys wore them. I wore them. I even wrote a ridiculous romantic comedy of a story for Intermediate Writing class about a dreamy guy who wore classic black Chuck Taylor sneakers.
"Originally from Montana, Jack had a Midwestern charm about him that somehow complimented his eccentric outfits. He glided down the street in his faded black Converse sneakers, a vision in his snap-button flowered shirt and orangle tweed trousers. His dusty brown hair curled upon his brow and one kindly dimple framed his smile as he waved to the women sitting outside the hair salon."
Please never ask me to share the rest of the story. And, I don't really think gliding men, who might be my soul mate, actually exist, whether they wear Chucks or not. I've stopped writing romantic comedies.
My (real) pair of grey Chucks, I thought, would have gotten along swimmingly with fictional Jack and his sneaks. So, those shoes and I went through a lot of soul-searching during my college years, especially when it came to mysterious guys with similar taste in shoes. It was no surprise that parting with them..the shoes, silly! was difficult once again. I said goodbye to them in the year 2008, after I had worn them for a couple of years. Here I am in Frankenmuth, Michigan, mini-golfing at a hotel on choir tour with my best buds Katie and Jenna. I never left school to go on tour without packing my favorite, and only, pair of sneakers. Oh, and this was also around the time I started wearing these fellas with corderoy pencil skirts. Ouch. You can never go wrong with your favorite pair of jeans and your favorite pair of sneaks.
Following my sophomore year adventures, I had a short-lived fling with some classic black ones with different colored shoelaces before I decided to try something different. I was inspired by my friend Johanna to try all-black cordoroy shoes. (I really like corduroy.) This began my rebellious phase of fashion experimentation, wearing all-black shoes with formal wear. "Dressing down," skirts and dresses. I've always been more of a casual kind of girl, and it's amazing how a pair of sneakers and a nice dress can make one a delusional combo of hip, rebellious, and edgy. Too bad I don't have a good photo of that time in my life. Probably for the best. Our time together, these all-black, corduroy Chucks and I is still a "to be continued" love/hate relationship. Because around the same time I was giving them a whirl, I discovered a different kind of shoe.
Boys' Skater shoes. And what better skater shoes than those from a skater? Target's new line of Shaun White Shoes. I was browsing the shoe section at Target when I spotted a rack of skater shoes with a big W on the top of the tongue. They. Were. So. Cool. But I walked right past them. A lady was nearby browsing the women's section, which was right next to the shiny Shaun Whites. If I picked up those sneakers, she may have given me the you're-too-young-to-have-a-son-to-buy-those-for-but-you're-too-old-to-wear-them stink eye. She probably wouldn't have done that, because I'm sure she was a nice lady. She picked out some really nice professional heels...what I should have been thinking about. I pretended to try on more mature women's shoes, like a pair of black heels and a cute pair of ballet flats. She finally left the aisle, and I bolted toward the grey, size five boys' Shaun Whites. I tried them on, keeping an eye out for onlookers, or people that stink with their eyes. They fit perfectly. And they were so roomy. Like they were made for me. I put them back, though, and told myself to head back to the black heels.
But, no! I couldn't. I racewalked back to them and snatched 'em up, hiding them under my new Target blouse. I couldn't hide them for long because I had to check out soon. I started making up a story of how I was going to give them to my hypothetical nephew for his birthday...in case the cashier asked. She didn't. And even if she did, I'm really terrible at lying about shoes.
From then on, it was me and my Shaun Whites. I wore them to painting class, where I got a dab of yellow acrylic paint on them. You can still see it. I wore them almost everyday at school. Did I mention how comfy they were? I've also dreamt of pulling a full-size skateboard out of my magical pocket and skating off with it. I couldn't do that (or have that fantasy) without my Shaun Whites on. One of the most memorable times together was...a Swagger Party. With my best friends. In the blacklit basement of my guy friends sort of off-campus house. What we call "the blue house." I participated in a swag contest with my Shaun Whites. We won. We swagged to "Chain Hang Low" by Jibbs. The best (and only) Swag Party I've been to in my life. We danced the night away. My friend Steph and I have this thing we say sometimes:
"Dancin' is best done with my Shaun Whites on." It's true.
