Dear Small Intrigue,

There is a roll of fruity Mentos sitting on my dresser. They terrify me.

They scream possibilities.

If you knew anything about me, you would know all about the nature of my random giving of small gifts. But you know absolutely nothing about me.

So the Mentos are just sitting there, asking me what in the world are they doing there, and I don't know what to tell them.

You see, the trouble is that your essence is so masked that it's impossible to tell the things you're noticing. Movements. Patterns. Words.

Me?

And the difference between awareness, alienation, or nothing at all may be the roll of Mentos.

Espresso Machines, Part #3

Is anyone out there a loyal enough reader that they remember when I posted about learning to use an espresso machine, like, a year ago?

(this is where that link will go once I acquire access to a computer)

Well, guess who gets to put all that practice into use again? *does a happy dance*

You got it. My church needed volunteers to work at the cafe between services. I had to fill out an application and everything.

And so now every Sunday between 9:00 and 11:30, I have the celestial joy of slipping past the small wooden door in the counter and being what as known as an employee. *shiver*

I don't think there is any better job out there than making coffee. To man the squeaking, hissing steam wand over the hot, foaming milk like a pro. To perfectly tame the clumped, unruly coffee grounds into a smoothly packed circle with a twist of the iron stamper-thing that doesn't really have a name. To swirl shots of espresso, flavoring, and nonfat milk in a creamy, perfect mixture, to be graced with whipped cream as the angels sing praises of your pristine syrup-drizzling skill.

So I may have inhaled the smell of coffee grounds for a while. Whatever. The point is, it's nothing short of magical. Up there with performing in a show, reading C.S. Lewis, and getting the perfect amount of milk in my cereal.

I mean, even the plastic buttons on the cash register make me feel like the coolest darn thing ever. I even got to drive to church. How adult am I.

So if anyone wants a Tuxedo Mocha or Americano anytime. *raises eyebrow* You know where to find me.

In The World, But Not of the World

Something I'm 200% done with: the world.

My school in particular.

I mean, it's to a point where I'm thinking I should just stop caring. And that's big for me. To just not care. I care way too much. It's one of my greatest fatal flaws, actually. But today I was shown that there's not much around me in my daily life that's really worth caring about. So why am I focusing on it?

Why???

Oh. I'm a human being. Right.

I'm glad God showed me the things he did today. But it was also very sobering to realize that keeping (or trying to keep) your heart in the right place all day... it comes with a cost. Boy does it ever. You notice so much more. Stuff you wish didn't exist. And you realize how utterly broken the world is... and they don't even know it.

And then you take a step back, stand outside the gossipy circle, and realize you're the only one standing out there. And you think, no. That's not true. I can't be... alone. There has to be someone around me that knows the truth and cares.

But you look at the circle and then around you, and as far as you can see...

you're the only one.

It's completely and utterly discouraging.

New Shoes

I bought 3, count 'em, three new pairs of shoes today:

-Gray low-top Converse (EEEE!!!!)
-Navy blue Keds with white polka dots (for spring)
-Tan leather... like, boating shoes, with a light blue plaid stripe on the side. Awesome. (and better for walking)

I have to say though, the Converse just got me. I've always had a pair of Converse in my closet, since third grade. (These are my first low-tops though, and I feel as if I've betrayed the Chuck Taylors.) I once read an awesome quote about Chuck Taylors:
"Here's a secret about Chuck Taylors: you never get rid of them, they are just retired to the back of your closet." 
Truer words have never been spoken. I think I have 3 or 4 pairs back there that I haven't worn in who-knows how long. But anyways.

Ordinarily I would have just gone for my usual, basic Black, because they're trustworthy and match almost anything. But the left shoe was too loose and kind of clunky, and all of a sudden I heard Charcoal call out in a melodious voice from down the aisle of shoe boxes:

"Hey, Abby. Try me on for size. I match everything."

And so I did. And as I slipped them on I got that Magic New Shoe Feeling, that I haven't felt in forever.  When you slide your heel all the way in, and the leather/canvas is perfectly molded to you all the way around your foot, and it's like a crew of magic elves somewhere hand-crafted these shoes to perfectly fit each of your feet, and you realize: they were made for you. They sat there on the shelf waiting for you to come along, pull out the cardboard and paper inserts, and pull the laces snug over your feet.

It was glorious. The best part? They were the only pair that had the exact color/size combination I needed and contained both a right and left shoe. It further confirmed that I was meant to find them.

Sigh.

So anyways, all this is to say that I got some new shoes today. And this week is destined for greatness because of them. I mean, nothing can go wrong when you're all spiffy in your new shoes, right?

Right.

I put some new shoes on,

and suddenly everything's right... 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's note: This song is so perfect it's ridiculous.

Bittersweet

Something I've always loved, weirdly, is crying. I don't cry easily, and sometimes when I'm sad I just need to. But usually I can't. So when I do cry, it's for real.

And last night I had a good long one. The last time that happened, it was in Okinawa and it was for almost the same reason.

