Sometimes I wish I had a sister.

I haven't done one of these in far too long...

Happiness Is...

seeing a baby sit herself up for the first time.

having a slumber party with your best friend for the first time in years.

clean flannel sheets.

new music.

recognizing your strengths in the middle of your weaknesses.

finishing the first draft of your graduate school personal statements.

Thanksgiving dinner with your family of choice.

being appreciated at work.

Christmas lights.

learning to love your family for who they are, and who they aren't.

I still have important thoughts.

I do.

Just sometimes, they don't seem worthy enough of a post.

Sometimes poetry is the only thing that can make me full.






she showed me that.

Sometimes you just have to write bad poetry

She said one day all we'd have left is a trailer, and a dog, and a sestina.


but who thought i'd be there at 24,
and it's an apartment in the city,
and a cat, not a dog,
and free-verse, not a sestina,
but you get me.

and she said we'd have paper and pen
and i'm writing on my computer,
because this is now, and i'm me,
not one to write my poetry
on paper, but still.

she was right. i'd write.

though i never thought
i'd write about not writing,
then again,
i never thought i'd be 24
and lacking a good line
or a perfectly placed rhyme.

or be as corny as this,
(well those last two lines, with the rhyme)
but here i am.

i've got nothing.
i've lost passion to predictability,
creativity to caution,
motivation to money.

i've lost me to you,
but that's a lie.
there's no you,
just a me, wishing there was a you.

but that's a lie again.
sometimes, i just get lonely,
and think a you, would make me,
less so. you know?

but anyway,
i'm here, in this now,
without a trailer, or a dog,
or a damn sestina,
so she was wrong,


but still right.

I Want a Kipton, or a Reid, or an Ed...

Ok, I'm embarrassed. I watch the Bachorlette. I don't watch the Bachelor, but when the Bachelorette comes on, damn, I'm there.

And tonight is the finale. And I'm watching these three men tell Juliette that they love her, and I'm watching her turn Kipton down. I'm watching her turn Reid down. And I'm watching her say YES to Ed. And I can't help but think, "I want one man to be in love with me." I want to be in love with one man. When will I get that?

On a day-to-day basis, I'm not searching for love. I don't care that I don't "have someone." I'm okay with who I am; who I am alone. But I've spent so much time by myself; I've spent so much time learning to be whole, to battle my demons; to figure out what I'm looking for, for who I want. I know I'm young. I know I'm a baby. I know I want years, and years, and years with someone before I marry (if I decide I want to go that route) him. I know that.

But I also know that I am ready. I also know that I want someone to be in love with me. I want someone to think the sun rises and falls on me. And I want to think the same about him. I want someone to turn to in my most joyous moments and in my deepest heartaches. I want someone who cares what happened during my day, just because it affects me. I want to curl my body around someone at night. I want someone to call when I have exciting or devastating news. I want someone who cares about me--mind, body, and soul. And I want to care the same way.

I want what so many people have.

And though I try, it's so hard not to doubt that it will happen for me. That somehow I'm exempt from the possibility of that happening. That somehow, for some reason, my body, my traumas, my passions, my whatever will keep love from coming my way. That I will forever be without that experience. I will be without love.

I like to believe that I can survive without having "someone." I like to believe that all I need is myself. And sometimes, I believe it. And sometimes, I am all I need.

But, I want more. Even if only for a short amount of time, I want love.

I want love.



(And at the most romantic part of the show, the ice cream truck goes by. SO perfect).

Every Day

I come up with something new to write about every day. And then I decide it isn't worth it, or I'm too tired, or I get caught up in something else. I don't even wonder why I have such a hard time writing anymore. I no longer question why there's a hole, a longing, in me that can only be filled with the written word; why my "soul" feels emptier and my life seems heavier. I know why. I know that I don't take the time to nourish what kept me alive for most of my life. I know that I've let responsibilities to others come first. I've let things I don't even really like come first. I've tossed writing aside and told myself that it'll always be there; I'll always be able to come back to it. It'll never leave me. So, instead, I leave it. I leave and I let myself get a little bit further away every day.