After a tiny hole started forming on the inside of the left shoe, I decided I would wear them at camp. Again, I wore them everyday. We spent the whole summer together, my Shaun Whites and I. I dripped tye dye on them the first week of camp and spilled spaghetti sauce on them almost every Sunday during kitchen parties at Springs. They got wet in the summer rain. They're surprisingly water resistant. Paint, dirt, food, children's spit, sno cone juice, adventure canoeing mud, grass stains, horse poop, and good times stuck to those shoes. I hugged people in them. I got to meet campers in them. I had to say goodbye to campers in them. I cried in them. I laughed A LOT in them. After sweat, probably blood - not mine, and tears, I now have to say goodbye. They're also pretty gross. They're no longer the shiny grey they were when I first laid eyes on them. But it's sometimes hard to find a pair of sneakers with such good character.
I'm getting a similar pair of Shaun Whites. Blue ones this time. We're moving to Chicago together. I know we'll have a great time. We all know I'm not really going to grow up and get those black heels. I think I'll always have the heart of a wannabe skater kid. Don't worry, though. I'm not going to wear them to my Rolling Stone or Skateboard Mag job interview. I might just wear my chucks with my new black skirt. Or maybe I'll just send them a shoe.
Friday, August 5, 2011
The terror of a free heart.
The most terrifying part of my adult life at the moment is a free heart. A perfectly raw, healthy, pounding, bright red one with the comfort of independence, a safety belt of true inexperience. I have a secret defensive strategy to protect my own freedom from vulnerability. Ironic, isn't it?
The fear sucks. I'm going to sucker punch it in the face. Set fire to it with my eyes. Rebel against the system of fear, of an almost too at-peace-comfort, afraid to get sucker punched back or roundhouse kicked in the jaw.
On the other hand, I'm grateful for a time to fly, I suppose. I imagine those animations or drawings of a heart with wings, flying around in the sky. You never see it stop flying to touch the ground. You never see it find a solid home in someone's soul. Eventually, it would be nice to come back down.
And, at times, I have a sudden urge to roundhouse kick something in the jaw. But never a person, or a person's heart. Maybe a fear of knowing such things so freely.
The fear sucks. I'm going to sucker punch it in the face. Set fire to it with my eyes. Rebel against the system of fear, of an almost too at-peace-comfort, afraid to get sucker punched back or roundhouse kicked in the jaw.
On the other hand, I'm grateful for a time to fly, I suppose. I imagine those animations or drawings of a heart with wings, flying around in the sky. You never see it stop flying to touch the ground. You never see it find a solid home in someone's soul. Eventually, it would be nice to come back down.
And, at times, I have a sudden urge to roundhouse kick something in the jaw. But never a person, or a person's heart. Maybe a fear of knowing such things so freely.
Today was brought to you by anarchy.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Walls and Wildflowers
Sometimes, when I'm home, I just sit in my room and study the walls, thinking about how much they've changed over the years. How much I've changed. These walls used to be so ugly, with black and white striped wallpaper with a Mickey Mouse border. My entire room was an optical illusion, a Mickey Mouse nightmare, like Disney had thrown up everywhere. I don't really understand that time of my life - why I loved Mickey enough to cover my room with him, instead of posters of the Backstreet Boys, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, the 1997 version of Leonardo DiCaprio...hunks of burnin' love, as they were. Instead, my room was filled with posters of kittens and puppies. Then came Mickey. I didn't even watch his cartoons. I couldn't tell you his history, the birth of his animation, when he met his friend, Donald Duck, when he visited the pet store to pick up Pluto, or the moment he fell in love with Minnie. I only know he was all over my room. I'm sure Minnie was a little jealous.
Passionate childhood whims are funny. My 10-year-old self was all about the moment, all about the pop culture of Mickey Mouse and friends. All about French-braiding my hair and "following my heart" to my 6th grade "boyfriend."