But whatever it was, I cried. And cried. It made my head ache and my airways thick and my eyes sting when I closed them, and it was awful. But it felt good. It felt good to be allowed to just be sad. I can't explain it. 

It was so bad that eventually my mom had to help me into my pajamas and make me tea to get me to fall asleep, something she hasn't done since I was a kid. Then she stayed in my room while I sat under my covers and held my steaming mug and just talked. We talked about other things. Things I wasn't crying about, but happy things. She let me ramble when I remembered different happy memories from New York freshman year. She let me talk about whatever came to mind, and for once, I managed to ramble without finding something I was sad about. She stayed with me for an hour while I drank my tea. 

Before she came in, I had been content with the idea of satisfyingly crying myself to sleep in my pillows. But when she left, I was happy. 

I didn't think anything could pull me out, but I wasn't crying anymore, and I didn't need to.

I love her for doing that. 

Moving Up in the World, Maybe

So today I met the wife of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. Never mind the unfortunate circumstances. Basically, I'm still reeling.

But let me back up.

About a month and a half ago, my dear friend Bethany West asked me to write a piece on what it was like being a military kid. She had been asked to speak at a symposium with around 400 people about being a military kid, but her dad retired when she was younger, so she asked someone she knew had a few more years in The Lifestyle... and who could string a few sentences together. :D

So I wrote a piece. I typed a ton of stuff, emailed it to her, and said she could use whatever chunk she wanted- it was pretty long. She said she ended up using practically all of it, that it took up a good portion of her speech, and that people were saying amazing things about the whole thing. Naturally, I was immensely proud of her and glad I could help.

Fast forward. When I met the Commandant's wife today, I mentioned that she had probably met my friend Bethany, that she had spoken at a-

At once, she grabbed my hand and said, "Were you the one who wrote that-"

I nodded and smiled.

She immediately grabbed my mother and said, "You didn't tell me this was your daughter!"

Then, after overflowing the most gracious compliments I have ever heard about something I did, she asked if I could send my piece to her so she could publish it on her official blog.

I. Was. Floored.

So as of five minutes ago, I sent the aforementioned email, complete with document attached, to Mike Tollinson, the official aide to the Commandant, and now I'm sitting here thinking I should actually publish the thing I wrote on here so people will believe I wrote it. And I'm also starting to be really grateful that I've kept this thing going for almost a year and a half, because look where it just got me. I'm so grateful to Bethany for asking me to write something, to Mrs. Amos for complimenting me on it, and truly, sincerely, thankful to God for giving me the ability and the love to do this.

So. This is what I wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was little, the military and moving every 2 years was just as much a part of my life as swimming lessons every summer or snow every winter. Predictable. Normal. When I'd learned what I needed to learn and made all the friends I would make, that part of my life would come to a satisfying close, and I would get in a car or a plane and start it over again somewhere different. But by the time I was in middle school, it started to change. I developed deeper friendships, and grew attached to places, and with each move, goodbyes were a little harder.

Finally, I was almost 16 and I was moving away from, of all places, Okinawa, Japan. I had been there for three years. It was the longest I'd ever stayed in one place. Without realizing it, I'd put down roots and developed my closest friendships and begun to treat Okinawa as a real home. The concept of "home" was something that had always eluded me because I had memories from everywhere, and who was to say which ones were more special or valued? And so I assigned the term to where my extended family lived, because they never moved. But as I finished out my sophomore year, I realized that for the first time, I didn't feel like I was finished with that part of my life. I wasn't ready to go, and it was scary because I knew that I didn't have a choice.

There are few things in this world stranger than driving on an ordinary American highway and gasping in awe because you forgot how big they are. Or being grossed out because American french fries are a shade darker than Japanese... because of all the extra oil. Or going into a public restroom and realizing that the toilet seats aren't heated. Remembering how to live in the Western Hemisphere was strange, and one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, because the whole time, it felt like someone in my family had died... because I knew I might not ever see any of my fellow military-kid friends from Japan again.

None of this is to say that living in the military has been anything less than exhilarating. I have always loved those times during the first week of school when kids are asked to talk about what they did over the summer. As kids stand up and say they went to the beach and slept in a lot, I stand up and casually say (like it's no big deal) that I went diving with whale sharks and hiked the temples of Angkor Wat in Cambodia. I love that I've seen more of the world than most, and can speak a sentence or two in more than 3 other languages. I love that I can navigate an international airport in Hong Kong with the speed and efficiency of Jason Bourne. I love that I can understand ridiculous sentences full of military jargon and acronyms, and that one time at a gas station an elderly man came up to my dad and personally thanked him for serving our country. I love how Army/Navy football games are twice as awesome every year because my dad went to the Naval Academy. I loved, when I was younger, the amazing moment of running into my dad's arms when he came home from a deployment. (I love that one time it was so perfect that a reporter actually took a picture of me hugging my dad in his uniform and put it in the newspaper.) I love that I can strike at least a little fear into the hearts of teenage boys when I mention that my dad is a Marine. I love that my family are the only ones that know what every place was like for me. And I love that friendships mean so much more when I've learned to cherish them for only a few years at a time.