Rare Certainity

With our world as it is, every day, I become more and more certain about what I want to do with my life.

Happiness is

an ice cold shower on a hot, humid day.

$5 pitchers of Blue Moon.

music that makes your heart swell.

realizing that some hurts, though they don't go away, eventually sting less.

playing Scrabble and not being as bad as you usually are.

being healthy after being sick for so long.

cotton candy.

finishing a wonderful book, knowing you'll miss the characters.

sunshine, especially after a week of dark skies and rain.

knowing that it's ok to cry and feel the pain because it won't last forever anymore.

recognizing how blessed you are.

She Asks Me

Hari Maya and I are talking about the birth of her children and whether or not she wanted girls. She tells me she always wanted girls and is very happy to have them. Or at least that's what I gather from her broken English and my very limited knowledge of Nepali. She smiles, beaming, and lifts her newborn daughter, Sanya, into the air and says, "girls are most priority in US, yes?"

I don't quite know how to answer her. I don't know how to tell her that though girls and women are treated so much worse in many places in this world, they are still not priority here. That although girls and women go through to the top of the educational system, they are still not thought of as as smart as men. I don't know how to explain to her that men and women with the same background--same education, same experience, same everything-- don't make the same amount of money in the same job. I don't want to burst her bubble. I want her to think that girls are priority. I want her to think that as a woman in the US, she is priority. I want her to think that it matters.

I want to believe it.

But I know the truth. I know that we are not. I know that though her daughters are the most precious things in the world to her, they aren't the most precious children here in the US. I know that in our lifetime, her daughters will face discrimination, not only for being refugees and immigrants, but simply because of the fact that they are girls. They will face wage discrimination, stereotypes, sexual assault. They will face so much just because they have XX chromosomes.

But how do I explain this, and so much more, to Hari Maya. How?

Instead, I tell her that girls are important. I tell her that I love girls. I love holding baby girls; I love playing with them; I love teaching them. I tell her that in the US girls are wonderful. I tell her that within families, girls are amazing gifts.

I tell her this, because I don't know what else to say.

I make him call me so that I know he still cares.

Sometimes when I get upset, I act as I did when I was 15. Then I wonder when I'm going to learn how to behave as an adult.

Sometimes,

even though I'm an adult now, I still wish someone had tried to save me as a kid.

Happiness is

the smell right before a storm breaks open.

watching someone reach into the garbage to remove the newspaper someone else couldn't be bothered to recycle.

blowing on the belly of a silly four-year-old boy.

realizing I'm ready to start dating again.

sore muscles after lifting weights.

the first bloom of spring flowers.

watching an eight-year-old boy entertain himself for the hour train ride with four unsharpened pencils.

being able to talk to old friends without missing a beat.

knowing that you love someone(s) enough to feel a tug of sadness after hanging up the phone or saying goodbye.

finding a way to crack my back in the exact spot I want cracked.

having a future to start imagining again.

figuring out ways to make the present more worthwhile.

knowing how blessed I am.

I am ready for love.

"I am ready for love
Why are you hiding from me
I'd quickly give my freedom
To be held in your captivity

I am ready for love
All of the joy and the pain
And all the time that it takes
Just to stay in your good grace
Lately I've been thinking
Maybe you're not ready for me
Maybe you think I need to learn maturity
They say watch what you ask for
Cause you might receive
But if you ask me tomorrow
I'll say the same thing

I am ready for love
Would you please lend me your ear?
I promise I won't complain
I just need you to acknowledge I am here

If you give me half a chance
I'll prove this to you
I will be patient, kind, faithful and true
To a man who loves music
A man who loves art
Respect's the spirit world
And thinks with his heart

I am ready for love
If you'll take me in your hands
I will learn what you teach
And do the best that I can

I am ready for love
Here with an offering of
My voice
My Eyes
My soul
My mind

Tell me what is enough
To prove I am ready for love

I am ready"
-india.aire

Safety

The notion of safety intrigues me. We worry so much about "being safe." How can we keep ourselves, our friends, our families, our country safe? Safe from what? From violence, natural disasters, death, accidents, etc. What people fear, and thus what they feel the need to keep safe from, varies greatly. One's belief over how much control they have in this world makes the need for safety vary. Our life experiences make it vary.