I didn't realize at 10, how much more fun it was to be 5, without boyfriends who only want to play soccer with you at recess, and who only call you because they need to borrow your splash ball to play water baseball at the pool. At 5, I was all about flowers - dandelions, musk thistle, wild daises, you name it. I would wander off to pick them all the time. I'm surprised Mom made it through those years, calm and collected, with me in the ditch all the time, picking wildflowers. My favorite getaway was the lilac bushes right outside our old house. In a close second was the tractor tire sandbox in the backyard, full of cat poop. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Come on, I was a kid!
Along with my teens came the emergence of Teen People. Fitting, right? I put down Laura Ingalls Wilder and picked up the latest magazine, colorful and exciting, with the sparkly Britney Spears on the front. I had braces at this time, too, and I secretly enjoyed them for some reason - maybe because the pain built good character. And, at the time, I wanted to make my Dad proud because he would always toughen me up with that phrase when I scraped my knee on the gravel road (gravel scrapes are the worst!) or sprained my ankle at volleyball practice (I wasn't too terribly upset about that).
High school, for me, was made for the sport of cheerleading. Please don't ask me to reason with the decision to spend all four years of secondary school on the sidelines, trying to pry encouragement out of passionate small-town sports-intensified students and parents when their team is losing. Like pulling teeth, I tell you.
In college, I found the stuff that makes me tick...like everybody predicted. I guess college is supposed to do that. Music, art, writing, just a few of my elements. And now, I realize, they were always there: in the Mickey Mouse cartoon theme song, in the art of arranging flowers in a vase for my Mom, in the process of reading books and magazine to expand my vocabulary. Cool!
My walls are now solid bright colors, tangerine orange and sky blue, sporadically covered with a world map, a constellation chart, National Geographic posters, cloth, origami, and artwork. Photos and shelves of things I truly love for a reason, not because they're cute and fun, popular or easy to love. I do miss being a random in-the-moment passionate curious kid. But, I guess growing up is only...reasonable.
I would like to thank Britney for making me the person I am not today (because at one point, I wanted to be as famous as she), the cat poop in my backyard (because I'm excellent at sniffing it out and avoiding it now), my first "boyfriend," Aaron (because he taught me some awesome soccer skills, among other skills, I don't even remember), the no-longer existent lilac bush in my backyard (because the smell of lilac is now my favorite memory of childhood). And, yes, Mickey, for his help in making my life a terrific optical illusion of an adventure.
Passionate childhood whims are funny. My 10-year-old self was all about the moment, all about the pop culture of Mickey Mouse and friends. All about French-braiding my hair and "following my heart" to my 6th grade "boyfriend."
I didn't realize at 10, how much more fun it was to be 5, without boyfriends who only want to play soccer with you at recess, and who only call you because they need to borrow your splash ball to play water baseball at the pool. At 5, I was all about flowers - dandelions, musk thistle, wild daises, you name it. I would wander off to pick them all the time. I'm surprised Mom made it through those years, calm and collected, with me in the ditch all the time, picking wildflowers. My favorite getaway was the lilac bushes right outside our old house. In a close second was the tractor tire sandbox in the backyard, full of cat poop. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Come on, I was a kid!
Along with my teens came the emergence of Teen People. Fitting, right? I put down Laura Ingalls Wilder and picked up the latest magazine, colorful and exciting, with the sparkly Britney Spears on the front. I had braces at this time, too, and I secretly enjoyed them for some reason - maybe because the pain built good character. And, at the time, I wanted to make my Dad proud because he would always toughen me up with that phrase when I scraped my knee on the gravel road (gravel scrapes are the worst!) or sprained my ankle at volleyball practice (I wasn't too terribly upset about that).
High school, for me, was made for the sport of cheerleading. Please don't ask me to reason with the decision to spend all four years of secondary school on the sidelines, trying to pry encouragement out of passionate small-town sports-intensified students and parents when their team is losing. Like pulling teeth, I tell you.
