Metaphors

Life is a lot like being on a swingset. 

Whenever you want it to be quiet, there's this irritating squeaking sound, and you have to block out all the meaningless noise if you want any peace and focus.

And when you find a really good rhythm, you can ignore the fact that your fingers are sore from holding on because it feels good to be up high and moving fast. You can look up and see clouds and even pretend the ground has dropped from beneath you and you're up on this celestial swingset in the sky, if you can manage to ignore the tree branches on the edges of your vision that remind you that you're still on the ground.

It takes time to get really high up, though. And you have to be consistent in your rhythm to get there.

And while sometimes the weightlessness and wind on your face can make you feel like you're flying, sooner or later you have to let go and be faced with the reality of gravity and feet full of splinters from the wood chips.

That moment is inevitable.

But even though you'll walk home with splintery toes and sore fingers and aching calves, you remember what it was like to feel like you were flying.

And it's kinda worth it.

Eyes Forward, Don't Think About It

Sometimes, instead of a song, I'll get words stuck in my head. Specific words. They'll just replay themselves over and over. 

And tonight there are three in particular that won't shut up. 

The more they replay themselves (in the voice in which they were originally spoken, no less), the sadder those words make me.

Because the feeling they gave me is gone. 

And as I'm putting one foot in front of the other, 

my brain forcing my eyes to stay straight in front of me, 

the words are abruptly silenced by what's real.

Tossed-back shoulders

An ever-stony gaze, 

straight ahead like mine

Well-worn shoes

And silence

All of which, I'm sure, regard me as the scum of the earth. 

The shoes are perhaps the most heartbreaking, strangely. That scares me. 

Car Rides

Last night was the last Fiddler on the Roof performance.

And it was emotional and joyous and heartbreaking and wonderful, and all of the feelings swelled up inside me, but I couldn't cry. I didn't. I teared up a little during the Chaveleh dance, but that was it. Even then, I had to force it.

I pretended to cry the whole night.

Don't get me wrong, I felt like crying. Practically the whole night I felt the ache of almost-tears in my chest. But each time, it was for different reasons, and none of them ever came out.

But on the way to IHOP, in the car with the four people I'd been riding home with every day, as we belted Phillip Phillips with the windows down and even the boys shed a few manly tears, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes and...

... didn't cry.

I was happy.

Even though people were moving away and the year was ending and the show was over and there were a million things in my life I could have cried over by simply thumbing through a mental file cabinet of worries and plucking one out, I was content. I felt fulfilled and whole and satisfied with where I was just at that moment.

And where was I?

I was in a car with four friends, and we were all together, laughing and crying and singing and happy to be together.

And for the moment, that was enough.

Don't pay no mind to the demons

that fill you with fear...

Dear Small Hurricane,

With all your troubles on your mind
you're looking right through me
I'm letting myself down
satisfying you

And I wish that you could see
I have my troubles too...

There are so many things I wish I could make disappear. Trouble is, I can't pick the right ones. I could make you disappear if I wanted to. But I don't. Do I? 

I won't wish you away. There are others out there doing that for me, so I won't. 

But if I could go back, that's the first thing I would do, I swear. 

After that?

I don't know what I would change. 

Everything Will Fall Right Into Place

in the motions

and the things that you say

it all will fall

fall right into place

As the restless, stinging, torrential sea of emotions still tosses inside me, I am so, so, glad that no one who reads this blog knows what the above song truly means. 

Because as I sat in on a log in the middle of the woods today and listened to this song, it was gut-wrenching how much I needed to hear it.

I still have no earthly idea why everything frustrating and sad suddenly swelled up inside me and I realized that even still, after ten months, I wished I could be anywhere else. 

In any case, it was terrifying how much I missed home all over again. But as always, I'll get up tomorrow and be fine. 

And no one knows what those words mean anyway. I don't have to let on what they really say about how I feel. 

Better Weather

Don't you know you're alive...

Today was sunny. It was bright and breezy and I was rocking a ponytail and for a rare moment, wasn't inwardly straining at the thought of the piles of studying I should have been doing, or my once-again messy room.

That in itself was strange. A couple times I stopped and listened for the usual clamor of unpleasant things that shouted through my head. But there was nothing. Even when I forced myself to think of the homework I hadn't touched, it was only a flicker of remembrance. Oh, right, I thought. I'll do that. Eventually. 

But I didn't wince on the inside. 

For Mother's Day, we went to this darling cafe in downtown Fredricksburg. The woman who owned the cafe apparently liked me well enough to give me her email address, promise to come to our school's musical this weekend, and even throw out a job offer if I ever wanted one. 

Then we toured the grounds of the house of some 17th-century painter. The grounds were covered in flower bushes and tall, old trees, and small fields full of wildflowers and old wood painted white. I frolicked around in my blue shorts, my faithful Canon DSLR in tow, and scampered through uncut grass and over stone walls, twisting the zoom lens to my heart's delight, snapping photos.