I went to a Bulls game tonight with R. and I convinced her to walk a mile to the bus instead of taking a taxi like she wanted. The area wasn't the nicest in the city, but I wasn't afraid. Enough people were around; enough cars were driving by; the streets were well lit; it was only 10pm; there were two of us. I had made the walk and waited for the bus later at night by myself in the same neighborhood before. I felt safe enough both times. R. got out her mace and made comments about the boarded up buildings. She didn't feel safe at all.

Why did I feel safe and why didn't she? We're both young women, both white, both have lived in the city for over a year- but we varied so greatly on our level of comfort with the area we were in.

There as many reasons our safety level varied as there are differences in our personalities, but I wonder if she would feel safe in the situations that scare me. She took a taxi to her place from the bus stop. I feel more comfortable standing in the middle of a "bad" neighborhood than I do sitting alone in a taxi with a man. I feel safer walking alone at night than I do drinking with acquaintances. I would rather be the only girl in a bar in less nice neighborhood than in one with fraternity type men.

I think my experiences make me more weary of people I know than of strangers. I think experiencing violence and a complete violation of safety already has lead me to both know that I can survive anything and to some extent to doubt the idea that it's even possible to be safe. That safety even exists. I can certainly do things to try and keep danger at bay. I can travel in groups; I can stay away from "bad" neighborhoods; I can pay attention when I am out alone; I can choose to live in a state that doesn't get hurricanes or earthquakes etc. I can always look both ways before I cross the street. I can meet new people in public places. I can do everything suggested to keep myself "safe," but when does one stop living in fear of danger (of death)?

And, even if I do all those things, I can get jumped in my nice neighborhood. My apartment can catch on fire. A drunk driver can hit me on the sidewalk. After getting to know someone well, he can assault me. I can only do so much. I can only control myself. At some point, regardless of what I do, the world takes over.

More

I want to be doing something more with my life. I want to feel like each day is making a difference--if not to an individual person, then to society as a whole; if not to society, then at least for myself.

This isn't enough for me. This isn't who I am. I am meant, I have made myself meant, for more.

Anniversaries

It’s strange to have an anniversary I “celebrate” alone. The word anniversary usually brings to mind weddings and romance—events that at least two people celebrate together. Even sad anniversaries, such as the death of a loved one or, on a larger scale, the date of a war or catastrophe are shared between people. Anniversaries give us the chance to remember, to reflect, to celebrate our love or the life of someone gone. They give us one day a year when we’re supposed to stop and appreciate the past and the future.

And I can do those things on my own. I can remember. I can reflect on my growth over the past four years. I can appreciate where my future is heading.

But what if I don’t want to remember alone? What if I just don’t want to remember at all? I try to convince myself I have a choice in the matter. That if I don’t want to reflect then I don’t have to. That I can ignore the day and let it be like any other. But I can’t ignore it. My mind and my body remind me. It’s there. Sometimes the day sneaks up on me. Sometimes I forgot about it until I happen to glance at the calendar and the date jumps out at me. Other times, like this year, the anniversary walks alongside me for weeks. A glimpse of that night will flash in my mind; a memory of the first anniversary sneaks into in; a man standing too close to me causes my body to shake. And I remember.

I remember being so excited to go to a party, declaring I was finally going to be social and have fun.

I remember being happy to spend time with Kyle and Tiffany and to be around classmates.

I remember Tiffany giving me a cup for free because I didn’t have cash and she didn’t really care.

I remember starting to get tipsy and frolicking from person to person.

I remember flirting with Kevin and him flirting back.

I remember running into Joey and talking to him momentarily. I remember handing my cup to someone and drinking more.

I remember talking to Kip and being so happy to see him after so long.

I remember standing outside Tiffany’s house and the world being completely black. I remember asking someone to get my coat. Telling him that it was pink.