In college, I found the stuff that makes me tick...like everybody predicted. I guess college is supposed to do that. Music, art, writing, just a few of my elements. And now, I realize, they were always there: in the Mickey Mouse cartoon theme song, in the art of arranging flowers in a vase for my Mom, in the process of reading books and magazine to expand my vocabulary. Cool!
My walls are now solid bright colors, tangerine orange and sky blue, sporadically covered with a world map, a constellation chart, National Geographic posters, cloth, origami, and artwork. Photos and shelves of things I truly love for a reason, not because they're cute and fun, popular or easy to love. I do miss being a random in-the-moment passionate curious kid. But, I guess growing up is only...reasonable.
I would like to thank Britney for making me the person I am not today (because at one point, I wanted to be as famous as she), the cat poop in my backyard (because I'm excellent at sniffing it out and avoiding it now), my first "boyfriend," Aaron (because he taught me some awesome soccer skills, among other skills, I don't even remember), the no-longer existent lilac bush in my backyard (because the smell of lilac is now my favorite memory of childhood). And, yes, Mickey, for his help in making my life a terrific optical illusion of an adventure.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Peanut Butter
You know when you're sick, and your nose is full of mucus? You can't breathe while you're sleeping. It's not peaceful anymore. You can't taste your favorite foods, like peanut butter. The wise Charlie Brown once said, "Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love." Maybe I don't know what peanut butter tastes like. Maybe I never will. Maybe Nutella is a better choice. Sorry Reeses, Nutty Bars, Peanut Butter Star Ice Cream, PB&J. You're just not for me. Hold the PB.
It's easy being independent. Until you find something or someone to depend on...or something or someone you want to depend on. They all say, you shouldn't have to do anything to win love. You shouldn't. It's easy when you've had way too much peanut butter. Now you have a stomach ache. But, soon, you miss it when it's not around. You keep coming back for more. You don't have to do anything to win that peanut butter over. It just sits there in front of you. Jar after jar. Unless you have nut allergies. Don't do it.
I wish peanut butter would love me back. I wish I knew it.
A wise professor of mine once said,
"We won't understand all of it now because we are incapable. The process is what keeps me going. The discovery of things. The wrestling that takes place to try and better understand why it's important and why or how it fits into my life. The older and more 'knowledgeable' I get, the more I realize I don't know. Maybe that's wisdom?"
Or rather, in this special case...
We won't understand our love for peanut butter now because we are incapable. The process is what keeps me going. The discovery of peanut butter. The wrestling that takes place with the peanut butter to try and better understand why the peanut butter is important and why or how the peanut butter fits into my life. The older and more knowledgeable I get, the more I realize I don't know about peanut butter. Maybe that's wisdom?
My song is love unknown,
My Savior's love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
If you love a soul more then fame and gold. And that soul feels the same about you. Its a natural fact, there is no turning back.
It's easy being independent. Until you find something or someone to depend on...or something or someone you want to depend on. They all say, you shouldn't have to do anything to win love. You shouldn't. It's easy when you've had way too much peanut butter. Now you have a stomach ache. But, soon, you miss it when it's not around. You keep coming back for more. You don't have to do anything to win that peanut butter over. It just sits there in front of you. Jar after jar. Unless you have nut allergies. Don't do it.
Baby, I’ve got silver and I’ve got gold. But when push comes to shove, this is getting old.
I wish peanut butter would love me back. I wish I knew it.
A wise professor of mine once said,
"We won't understand all of it now because we are incapable. The process is what keeps me going. The discovery of things. The wrestling that takes place to try and better understand why it's important and why or how it fits into my life. The older and more 'knowledgeable' I get, the more I realize I don't know. Maybe that's wisdom?"
Or rather, in this special case...
We won't understand our love for peanut butter now because we are incapable. The process is what keeps me going. The discovery of peanut butter. The wrestling that takes place with the peanut butter to try and better understand why the peanut butter is important and why or how the peanut butter fits into my life. The older and more knowledgeable I get, the more I realize I don't know about peanut butter. Maybe that's wisdom?
An act of love that fails is just as much a part of the divine life as an act of love that succeeds, for love is measured by fullness, not by reception.