At one point during lunch, I looked up from my seasoned potatoes and said suddenly, "Why am I so happy today? I'm in such a good mood." 

It was true. Normally, I'm impatient Sunday afternoons. I'm always thinking of all the things I have yet to do before the week begins again. But I was looking around me and loving what I saw. I was humming and not caring about how I looked. I was reading a book again and glad to be outside. 

That hasn't happened to me in a long while. The wonder and simplicity of inexplicable happiness. 

It's a good feeling. 

Tickle Time

When I was little, the best things to look forward to were always Tickle Time.

Nowadays, I'm not too keen on being tickled by other people, because a)it's awkward and b)no one on this earth but my dad can do it right. Up until I was literally almost out of middle school, every now and then, when we were finished with dinner or lying around the house on a Saturday night, the brilliant idea would enter our brains, and me or my brother would pipe up excitedly and ask, eyes wide, if we would have Tickle Time.

And if we were lucky, Daddy would say yes.

So we'd push aside the coffee table and I'd hurriedly stuff my hair into a ponytail (even though I knew it would come out in the process) and my mom would settle herself on a chair nearby if she was done with the dishes. Then, without warning, Daddy would drop to all fours and pounce on us in a frenzy of tickle wrestling. Timmy and I would tag team: One would be under Daddy, being tickled wildly, as the other rode astride his back trying to pull him off. But then he would reach behind him and grab us and the tables would turn as the other sibling was attacked.

He knew all our weakest spots, and we invented tickling games that involved being tossed against the couch cushions or held upside down by our ankles. At the end, to wind down, he'd place one of us  on the couch, on top of a pillow, lying on our backs, and make a "sandwich" on our bellies, with the pillow under us as the bread and us as the "meat". He had a different hand motions for each vegetable, cheese, meat, and condiment that he put on the sandwich, each of which involved poking our tightened tummy muscles in various ways, making us giggle uncontrollably. When the massive sandwich was concocted, he'd put another piece of pillow bread on top and shake the whole thing violently to "eat" it.

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

It's 2013 now.
I'm sixteen, and Timmy is now 13-year-old, 7th-grade Tim, who's far too cool to giggle.

But today was a good day.

After dinner, Tim and I were planning on watching a movie. We knew the parents would slam us with dish duty before anything enjoyable would be permitted to take place, and so we goofed around a little as we stacked plates on the ever-growing mountain of dishes on the counter.
At one point, he turned around to talk to Mom and I poked him in the ribs. When I got no reaction, I went straight for his armpits and dug in. He ran away, laughing, so naturally an epic chase ensued. We ended up tackling each other on the couch, and I had him pinned. I was tickling him like crazy, and he was doing that belly laugh that he only ever does when he's really ticklish.

Then, out of nowhere, Dad was over us both, and we were both trapped under his iron Tickle Grip. We flailed around on the couch, shrieking with laughter, and all of a sudden, as he got me in my weak spot behind my knee and both of us were digging into Tim's ribs, it was Tickle Time all over again. We were all laughing hysterically, even Dad, but suddenly, deep inside me, I felt like crying.

It had been years since the three of us had done this.

I missed Tickle Time. I missed being a kid.

But it made my day nonetheless.

Cue Beethoven's 5th

The AP Lang test is tomorrow.

3 essays. 55 multiple choice.

3 hours.

ALL OF MY TRAINING HAS PREPARED ME FOR THIS MOMENT

Contemplating a more cowardly route. 

Okay that was bad. 

NO.

I must not yield to lack of sleep.

Or fear.

Or common sense.

Or sanity.

Or hand cramps.

Or vague writing prompts.

*cracks knuckles*

Dear Striped Hat,

You flash me forward to a log cabin
to pine forests
to wooden counters
and solitary hikes

But also to an East Side loft
and the Avett Brothers in my earbuds
and the occaisonal downpour

You smell like coffee grounds in my mind
and match with red plaid flannel
and like guitars


You may never see them all
but they seep through the cracks
like sunlight between blinds
and send a pine-smelling breeze
 through the windows of my soul.

Dear Modern Man,
Thank you.

Help What I Can't Even

Hello.

I don't know how to do this.

I guess I should update this... officially... and all.

So.

There's this thing that happened. And I guess I should mention it.

I have a boyfriend.

That is so weird for me to say. I've never done this before.

What if I'm bad at it?
What if it doesn't work out?
What if it does?

Of course for those of you that aren't my friends on Facebook I should mention who this gentleman is.

(And yes. He is a gentleman.)

His name's Matt. We've been friends for a good while.

Kay cool bye.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just kidding. This video is me. It's so great.

Can I ship us?

Okay we're done.