I remember sitting on a tile floor, vomiting into a recycling bin, and a hand rubbing my back. I remember being so confused as to where I was.

I remember being in a bed. I remember my clothes being gone. My bra next to my head.

I remember being unable to move. I remember being unable to speak. I remember wishing it would stop.

I remember him telling me he had a crush on me forever. I remember him putting his clothes on me and curling me into his arms.

I remember waking up. I remember trying to find my clothes. I remember trying to find my way back to my dorm. I remember telling my roommate we had sex. I remember sleeping through class.

I remember piecing together what happened.

I remember all that happened after.

I remember. And no matter what I try to do, I remember. Year after year. Day after day. I remember.

"Civilized"

"...that's where the difference is: the majority of Iraqis have a deep respect for other cultures and religions...and that's what civilization is. It's not mobile phones, computers, skyscrapers, and McDonald's. It's having enough security in your own faith and culture to allow people the sanctity of theirs..."
-river (Baghdad Burning, pg 113)

Giving Up or Letting Go?

I find myself at another reevaluation point. This time centering mainly on my relationships with people and what I want for myself within them.

I've been spending too much time recently dwelling on my relationships that have started to fade away. I find myself reaching out to these people, working to get their attention, longing for us to communicate again, to be important to each other again. I've been wanting what we used to have. Or more correctly, what I thought we had.

These women are fabulous people and I don't doubt that our friendships were true or that I wasn't important to them at some point, but I'm realizing that I may have placed more attention, more importance on them than they ever did. That there's a lot going on in their lives and I'm someone for them that can be let go.

And I'm finding that I'm ok with this. I miss them. I miss what I thought was there. I miss what was indeed there. But I also know what it's like to need the time to step back from everyone who isn't vital. The dissolution of friendships always hurts a bit, but it's life. We love people. They love us. For some amount of time, in some world, in some situation. We care and if we're lucky we help one another grow. If we're lucky, we have moments to remember. If we're lucky, we think to send good messages, good vibes their way.


In realizing that there are some relationships I need to let go, it becomes easier for me to remember that there are also relationships worth working at. Relationships that still have life in them-- they just might need some help. People who are physically nearby who make my days sillier and happier and more alive. People who I've stopped appreciating recently, who I've let slide because life's gotten crazy. The ones who I long to spend time with but keep putting off because there will "always be time" to get together.

The people who are in other states, but who still mean the world to me. Who the bond runs so deep with that conversations once a month still work. Ones where I know to say congratulations (on her engagement) without her even telling me that's why she was calling. Ones where we play phone tag for a while, where one of us gets too busy to contact the other--but we keep calling. Ones based heavily on emails or IMs, that don't feel any less real or special or important.

It's time to refocus. To be willing to start at whatever point we left off at. To make the time to see or to call them. To go out even when I'm exhausted and just want to go home and be alone. My relationships make me feel alive. They remind me of why I care about this world. Why I care about living. Why it is that I love.

My relationships are worth fighting for. And worth letting go.

The First in Almost Two Years

I wrote a poem today. It still needs lots of revision and the like, but I haven't written a poem in so long. It feels amazing.


when she opened her mouth to scream there were icicles inside*

hanging from her throat, stalactites
in a cave that only sees light when
it's bad enough to scream.
when face pressed into pillow,
smothered sounds is not enough,
when the energy from deep inside
pushes to the top and the force of it all
is so strong the mouth opens without choice,
when finally she parts her lips, she finds the sound
frozen and dangling at the point
when the world was about to hear


*The title is taken from a skit done by the Neo-Futurists and TMLMTBGB

Touch

I've been really sick the past couple of weeks. Sick enough to call my mom several times a week. Sick enough to take sick days during my first month at a new job and sick enough to be near tears several times each day. And when I'm sick, there's one thing I want. One thing I need.

I need to be touched.

In general, I'm big on touch. I grew up with parents who were very physical-my dad rubbed my back every night before I went to bed. My mom would cuddle with me and when I was sick she would play with my hair, gently tucking it behind my ear. Even now, I lay with my mom when I visit and probably will still when I'm 60 and she's 87. In my world, touch means love, compassion, nurturing.