My song is love unknown,
My Savior's love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Wondering
At times, you wonder... And then you know... It's a good feeling to know... At other times, you have to keep wondering. But doesn't wonder make life exciting and mysterious? And when you know everything, what is there to know? Closure doesn't always reveal itself. In time. You can even drive 1000 miles to find that closure and never get it. Remember Vanessa Carlton and her song, 1000 miles? Theme of the holiday weekend.
Or Sara Bareilles' simplicity in "Many the Miles"
They're talking about 1000 miles to get to someone you love. You don't have to be reimbursed for gas when you're seeing someone you love. But you still want your curiosity and feelings to be reimbursed, or rather, truthful, reciprocated or not. In the end, you find that the miles were worth the journey, to and from...and during your visiting time. Worth every penny for gas.
I'd walk a thousand miles to see my best friend. The effort and reception is enough closure for a love between friends, miles apart.
If I could fall into the sky, do you think time would pass me by? 'cuz you know I'd walk a thousand miles if I can just see you tonight.
Or Sara Bareilles' simplicity in "Many the Miles"
How far do I have to go to get to you? Many the miles, many the miles.
They're talking about 1000 miles to get to someone you love. You don't have to be reimbursed for gas when you're seeing someone you love. But you still want your curiosity and feelings to be reimbursed, or rather, truthful, reciprocated or not. In the end, you find that the miles were worth the journey, to and from...and during your visiting time. Worth every penny for gas.
I'd walk a thousand miles to see my best friend. The effort and reception is enough closure for a love between friends, miles apart.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Patience. Prayer. Peace. Rest.
Away from camp, you go to restaurants, you have all these choices that you don't know what to do with...things that aren't necessities, just luxuries. And they've been there the whole time, taunting natural things. You get angry at them. You wish them away. You get mad at the world, full of luxury, somewhat spoiled; sometimes with no eyes for nature's subtle, beautiful peace and balance. You get mad at people with all these choices, and it takes most of the strength in you (One, because you're exhausted from a full week of camp. Two, because you're going through fresh air withdrawal and the lady in the booth across from you has a strong, rancid girly-perfume that is suffocating your senses just at little bit.) to not stand up and yell at them (when they can't decide what to order) saying "Do you know how lucky you are to even have choices, to touch food in front of you, with the perfect mood lighting at the Italian Grill that makes you feel calm, special, important, in the moment? Light that some only see from the sun and the moon, the occasional thunderstorm? Did ya ever think that they might be the lucky ones?"
I find that I'm down and out on Fridays when our camp staff meeting comes around, because I miss the campers. They bring out selfless acts in people. Teach us kindness, patience, love, prayer. It was a frustrating week for some. And others are sick, run-down, stressed out. Having to care for, or living to care for someone else is a hefty selfless act. I sometimes get frustrated when we're skipping up and down after campers leave, ready to grab a soda, put on some makeup, spend money, have choices, be picky. And I'm a hypocrite. But loving others is giving light to the world...where mood lighting and whiffs of perfume are distracting. This is what we remember when we walk into another week, another Sunday, another set of campers, awkward, apprehensive, and homesick before a small or large transformation when Friday comes around. Another group of God's children, all of us.
Thankful for the rest He gives us and the peace He brings.
I find that I'm down and out on Fridays when our camp staff meeting comes around, because I miss the campers. They bring out selfless acts in people. Teach us kindness, patience, love, prayer. It was a frustrating week for some. And others are sick, run-down, stressed out. Having to care for, or living to care for someone else is a hefty selfless act. I sometimes get frustrated when we're skipping up and down after campers leave, ready to grab a soda, put on some makeup, spend money, have choices, be picky. And I'm a hypocrite. But loving others is giving light to the world...where mood lighting and whiffs of perfume are distracting. This is what we remember when we walk into another week, another Sunday, another set of campers, awkward, apprehensive, and homesick before a small or large transformation when Friday comes around. Another group of God's children, all of us.
People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.
- Mark 10:13-16
Thankful for the rest He gives us and the peace He brings.
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