The Metamorphosis

I remember I used to be in elementary school (like, 5 minutes ago) and see high schoolers and say to myself,

"Wow. They're so old. I will never, ever be that old. In like a thousand years. And then I'll get married and be a grownup and wear bras and be a different person and stuff."

And look at what happened. I'm looking at colleges and planning trips and applications and getting ready to start my journey into the real world, and I'm here at that ledge that 8-year-old me said I'd never stand at the edge of inside a millennium.

My conversations now consist of the universal difference between in-state and out-of-state tuitions, my email inbox grows by (literally) 100 emails a day, all from schools I've never heard of, but can't help but wonder "Are you the one?", and any extra-curricular I do is no longer out of the humanitarian in me, but because my thought process is always, "This will look good on applications." People talk about summer coming soon and all I think is that I hope I have time for that-one-thing between trips to colleges.

I'm doing job interviews and signing up for AP classes next year and wearing button-downs and making my bed every day, but knowing I'll only have my own bedroom for one more year, and...

... and it's terrifying.

Growing up is the scariest thing. But I know it's going to happen to me regardless. So I have to keep getting up and putting myself together in front of a mirror, and taking good notes in class, and nodding as my parents talk about studying for the SAT, and deep down, I have to accept that a tiny part of me is a little bit exhilarated at the thought of starting my life.

My actual life.

There is nothing but our fears of being free,

and it feels deeper than any ocean floor...

Dear Small Intrigue,

It's exhausting the effort I put in for the smallest and silliest of prizes.

But then, I get to relish in things as insignificant as a few notifying pixels with an entire playlist of celebratory dance music.

And, of course, there are losses as insignificant as the victories, which only serve to disappoint me just as the victories excited me.

Today was a conglomeration of both. Unfortunately, a loss had the last laugh, and a perfectly good haiku was wasted all because I pretended to be hungry at the wrong time.


But don't worry. I bounce back.

Dear Unfortunately Smudged,

You know, it's funny. Few people know me, and you're not one of them.

I guess we're friends, but you can't really say anything else about me when we've never even had a real conversation.

I can say that about so many people, but for some reason it's you that make me the saddest today.

I hate saying this, but could you just take a minute
and get to know me?

You never know. I know you think you do, but you don't.

You should give a shot one day when you're not preoccupied with those farther up the pyramid.

Because there are so many things I've been dying to say to you, and it's looking like I'll never get the chance to say them.

That should never happen.

Dear Green Bandana,

This morning I woke up and remembered the strangest things.

I wondered if you could tell me why I suddenly miss them more than I'll ever say.

The taxi in Thailand, and how the three of us poked each other in the ribs, giggling, until we stopped suddenly as you said that tonight might be the last time we all saw each other.

And it was.

And stretched out on your hotel bed, with Tyler. Flicking cards in a circle as an excuse to keep talking.

The way you threw yourself down on your bed, mortified and laughing, when I came through the door at the wrong moment.

Those iced coffees and chocolate shakes.

Shoulder massages.

The rooftop you showed me? Little did you know I went up there a few mornings and sang worship songs to the entirety of Poi Pet.

Your little grin that fell somewhere between 'aren't-I-clever' and 'I-knew-you'd-think-this-was-cool-too'. I had all but forgotten about that.

I never told you, but after I hugged you one last time, and you and your family waved disappeared around the corner with your luggage carts, tears came out of nowhere and I sobbed.

Maybe I knew it was the first of my many goodbyes.

But for some reason, today, all I can think about is those blurry lights of Bangkok whipping by. And that taxi ride. And how, watching you, I couldn't stop feeling sad.

And Then I Learned How To Talk

It's funny how you can hate a conversation while relishing every second.

And how suddenly, everything in the world becomes noticable, like Peter Parker's Spidey Sense has been bestowed upon you and suddenly you realize that the fly on the wall means business and that simple black frames can change everything.

But because everything is flying around your brain and pinging off the walls, everything distracts you. You can't focus too much because it becomes apparent. Yet every fourth second, you become drawn back in and everything about the moment is in high-def.
Words. Sounds.

A thin red line. Everything screeches to a halt.

But the moment is over and you still haven't learned how to talk.

Dear Black and White,

I don't know if you ever read this any more, but you should know that I am always on your side.

And I meant every word. About praying, about talking, and about you being one of the better humans out there. 

Don't forget that.

I wish so badly that I knew what to say. That I could give you some perfect nugget of wisdom. Something deep and profound that clears all the fog in your mind and helps you see straight to the light at the end of the tunnel where the answer lies clear. Something comforting and helpful that makes you feel like everything's going to work out okay.

Something.

But alas, it seems I am no good at that sort of thing. If we had been friends for longer I would invite you over and make you pancakes and let you vent or something. But I guess for now I'll have to stick with sitting in your passenger seat and saying,

"Wow. That really sucks." 

For Lack of Words

Sometimes all you can say is this.

Regardless, going on a legitimate double date was pretty swell. 

I feel like a big kid now.