Most importantly to me, perhaps, touch means "I know you're here and I'm acknowledging your existence."

The lack of touch in my life is what I've always missed most about leaving home. I'm lucky in that my friends (most of them) like hugs and will let me rest my head on them etc, but it's still not enough. It's been rough the last month because I got used to being with C.- being held, cuddling, hugging, holding hands.

I realized how much I miss physical touch when I was riding the CTA home from work one night and the guy next to me didn't do the usual, "I'm trying to keep from touching the person next to me as much as possible," that so many people do while riding public transportation. He just sat and all of our legs touched and our sides were touching. We were sitting next to one another as most people would with their friends (which is just to say, sitting naturally) and I thought, "my god, I don't know the last time I had this much contact with someone."

I sat there so ridiculously happy that this stranger and I weren't trying to pretend the person next to us didn't exist, that we weren't obsessing about "personal space," that our bodies rested naturally against one another. I was happy to feel the physical presence of another person, to feel that my body existed in relation to someone else's.

Small Moments

It's been quite a week. I don't know the last time I felt so content, so happy with life. I feel very hopeful for the first time in a while.

Watching Obama sworn in as President of the United States was wonderful. I have a lot of issues with Obama; I disagree with him on many things; I want him to take a true stand on Women's rights, gay rights and more. But on Tuesday, I set those all aside and reveled in the fact that a black man became the President. That the highest position in our nation is held by a person of color. And listening to his speech, I felt hopeful. I felt like, maybe, finally, we can turn around some of the things that happened over the last 8 years.

Then Clinton was sworn in as Secretary of State and my optimism grew. To hear someone in one of the most important positions in our nation address women and girls and their rights in her first speech as SOS, it felt amazing . It blew my mind and continues to:

We cannot have a free, prosperous, peaceful, progressive world if women are treated in such a discriminatory and violent way. … We're going to have a very active women's office, a very active office on trafficking; we're going to be speaking out consistently and strongly against discrimination and oppression of women.

And at least thus far, this president and his cabinet aren't just talk. Persecution at Gitmo is being halted for at least 120 days. Obama repealed the Global Gag rule. Clinics and foundations around the world are once again able to receive aid from the good ole USA, even if they support a woman's right to choose.

I felt, I feel, proud to be an American.

I am grateful for the changes that are coming our way on the larger scale and I am grateful for the changes and consistencies on the smaller scale.

I had a moment of pure contentment on Tuesday night as A, S, and I sat on our couch, watching TV, chatting, laughing. I don't remember now any of what we talked about or what was so funny, but the moment was so great that I took pause right then and thought, "This is my life. And it's good." It was just another night, like so many others over the past months, but it felt so right. I am where I am supposed to be.

Life, right now, is wonderful.

Perfection.

I had my first knitting lesson today. My roommate A offered to teach me how to knit as a Christmas gift. I've always thought about learning, but knowing myself, knew I both lacked patience and craved "perfection" a bit too much.

It didn't take me long to learn the movements of casting on and knitting, but I kept pulling the yarn too tight, making the next step a bit too difficult for my novice fingers. A. offered to help, offered to do the casting on so that I could practice the knitting aspect, she gave me larger needles and larger yarn so it would be easier. I practiced with the larger yarn/needles for a bit and then became determined that I should be able to master the task with the smaller yarn/needle. I kept working at it, undoing, redoing, undoing, redoing because I needed it to be right. I needed to get it right in that one sitting or...

Or what? I know and believe to the depth of my being that there is no such thing as perfection. That everyone can always get better at whatever it is. That being perfect would probably be pretty damn boring if it was possible. That people who are "perfect" at something are under constant pressure to never lose that ability. That I should be striving for experience and knowledge and growth- not perfection.

Yet, I sat there and kept doing it over and over until my shoulder hurt and I had to stop. One of my mom's favorite stories to tell is one night when I was in eighth grade and I couldn't understand my geometry homework. For whatever reason, the concepts weren't making sense to me and I absolutely, positively had to understand or I would die? I wouldn't be ok? I'd never accomplish anything in my entire life? I sat crying at the kitchen table begging my mom to try and explain it to me again. At 10:30pm she refused to help me anymore, tried (again) to convince me that everything would be ok if I didn't understand geometry and that maybe if I slept, I'd understand the next day. I threw a total fit. She didn't get it! I absolutely had to understand!

I laugh about it now; it's seriously ridiculous. About as ridiculous as my inability to let A. help me with knitting, the inability to write the second sentence of a paper until the first sentence is perfect, my willingness to give up writing poetry because it's not as great as it used to be, the way I write and then rewrite to-do lists if the first one doesn't look good enough- regardless of the fact that I'll just cross it off anyway.

My life has always been this way. I grew up in a world where our house had to sparkling clean or my mom would go crazy (she used to vacuum three times a day). I grew up telling myself that I had to be the best at all the things I could be the best at, that if I couldn't be skinny or pretty or popular, then I sure as hell would be smart and get great grades and be involved in xyz and be really good at xyz as well. I grew up painting myself into what I thought I had to be.

I don't want to be that person anymore. I've definitely gotten better at letting go a bit of that chase for perfection since graduating college. But I need to let go even more. I need (I want) to change the way I think about what's good "enough," about why I do the things I do (like knitting) and if the goal is really for it to be perfect at the end or if it's to enjoy the experience itself. I want to get back to writing- to be willing to write crap for awhile until I practice my way back to where I was.

I want to teach myself how to sit with the anxiety I feel when I don't do things "perfectly." Teach myself to set aside the knitting needles, with the messed up stitches or too tight casting, and to come back to it later if I still want to. To sit with the intense level of anxiety I feel coursing through my body because it just isn't right! I want to remind myself that I'm not going to die if I don't redo it right away (or ever), that it doesn't say anything about who I am as a person or that I'll never be able to knit.

I want life to be about more than trying to achieve something that is not only attainable, but also undesirable.

Because I Need To Remember

February 2nd, 2006

Dearest Self,

When you're reading this, it means it's between August and September and you're getting ready for senior year. How is that possible? When did you get so old?

Thailand has been an experience beyond what you thought possible. GO BACK! It's hard to believe study abroad is over and you're on your way back home. Study abroad was a dream for so long that it feels impossible it's over. But it is.

Remember the courage it took to come here and that you have it in you still. Everything difficult eventually becomes easier. In Mae Hong Son, you realized how quickly the unknown becomes known. How it seemed impossible to learn Thai, to exist here, but then you did. The different food and language, the new culture, the scary unknown- it became normal.

Don't fear life after "K." Think of it as a study abroad- a journey to a new culture. You will make friends. Have the strength to do what you want, what feels right- even if it means going off on your own. You went to Thailand without friends and you made 12 wonderful friends.

Keep your passion for children and the desire to be an advocate. Remember what you've seen here, the lives you've shared, but don't feel sad. Try not to think about them as people you'll never see again, but as people whom you loved and who loved you, who shaped an experience that was wonderful. Remember P'Jay, P' On, P'Bu, P'Poo, Ajaan Linda, Ajaan Dave, Nat, Pak, Maa, Paw, Yeigh, P'Annie, Ajaan Jon, Ajaan Araya, Ajaan Chu, Ajaan Mark, P'ToTo, The "Bumster" P'Kim, P'Ben, Som, May, Maew, Anne, Fon, Mai, P'Wasan, Jim, Juum, Jang and their parents.

Remembering them will keep them alive. It will keep this experience alive.

Remember crying on the climb on Leader Day in MHS because you felt too weak to be a leader and too proud to share the weight. You didn't want to be weak. But you made it. It was emotionally hard and you did it anyway. Think about how you're willing to speak up, to speak out about your thoughts and feelings. Remember Andrew being mad at you because he thought you were trying to make him look bad. It took awhile to remember that you were being real and speaking the truth, even if it cost you friendships for awhile. You stood your ground.

Remember making out with P'Bat and what an uproar it was. Making out with sweet Es at the club and his reassurance that he wasn't just trying to sleep with you (even though that's what you wanted). He called numerous times and you were a baby, afraid you were too fat or that he couldn't possibly like you because he was hot. But he did. Don't let negative thoughts ruin the good things that can be.

Remember your friendship with P'Kim. When feeling hurt by the group, the two of you became friends. The cliche saying: "When one door closes, another opens" is true. She entered your life and became a wonderful part of it.

Remember Nat and Pak holding your hands while you slept before leaving on courses- they love you. You finally got to be a big sister.

You've grown Megan. When it feels like you're the same- you aren't. It's impossible to even begin to figure out how much you have learned and changed. You're nicer. At present, you're at peace.

You're going home.

At this point, have you created a new home? Do you remember the early thought that home is within yourself?

You'll always be changing. Hope it stays that way.

"And I'm homesick 'cuz I don't even know, where home is." Kings of Convenience
But you do- it's inside. And now you have more homes, more families than ever before.

You're ok Meg. You always will be.

XO

Another "First"

I start my first "adult" job tomorrow. My first job with good pay, nice benefits, 8:30-5:00pm schedule, traveling for work. My first job in downtown Chicago, with lots of coworkers, for a respected corporation. What feels like my first "real" job as an adult.

And I'm nervous as hell. First day back to school nervous. First time abroad nervous. First day of college nervous. First date nervous. First time living within another culture nervous. First vacation by myself nervous. First apartment with people I don't know nervous. First day in a new city by myself nervous.

I used to get so nervous the night before school would start. Even in college. Even after I had been doing the same thing year after year for 17 years- my stomach would still feel wobbly, my mind would race a million miles an hour, anxiety coursed my veins. I'm there again right now- reliving the fears of all those firsts in conjunction with this next first.

I'm finding that it makes me feel alive. That it makes me happy that things are still exciting enough to get nervous about. The hope of what this next step could bring. The memories of what putting myself out there in the past has brought. The knowledge that hard work and fate have brought me to this very point in my life.

"Is Love Alive?"

I did it. I went and fell for a boy. I didn't do what I normally do- didn't put most of myself out there, didn't just go through the motions, didn't just go for the sex, didn't hold back.

I met someone and I liked him and I didn't run. I fell. I went through the initial slightly uncomfortable, the slightly awkward, the butterflies, the when's-he-going-to-kiss-me-dammit, and finally found myself at this point where I felt so comfortable with him, where we felt natural. He made me laugh and when I had a bad day, he was who I wanted to talk to. I didn't feel the need to play happy on those bad days, and yet being with him, I'd suddenly forget that it was even a bad day to begin with. He sucked at making contact. He was hairy and somewhat spoiled and was living at home while he got his masters. But I liked him and I let myself.

He let me know on NYE that he decided he's too busy to date. That I was "warm and compassionate and a great person," but he didn't have time for a relationship.

And now I find myself standing at this really new, strange place. Dating is only somewhat new to me, but what's completely new is trusting myself, trusting the other person enough to allow myself to feel whatever it is that I feel, whenever it is that I feel it. I opened up and I fully put myself into the relationship and I did things in the "right" order, and and and.

For the most part, I'm choosing to remain positive. I'm choosing to see the relationship as experience and growth. I'm choosing to believe that his decision to stop dating really did have to do with his lack of time and not some lack about me. I'm choosing to let myself feel sad when something occurs to me and I think, oh C. would love this. I'm choosing to rewrite my online dating profile. I'm choosing to start looking again, with no rush or need to find someone else, just being open to the possibility. I'm choosing to think about what I didn't like about C. and what I would like in the next person.

And I'm trying as hard as I can to keep myself from shutting down, from backing away, from turning away from another relationship. I'm choosing and I'm trying and I'm growing.



"I still believe in summer days.
The seasons always change
and life will find a way.

I'll be your harvester of light
and send it out tonight
so we can start again.

Is love alive?
Is love alive?
Is love alive?"

-Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson