18765432 Different Ways

#keepcalmWRITEon Day 14

**

When we're stressed, we really don't want to hear, "You need to relax a bit."

When we're thinking, we don't want to hear, "Are you okay?"

When we've had a long day and are fighting to not show it on our face, we dont want to hear, "What's wrong?"

See, sometimes our face looks like that because on the inside, our brain is going in 22 directions at once.

Sometimes, it's all we can do to keep our balance amidst the ebb and flow and weight of our own thoughts.

Sometimes, it's hard to make a decision because our over-sensitive brains see 18765432 different ways to solve a problem, but we don't want to be judged, so we keep our opinions to ourselves.

Sensory overload is like being on a super-fast Ferris Wheel, while eating an entire pizza as fast as you can, while trying to count each individual light whizzing by and trying to sing the national anthem, all at once.

It's needing to be in a quiet space NOW, RIGHT NOW, so that your head doesn't explode.

It's throwing your hands up in the air because you can't get a grip on anything anyway.

It's sneaking outside to the 15-degree back patio to let the cold air slow your thumping heart.

Sometimes being an introvert makes us come off .... high-strung.

In reality, it's just exhausting to be around people all the time.

We all have our things.

Save It for a Rainy Day

12/3/16

1:30 am

(it’s really 12/4/16…this evening shift work schedule makes life difficult)

So, yesterday was interesting.  I said, “Hmmm, let’s see what comes out of my brain today.” And, well……a lot came out.  Frankly, I surprised myself with the vividness of the memories still in my brain. 

I want to write about something happy, but today it rained ALLLLLLLLLL dayyyyyy LOOOONNNGGG.

It was the first dreary day of the year.

And it was…chaotic and stressful at work..

And I kept noticing my thoughts returning to negative or dark things, or triggers.

I don’t want to write about triggers right now, because it’s 2am and I have to be at church in like 7 hours 

(especially if I want to post all my writing on time *wink*//I’m already behind on posting, but let’s not talk about that).

Maybe I can write a quick poem.

Nah, maybe I’ll just ask a simple, not-so-simple question that’s been bugging me for a few days.

QUESTION:

Why does just THIS TIME OF YEAR have to be the MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR?

I mean, really.

What if I like summer better…or Easter?  Am I not allowed to claim that as the “happiest season of all?”  Just why can’t I have gay, happy meetings and have friends come to call...in April? Is that against the rules?

I’m just saying that I’d like to tell passersby to be of good cheer, year-round.

Do you ever wonder why families only go out of their way to visit each other during “the holidays”, and like, who decided our corporate calendars and what days we should get off work, anyhow?

MORE QUESTIONS:

Who decided that the best time to be grateful for life’s blessings is in November?  Or, perhaps even worse, that the only time it is socially appropriate --- or considered “not too extreme” --- to speak about gratitude is when there’s paper turkeys hanging on storefront windows, or pumpkins piling up nice and plump in the patch? 

When did it get set in stone that the holidays are “the season of giving”? 

What if giving was a lifestyle that was celebrated no matter the month (or the temperature outside)?  What if we didn’t need eggnog or pumpkin-spice-anything to give us that warm, fuzzy feeling in our tummies because we were already so full of joy that we just wanted to pass that joy on to our neighbor, no questions asked?

I’m just wondering.

Dear Journal

12/2/16

#keepcalmWRITEon Day 2.

Free write.  Let’s see what comes out. 

I’m challenging myself to write every single day in December.  Every.  Single.  Day.  Why? I think it will be good for me.  I think it will provide some way for me to get my mind to shut off when it’s supposed to, a way for my thoughts to find their way around each other.  I've got a big writing goal with a deadline of about a year and a half from now.  I guess that’s a good chunk of time.  I supposed the last year and half has provided so much life experience, it could be a book all on its own.  I wonder what the next year and a half will bring. 

A year and a half ago was………..June 2015.  Where was I in June of 2015?

*******

June 1, 2015

Dear Journal,

It’s been just over 4 months since the Friday night conversation that changed my life. By April, there was no more contact. I’ve lost so much weight already.  I wonder how much more I’ll lose.  I think it’s easier to focus on what I eat and not let myself eat when I feel like this. 

Today was a good day, so I thought I’d try to write a little bit about how I feel.

How do I feel?

I feel like there’s a giant hole inside my body, but I can’t even identify where I feel the hole….it just…is.  Every Wednesday, when I have to drive to Ellsworth for work, I cry.  I’ve taken on a coffee habit.  Every Wednesday on my way out of town, I pull through the North 9^th Street McDonald’s and I get a Large Hot Caramel Mocha.  I have no idea what’s in it, but I get it.  And I sip it while I drive, in between singing as loudly as I can to every Jesus song that comes on the radio.  The ones that don’t make me cry, of course.  (I try to write some of these songs down, because some of them make me feel awesome, and some of them I know are God speaking to me about all this.  Colton Dixon’s “More of You”…Third Day’s “Soul on Fire”… anyway.)  I know something’s different with me, because I survived 4 years of college as a double-major/athlete, while working random shifts at the nursing home---all without touching coffee more than three times that I can remember.  And it was just coffee from the cafeteria.  I wasn’t even one of those cool college hipsters who hung out at coffee shops, with earbuds and wifi, studying ever so intently.  I just poured it into my free mug I got from the Student Activities Board and took it with me to 7:45 am Physics Class, because it seemed like the right thing to do, after I’d had 5:00 am weightlifting. But the only thing that resulted was a huge headache and a newfound determination that coffee in its entirety must make me sick and I would have to figure out a different way to keep my eyes open.

So these days, with my Caramel Mochas…I don’t even know who I am.  At least it’s just on Wednesdays.  I still have too many kids in Ellsworth County for my liking, and work hasn't been able to take me out of that assignment…not that I don’t like the kids, but I just don’t know what’s going to happen now that things have …changed.  How am I supposed to keep setting foot there every week? It’s been so difficult.  I stopped packing hot lunch, weeks ago.  It’s too depressing and anxiety-causing to use the microwave at Kwik Shop.  There’s too many people there.  Too many people who might recognize me, too many strangers-to-me in those khaki uniforms, strangers who know probably way more about me than I know.  I just pack random snacks and eat in my car while I’m parked at the library.  On the days I’m hungry, that is. The library is my safe place.  It’s neutral.

Wednesdays kill me.  I come back to Salina, and I’m an empty shell.  Sometimes I go to the gym, but usually I just put on a happy face for church and go to youth group.  They need me there.

The second job still stands.  It’s been a whirlwind few months.  I’ve been on my schedule there since November, officially.  So, it’s been 7 months of losing sleep a couple nights a week, plus sacrificing my Saturdays.  I know I’m making progress towards my debt-free goals (goal is to pay off my car by December 31^st!), but I get tired.  My coworkers at the main job know I’m exhausted.  They know I’m drained.  I can’t count the times and ways they’ve all shown me support.  I take smoke breaks with them, even though I don’t smoke (LOL).  They let me cry and they don’t judge me.  They’ve analyzed everything with me, from every angle.  All the new, unexpected things that come up---those, too.  It’s been so weird to let them into my life.  I guess I didn’t realize I was keeping them out. 

Church has been good.  I’ve continued to stay involved with the youth group, since I returned to them last fall, about the same time I got the second job.  It’s still crazy to think about how everything got added to my life all at once: the second job, then youth group needed me back...  Sometimes I really struggle with guilt.  How maybe if I hadn’t gotten the second job and maybe if I “hadn’t given up my Saturdays", and maybe if I didn’t want to help with youth group, then maybe things would have turned out differently. 

"You need to be glad that the door is shut, things are happening like they are supposed to, the pain will teach you something..." I hear variations of this speech from those who care about me.  I’m still not convinced.  I’ve gotten sick like three times since the end of January.  I had gone 4 years without a sinus infection, but as soon as I landed in El Salvador (4 weeks Post-Conversation) -- BAM-- sinus infection and horrible fever.  Then I got one again mid-April.  I’m starting to feel not so great now, and I can’t decide if I’ve just been exercising too much (because exercise numbs my mind) or if this summer weather is messing with my sinuses. 

I’m actually really glad my Saturdays are filled with work at my second job.  I’m on a pretty good routine.  I either stay late and work til like 6 or 7, or if I actually get off at 4, I go straight to the gym.  Sometimes I see Dean there so that can be hard because I wonder what he's thinking or how much he knows about the situation... but I do my workout anyway.

I know I’ve come a long way since February, though.  I don’t cry as much.  I’m starting to socialize more with friends from church.  At least, I think it’s socializing.  Monica and Jennifer have started to force me to watch “classic” movies with them, to culture me, because they found out that I haven't seen a lot of movies.  We watched “A League of Their Own” the other day, and I had them over in my apartment! I was so nervous.  It was only the second time that I’ve had a “group” over to my house, and I’ve lived here three years! We ordered pizza.  I had never ordered pizza to my apartment before, isn’t that crazy?? Anyway the movie was good.

At the end of July, we are taking our youth group kids on a weekend mission trip to Kansas City.  I’m super excited about it! When I focus on things like mission trips and service, I really feel connected to myself and to God, and that gets me through the bad days. 

Debbie’s been so awesome too.  She’s always there when I need to take a break and get a hug! I hope I’m not bothering her when I stop by to say hi.  I try to make up for it by helping her with Salina Shares.  Speaking of which—we are going to do our Disney at Del Rey party next month too! July is going to be busy, but it will be great.  I just have to get through June first. 

Well, I’m going to get to bed, I guess.  I work both jobs tomorrow so I’ll need my energy.  Hopefully write more soon!

******

Paparazzi

Media Week.

For one week, I cut seven forms of media from my life. This was difficult for me, but mainly because I ALREADY do not have a Smartphone, do not have internet at home, and do not have cable at home. Those are the three big ones, so what else do I cut out?

The seven I chose were: texting (ouch!), Facebook, Pinterest/Twitter, radio, television (meaning my Gilmore Girls DVD’s), and all extra Internet browsing.

(I was inspired by the book “7” by Jen Hatmaker)

All in all, and I’ve gone through this week twice now, I love the real connections it gives me with people. When I do a Media Fast, it forces me to pick up the phone and call people. I know it may sound prehistoric, but it so soothing to my soul to pick up the phone just to chat. Remember middle school, when you couldn’t go an evening without talking to your best friend on the phone, catching up about your days, planning what to wear the next day, working on your homework together over the phone? Well, I do, and I’m glad I grew up in the decade I did. So, this last week, my friend Maggie was also doing the fast. And she and I exchanged calls and voicemails EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE WEEK. It reminded me of middle school, and it was so awesome!

Can I be honest for a second?

I have a really hard time with Facebook. I don’t have a smartphone, so sometimes I feel left out, like I don’t get to post as often as others do, and I don’t get to post as many pictures, so I don’t get as many “likes”. People “like” posts with pictures; it’s just what we do. So when my posts don’t include pictures, I know they don’t “draw the eye”, and I know people scroll past my posts without reading them, and I know people aren’t interested. And that kinda sucks.

Or how about everyone posting pictures of their awesome trips and vacations, or their new cars, or purses, or new babies, or their recent half-marathon? How do these make me feel when I haven’t had a vacation in a while, have driven the same car for 30 years, can’t run a mile to save my life, or had my babies 20 years ago, before I could share their every milestone moment instantly? They make me feel left out, like I somehow don’t fit in, like I’m missing something.

It’s a sometimes difficult, really raw, at times confusing place to be: knowing I don’t fit into the norm, but refusing to do the things to place myself there. Knowing that I don’t have something that 90% of the country has, but knowing in my heart that I never want to have it. Knowing that I will always be missing something, because I can’t change society, or technology, AND that I'm not willing to partake of said technology....

I write this as an insecure, vulnerable person. But the thing is, I’m not the only one out there. At least I’m one of the Insecure who purposefully puts distance between myself and the Pressure of Facebook, and I’m not sitting at home, living through other people, posting attention-seeking statuses, coveting what others have or experience, begging someone, ANYONE to take an interest in me.

But there are such people out there. Impressionable people--kids, teens, young adults.

So what message are we sending to these people, when we tell them, "Get with the times" or "you really need to get a new phone", and just what are we allowing technology to become?

These thoughts may not make sense to everybody, but I'm just sharing here......

Nothing to Wear

“Ughhhhhrhrhghghghg!!! What am I gonna WEAR?!”

“I wore that same blouse last week, I can’t wear it again.”

“Is this dress too spring-y, or can I pull it off with tights and boots? Are these boots too winter-y?”

“No, those are always my go-to nice dressy pants.  I seriously don’t have another pair?!”

These are just a few of the many thinking errors that plague my brain as I stand in front of my (full) closet, saying, “I have nothing to wear.”
And the sad part? I’m not even stressing about what to wear to work, or to a birthday party, or a formal occasion.

I’m stressing about what to wear to church.

CHURCH, of all places.  The place I’m supposed to feel safe and accepted.  And here I am, acting like I’m about to hit the runway at a fashion show, judged for the way my clothes flatter my body.

Now hold it right there, because I don’t think the people in my congregation are out to get me, or shame me for my lack of trendiness. But, in a setting where so many strive to look their best, I do see lots of trends and “fashion”.

I find it interesting that we can’t all just wear plain jeans and plain t-shirts to church.  And the people who do, why are those individuals seen as “casual” or “young” or “relaxed” or, my favorite, “more MODERN”?
Why do we categorize people according to what they wear?  We all do it. Those in heels and fancy coats are labeled “girly” or “conservative” or “traditional”.
(Yes, I think this is definitely an area that women have more experience and trouble with.)

I’ve been on two mission trips to foreign countries thus far: Bolivia and Grenada.  Each of these countries had their own unique customs, including dress.  But I didn’t feel pressured to look or dress a certain way, and I didn’t see anything other than God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit be the focus of their gathering.  Not once in either of these two countries did someone greet me with, “Oh, you look so cute today!”
It’s just interesting to me that this is the first thing out of our mouths so often here in our privileged society.

I suppose it’s nice and considered good manners to acknowledge when someone puts a little extra time into their appearance that morning, and I’m not saying it doesn’t feel good when I do get a compliment.
But do I wish I didn’t care? Yeah, I do.  I wish I could wear my black t-shirt, jeans, and running shoes to church every week, and not have a care in the world.  

I can’t help but think of all these countries out there, some whose names we don’t even know, where there are small churches in the jungle somewhere, where attendees worship and dance around barefoot, in the same clothes they’ve worn all week, their neighbor not knowing any different because they’re wearing their only set of clothes as well.  I want to be that free.

Twice now this year, I’ve challenged myself to wear only 7 items of clothing, for a week straight. (I was inspired by the book “7” by Jen Hatmaker)

 I narrowed it down to: a black t-shirt, one pair of jeans, one pair of running shoes, a set of workout shorts and t-shirt, and pajamas.

I’ve learned that people don’t pay nearly as much attention as I think they do, at church, work, or anywhere else, but I’ve also learned that dress still matters to me.  I’ve figured out that when I have a “spare coat closet” holding all my dresses, both casual and formal, plus any out-of-season cardigans or sweaters; and also a coat closet in my living room holding my actual coats and hoodies----this may mean I have too much.  
I’ve never considered myself to have a clothing problem, but when I think about the children in my city who wear the same pair of jeans for weeks on end without washing them, I feel my contribution to the injustice.  We see obvious needs like food and shelter, but do we stop to think about the insecurity being developed inside the child who wears the same outfits on repeat each week, while watching their classmate Little Suzy wear a brand-new outfit or pair of shoes once a week?* When did the gap grow so large? (And why do Suzy’s parents feel the need to buy her so many new things all the time?)

If I do research on the countries printed on the tags of my clothing, what would I find out? As Jen Hatmaker has paraphrased from a different author, “Am I wearing someone else’s despair?”  What is the story of the person who slaved away to create my dress?

I do buy 99.9% of my clothing second-hand, so I try really hard not to feed the machine.

But if I can find a way to eloquently state that the image we create for ourselves has very little to do with our clothing, and much more with the way we give and show love to others, then maybe someone out there will quit spending thousands of dollars a year on clothes and put it towards a more worthy cause.

Because I don’t care what anybody says, we are not contributing to ourselves or our wellbeing by putting expensive clothes on our bodies. We’re just making it okay for the commercial industry to tell us what we need in order to be accepted.** Let’s all realize that we have bigger fish to fry.










*Of course, I am for teaching our kids that even if they do wear the same outfit on repeat, they still have worth.  But are insecurity, and comparison, and anxiety real things? Yes, they are. Are kids blind to privilege and brand-name clothing? No, they're not.
** Yes, some of this is difficult or awkward for me to think and say, as someone who has ventured into the modeling industry in the past.

Nothing to Eat

“There’s nothing to eat!”

I knew Daddy had a temper, but I had never expected to see it flare at those words. 

“What did you just say? See this pantry full of food? There’s stuff in the fridge, too.  Don’t you EVER say something like that to me again, do you understand?”

I was a teenager who was usually respectful and put-together, but for some reason, that day, I felt whiny and demanding.

I don’t know what had triggered my whining.  I don’t even remember exactly when this happened.  I think it was sometime during my sophomore year of high school, about 4 years into my sports-playing, and just as long since I had started to become exposed to the habits and convenient food of my friends at school.  We were a Hispanic family living in Arizona, and I was the first of two who were born in the United States.  There was a lot of learning and adjusting to do.

That whiny day, I saw something in my father’s eyes that told me I didn’t even know the half of it.  I was smart; I was sensitive.  And I knew that I had struck a chord.  Perhaps that day I was in the mood for a frozen chicken breast, or canned chicken noodle soup, or I was pouty because there were no Honey Buns.  But my parents never, ever let us go actually hungry, and in my teenage angst, I wasn’t even aware of or grateful for that fact.

I never even thought about what my parents sacrificed to make sure we had our carne asada, our beans and rice, and our corn tortillas.  I still don’t know.

I wasn’t even thankful for the aromas that fill a kitchen when your mom is hand-chopping onions and tomatoes for guacamole, or when your Nana is pulverizing and blending red chiles for sauce.

I never thought about how many families go hungry.  No, I’m not talking about Ethiopia or some other foreign country, although that is an epidemic of its own.  I’m talking about the people we work with, go to school with, and make eye contact with daily through our respective windshields.

How many dads in Chicago won’t eat tonight because they’re making sure their babies have bread and milk?  How many grandmas in New York are walking blocks and blocks to the market to get tonight’s dinner for their grandbabies, whose mother passed away, a victim of illness or murder, and left them to her, with a limited income and minimal resources?

And yet we whine when we can’t have our soymilk, or gluten-free bread, or quinoa.

This is isn't just me making crazy stories up in my head.  We need to start putting faces to these stories, because they do exist.  Every human life is a story, and we tend to make our food choices so quickly and abruptly, as if we can’t possibly affect our neighbor.  We spend our dollar without recognizing its power, and we are so skewed in our thinking that we don’t even recognize privilege in our lives, even as we are drowning in it.

Did you know that your morning McDonald’s coffee or pop is a luxury?  There is someone out there who can’t afford to spend that $1.08 because she has to keep the lights on at home, so she muddles through the morning fogginess from sleep deprivation, and makes it through her day without a caffeine fix.  Oh yeah, she worked a double –shift last night, too.

Do you know how many parents argue and cry because they can’t do anything special for their daughter on her 12^th birthday? How much they would love to take her out to the buffet for some fried chicken and mac and cheese, but they just can’t? And we fling around lunch dates, everyday occurrences, and don’t even bat an eye.  Half the time we’re rude to the wait staff too. 

I get really mad and worked up about our entitled, self-indulging ways, but I’m not just all talk.

Twice now this year, I’ve challenged myself to eat simply for a week straight.  Seven foods and nothing more.  I narrowed it down to beans, rice, lentils, oatmeal, apples, eggs, and barley.  That’s it.  No butter.  No hot sauce.  I wanted to know what it felt like. ( I was inspired by the book "7" by Jen Hatmaker)

Do you realize how often we eat “what tastes good”? How much “fun food” we keep around the house?  Could you, could we narrow it down to just survival?  Why are we so obsessed?
Let me get something straight.  I make less than $30,000 a year.  I am a single gal, and I pay all my own bills.  I already eat simply.  I don’t exactly get to sip on a pumpkin-spice latte every day. 

But yet, I know I am privileged. 

It really is all about perspective.  And fresh perspective?  It can really flip your life upside-down.

Enough

So, here's something that's been at the front of my mind, and tugging at my heart for a while:
What if we all redefined "enough"?
If we stop believing that we always need more, then we may just start to see the value of everything we already have.

I'm talking about this American lifestyle.

[[Food.  Clothes.  Possessions.  Waste.  Spending.  Media.  Stress.]]

When did it become a burden to cook meals for our families, containing whole and simple foods?
Why do we feel entitled to a second or third car for our family?  Why does it feel "below us" to walk or bike to the grocery store instead of drive? or to have family birthday parties in the parks in the "scary part of town"?
Why do we JUST HAVE TO HAVE the latest version of the latest smartphone?  Isn't just being able to pick up any old phone and dial our friends' numbers enough?
When did it become acceptable to pre-package EVERYTHING, in the name of convenience?  And when did we stop caring about littering our streets with that packaging? And where is that mountain at the landfill going?
Just why is it UNACCEPTABLE to not have internet access at home?  Isn't Internet an extra thing?  Didn't we all live and love and laugh before the Internet?
Why is it okay to have lessons and articles with advice on "How To Take the Perfect Selfie?" and "How to Get More Likes on Your Posts"?  And is this what we want the next generation to be about?
When did stress and worry take over our every decision? And when did it become acceptable for "stress-relief" to include such extravagances as "going out on the yacht" or "retail therapy" or even "blowing some money on poker with the guys" or "racking up my credit card debt to feed my alcohol or tobacco habit"?
All these First-World problems, attitudes, and ideas...It just all feels like too much to me, and I don't think we give ourselves a chance to check our choices.
Does anyone else ever wonder why we get to live in such a privileged country while mommas and daddies around the globe fight to keep their children alive?  Why we make choices every single day of our lives pretending like they don't affect our global neighbors?
If you think too quickly, you'll just toss these words into some compartment of your brain, maybe "Random", "Awkward", or "Weird".
You may think none of it makes sense.  
A lot of it doesn't make much sense, because it's all questions...
But if you stop and give it a chance, you might see how all my questions above are related to one another.  You might see the big picture.  I'm convinced there's a big picture.
I'm sure glad I can see it now, but more importantly, I'm glad that I am finally brave enough to start putting all my observations into words.

Change is coming.

This Place Called Kansas

August 20, 2014

I’m a couple of weeks late, but earlier this month marked 8 years that I have lived in Kansas.

I’ve had those moments:
“Oh, man! I wish Facebook was a thing when I moved into my dorm!”
“I wish we had taken pictures!" (too bad my family didn’t have a digital camera yet.)
“I wonder what my freshman class’ hashtag would have been.”

Sigh.  Anyway. Then I get over it (my thoughts on technology and social media belong in a WHOLE 'nother category).

A paragraph's worth of backstory: I moved to Kansas after being recruited for the track and field and cross-country teams for Bethany College, a private college in Lindsborg, Kansas.  I left the desert Southwest of Arizona, my childhood, and everything I’d ever known behind, hopped into my mom’s minivan, opened the Road Atlas so I could follow along, and got comfortable in my seat.
(My teammate from high school was recruited after I enrolled and signed my Letter of Intent; I gave the coaches a heads-up about her, she decided she was going with me, so we stuffed our clothes and bedding into the back of the minivan.  Neither one of us owned winter clothing or coats yet; we figured we’d worry about that when we got there.)

I’ve got a LOT of feelings (surprise, surprise) about the actual move itself: facing the fear of moving to an unknown place with no friends or family waiting there to welcome me; to a place with a totally different climate and culture and food and people, and how much I’ve grown as a result.  I’ve got tons of memories of my first semester, my second year, each year for that matter, which I want to put down on paper sometime soon.  Sure, I’ve got advice for out-of-state students, words of wisdom on how to stick it out until graduation, but I’m not sure that was the purpose of my writing for today.

My point today is that, 8 years later, I’m still here.  This place called Kansas has morphed from “the place I went away to college”, from “I’m just here to go to school”, from “Yeah, I could never be here forever” to “home”.

This place called Kansas introduced me to the concept of hospitality; from the team of Resident Assistants who helped us unload the minivan (Darcy, Michelle, and others), to the family who had me under their wing that first semester (Ben Mordecai and family—if you see this, know that I am eternally grateful).  I was hospitalized for a few days with mono and pneumonia, and this family took turns sitting vigil in my hospital room.  I don’t think I was alone for more than hour at a time.  (I seriously could write a small book just on the hospitality from this family alone)

This place called Kansas gave me permission to start over.  I could be whoever I wanted to be here.  Aside from my academics, athletics and music, high school wasn’t the greatest experience for me, and it was amazing to come here and just be accepted (Okay, so basically, I’ve just
always had social difficulties, okay? Let’s reword the previous sentence to read, “People were HARD in high school.”)

This place called Kansas has taught me how to make friends.  Real friends. I’ve figured everything out about myself here, while trudging through these thunderstorm-y summers and frozen tundra winters.  These days, I sit with trusted friends and have real conversations about figuring out our futures and planning our next steps.  If I had up and left after graduation, I would have missed out on these dear friendships.

I’m still here because this is where my journey has led me.  There are things I miss about my native Arizona, yes. But do I consider going back? Hardly.  Honestly, I’m so into my life and community here that I just go day-by-day.

I’ve fallen in love with wheat fields, summer rodeos, rolling hills, and greenery!  Don’t even get me started on sunflowers or back dirt roads.  I have mastered the art of carefully watching for deer while I drive, especially in the autumn and winter evenings. I am captivated by the change of the seasons, and anticipate the differences each one has to offer.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever leave, if I’m just letting myself get comfortable and settled for fear of picking up and moving yet again to another, new place.  I wonder if I’m scared.  Yeah.  I think I am scared.

But this place called Kansas has taught me that without an initial sense of fear, there’s no adventure.

At this point, leaving Kansas would feel like leaving home all over again.  I don't know what the future holds, but for now I guess I drank the Kansas Kool-Aid.  I used to hate the thought of "being here forever"; I was convinced that the week after my college graduation, I would be moving either back to Arizona or one of the other two completely different states I applied to medical schools in.

I kind of like how my story has turned out, though.  (Thanks to the Big Man upstairs, by the way!)

So thus begins Year Nine!

Desert Diaries, Volume 3

Sooooo, I don't have a smartphone.

This means, among other things: I get to go on vacation and not post pictures every 5 minutes to Facebook (Instagram? don't have one).  I don't feel badly about not "sharing" everything I'm doing every second of the day, but sometimes, I do feel left out.

That makes me mad, though.  I'm like---why should I feel left out just because I don't always tell people what I'm doing? Does that make me antisocial?  When and why did socializing become posting pictures online all the time?  It makes me sad and infuriated at the same time.

I wish, though, that I didn't have to have any feelings on it at all.  But technology has just become this ever-present THING that covers every aspect of our lives.

I've always hated having to keep up with the cool kids.

I've always kind of liked to "boycott" things that others were doing or saying, or buying, or wearing. 

I've also always kind of felt left out and insecure.

It's so interesting what we find interesting.

Or what we find uninteresting.

We've become this extremely visual people, and if someone doesn't instantly gratify our craving for "connection" by posting a picture, and we actually have to READ WORDS to see what someone is up to, it's suddenly become too much work.  The person who doesn't post a picture to accompany their status update is not as interesting as the person who does post a picture.  I think that's awful!

I realize that I am one of those "not so interesting people" on Facebook.  That stinks!
(I'm almost giggling to myself as I write this.)

But I also value my in-person interactions, and my in-the-moment appreciation of the beauty around me more than what people think of me on Facebook. On my most confident days, that is.  :)

I'm not saying that everyone who posts pictures on Facebook with their smartphone, does not value those interactions in their own life, of course.  That would be a hugely unfair generalization.

I'm just thinkin' thoughts over here.
I so admire the individuals who can deactivate their accounts and not care one way or the other about Facebook.  I wish, like I said, that I had no opinion on it, but I do.  I'm human and I'm insecure.
Here's to seeking out ways to combat the insecurity, and striving for fulfillment in the choices I make and relationships I have!
<3

"Unstable"

“I hate when people refer to marriage as ‘stabilizing yourself’. There’s nothing ‘unstable’ about being single.”

--Me, today, on Twitter     (this Tweet inspired by a comment that my godmother made on the phone to me last night)

 

The thing with me is, I try not to talk down about anything.  I’ve come to this point in life where I become frustrated when someone tries to impose their beliefs on someone else. 

 

It frustrates me when we judge other people because they don’t make the same choices we do. 


It is infuriating that we always have to be at a constant war of telling each other how we’re right and wrong. 

 

I don’t hate marriage, or feel resentment toward, envy of, or anything else negative about my friends who are already married.  Good for them.  My plea is for the judgment to stop. 

 

I basically just stick with telling people how I feel about a subject; what I’ve learned about that subject while on my journey, and how those experiences have shaped me.  I share my thoughts because I think that there is always someone out there feeling pressured by society to think a certain way, and I just wish we could all accept that we are all different, and that maybe, if they read my thoughts, that person will feel a little less alone.  Each person has their own unique path to walk. 

 

I don’t have a smartphone; I tweet from my basic phone (my tweets go directly to my Facebook page as well).  So, I couldn’t monitor all of the comments being thrown at me for my above statement.  But, I could feel them building up, or rather, the anxiety building up about what people were going to argue with me for. 

 

When, in reality, I wasn’t trying to argue about anything.  I wasn’t trying to say “I’m right, you’re wrong, this is how it should be.” 

 

I was saying, “Hey, let’s all stop calling unmarried people ‘unstable’.  It’s rude.”

 

Anyone can make bad choices, married or unmarried.  Anyone can make a really messy bed for themselves and then have to lie in it.  Being married won’t save you from making bad choices.  Discernment will.  Wisdom will.  And these skills can come, even to an unmarried, single person.

 

I wasn’t even trying to argue about anybody’s financial status (which, by the way, money is such a small part of life; get over it already).  But here’s my thoughts on that: there are plenty of single people out there (myself included) who have stable jobs, with stable income, and pay all their own bills, have their own house and car, and/or maintain whatever lifestyle is pleasing to them.  Thus, stability. 

 

(If they find that their current lifestyle is not pleasing to them, then they take actions to change it.)

 

So before you judge someone as “unstable”, examine yourself first.  Your story is not theirs.  Theirs is not yours.  Look up “stable” in the dictionary, and then ask yourself what your personal definition of the word is.  Chances are, we all have a different definition.  

Why I Don't Want to Get Married

I wasn’t the little girl who grew up dreaming of her one-day wedding.  And now, I’m not the mid-20’s gal dreaming of a wedding, or beating myself up because I haven’t had one.

I grew up in Southwestern Arizona.  As far as I can recall, my high school classmates and teammates did not spend their time talking about engagements, weddings, or babies.  Maybe I just didn’t pay enough attention.

I moved to Central Kansas for college.  CULTURE SHOCK, big time.  Life suddenly revolved to a different degree around who was dating whom, who was together or not together.  Then it became, “Who was getting engaged”.

Don’t get me wrong, at some point during my sophomore year of college, I made the decision that I would get married at 22 years of age.  It seemed like what was expected and accepted, and almost demanded.  Like something was wrong with you if this wasn’t how your life unfolded.

Then the guy I pictured this wedding with went and broke my heart.  He was only the second “real” dating relationship I had been in (I “dated” three boys in high school), but I was dead-set on us getting married.  And then it didn’t happen.

Now, hold on, because I think I’m too strong to let one person make my mind up for me about love and relationships, so I don’t just blame this situation.

It was at this point that I began a new phase in my personal growth.  First came the shattering of my heart, spirit, and any and all love for life that I had.  Seriously, borderline manic-suicidal.  

Then the real growth took place.  

I’ve spent the last 5 and a half years rebuilding my broken faith and crushed dreams; mending my broken heart and nurturing my broken spirit.  I’ve forced myself to face the fact that I had the definition of “relationship” completely wrong.  I’ve done hard work of realizing that I had spent 21 years looking for validation from other people, seeking to plant roots inside someone else’s mind and heart, because I didn’t have my own solid roots to derive life from.

I didn’t have a picture of love in the family I grew up in.  My parents were not married.  Actually, they signed a piece of paper on my father’s deathbed in front of a priest.  I was seventeen, and I was asked to interpret the pathetic “ceremony”.  I was overcome by waves of nausea and thrust the little booklet back at the priest.

Over the last seven years in Kansas, I’ve spent time with different families, observing the marriage relationships of the mother and father, learning about how children (my college classmates and teammates) who grew up in a two-parent home create their ideals about life and marriage.

I wouldn’t say I blame the pain or loss of my upbringing for any anger or resentment I have towards marriage.  Rather, I think I’m too scared to mess it up.  I also think I’ve become too independent and secure in myself and happy with my own company to want to even think about sharing my every day with someone.  I’ve reached the point where I can have dreams for myself and goals for myself, and plans for my own future, without including a husband.  

I can see how having someone to share everyday moments with might be nice, but I no longer need it to complete me.  

Yes, I’m a Christian, and I can honestly say that I do not feel “God calling me to marriage” or “God telling me to be a mother” or “God having plans for me to have a common ministry with someone”.  

I just don’t feel that.

I don’t want to get married.  I don’t know when that will change.  I’m okay with it, if it never changes.  

I want to encourage others out there feeling pressure from society--to get married, to date, to have sex, to have a partner, someone by your side at all times---don’t fall for it.  Independent life is pretty awesome.

(For those wondering, I have been in a committed, heterosexual relationship for 4 and a half years--no we don't live together. We live in different towns, actually.)

My First Thanksgiving

11-27-2013

Today is Thanksgiving, a major American holiday.

I was thinking earlier that I don't seem to make as big a deal out of holidays as everyone around me.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think holidays are bad. 

But, in processing my thoughts and feelings about holidays, I realize that I really had no family structure growing up to show me the "American Way" or "how holidays are supposed to be done".  That's just a fact.  I am a first-generation Hispanic-American.

 A.K.A. --- my family is from Mexico, and my parents had no idea how to do things "the American Way."

I realize that this has made my experience a bit different from that of my friends and other loved ones in my life.

The first Thanksgiving we celebrated as a family was when I was in 5th grade.  It consisted of my sister, my father, and myself.

Basically, what happened was that my sister and I had spent enough years in elementary school, surrounded by children whose family structure was more traditional than ours.  We saw them and heard them every year talking about all the holidays, so of course, after a while we started asking questions---and telling our dad how it was "supposed to be".

So, in 5th grade, I told my dad, "We need to buy a turkey.  We need to cook a Thanksgiving dinner.  We are supposed to make something called stuffing.  And mashed potatoes."

My dad wanted to do anything that would make his girls happy, so went to the store and bought a turkey, a box of stuffing (don't know how I figured out what it looked like), and a box of instant mashed potatoes.

My dad helped me soak the turkey overnight in Sunny Delight orange juice.  Yes, really.
I cooked the rest of the meal.  Yup, as a 5th grader.  Not because my dad couldn't cook, and he did help a little, but because I watched lots of Food Network cooking shows at this point and also could read the English directions on the boxes.  :)

We have Polaroid pictures of the meal. 

I knew we were supposed to dress up, so I put on my favorite dress.  I knew we were supposed to pray, and I knew how to say the Our Father because I was taking Catholic CCD classes (a story all on its own--another instance of me saying, "Daddy, we are supposed to be doing this by now..."), so I made us all hold hands and I said the prayer.

I don't remember any other specific Thanksgivings in our household growing up.  I'm sure there were one or two more until I graduated from high school.  Maybe it's because Mexican families are bigger on Christmas, and this was when my grandmother would visit and we would do all of our big cooking (read: TAMALES!).

Seven of the eight Thanksgivings in my early adulthood have been celebrated with a meal and with a group of people.  I have spent time with different friends, seeing how different people celebrate the same holiday.  It's been a learning experience.  The family unit always amazes me.  It's astounding to show up as a guest to a dinner and have my friend tell me, "I'm related to every single person in this room."  I have never known anything like that.

I didn't grow up with a big family--just my mom, dad, sister, and I.  My maternal grandmother, aunt, uncle, and younger cousin lived in Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico--an hour away from my hometown in Arizona.  We visited them often, but that's as big as my family got.  I have never met any of my dad's side of the family.  They are deep down in Mexico, and I've never been.  (Yes, this is a project on my Near Future List)

I guess in telling my story, I hope to encourage people to remember that there are individuals out there who truly don't know what a family or a family gathering is "supposed to look like", and for different reasons.  I want people to remember that we're all different.  I want people to remember that not everyone has experienced everything we think they have experienced, or everything we think they "should have experienced by now".  I want us to stop putting each other in boxes.  I want us to start embracing other people's stories and backgrounds, not just pretend to understand.  I want us to not feel sorry for people like me: "Oh, poor her! She never had pumpkin pie as a child!"  It's not the end of the world.  Not everyone grows up the same way. 

We all end up on the same journey.

Earth Wanderer

11-15-2013

I grew up on the road, kind of.  My parents worked for a big-name agriculture company out West, and we followed the harvest.  During the summers and fall, we were in Salinas, California; winters and springs were in Yuma, Arizona.  The drive time between the two cities is somewhere between 8 and 11 hours.

I learned to be a very calm road-trippin’ child.  Packing up the car every season became a familiar ritual.

I remember staring out the window a lot.  I used to play a game with the rain drops on the windows, watching them to see which one would “win the race” to the bottom of the window.  I read every road sign: those about mileage, tourist traps, construction zones, speed limits – all of them. 

I memorized the places we stopped along the way, our familiar “rest areas”; the Mcdonald’s just outside L.A., that giant tree somewhere near Paso Robles, nestled amidst the rolling hills of what must be equivalent to prairies out West.

I drank in scenery from all of our family drives: the rows of lettuce fields on the way out to my dad’s “office”, the city parks, the trees along the freeway.  My favorites were the drives up to Monterey, Watsonville, Castroville, and Santa Cruz.  I now know these drives were essentially out to and up the California coast. 

In California, I learned to love the ocean.  I learned to recognize the feeling of the almost-too-cool breeze up on the rocks.  I memorized what the sun felt like beating down on my bare skin on warm days down in the sand. 

In Arizona, I learned to watch sunsets.  I became familiar with people of all different skin tones and cultures.  I was accustomed to hearing at least two languages everywhere I went, sometimes sprinkled with some Korean or some Middle-Eastern dialect. 

The music and food I grew up with were reflective of the cultural whirlpool I grew up in. 

I always used to hear my mother say she was “ready to go somewhere exciting” or “wanting to see something different”. 

I was used to being on the move, and to being around different kinds of people and culture.

I think this was how my peculiar sense of wanderlust started.  It started very small, very innocently, and then it grew.

It turned into wanting to be in Times Square, waving up at the TRL studios, instead of watching MTV from the living room television.

It turned into wishing with all my being to be out on the dude ranch with Mary-Kate and Ashley, and then go with them to see Paris.  And then London, and then Rome, and then Australia.

I even opted for books that were set in different places.  I loved the “Drina the Ballerina” series, and being a part of tea time or the metro rides in London.  I traveled to Stoneybrook, Connecticut (a fictional city) and sometimes New York with my friends in The Babysitter’s Club.

In the spring of 7^th grade, when we went back to California as a family for the first time in 4 and a half years, I held on with every heartstring to the reliving of my childhood travels.

In high school, I got to travel all over Arizona and Southern California for my athletic competitions.  The hours on the bus?  Bliss.

And then, I moved halfway across the country for college, and have traveled around the Midwest for my track and field career out here. 

I have traveled to Bolivia and Grenada for volunteer trips, neither one of them long enough, each time falling in love with the native people and connecting with my soul in a way I did not know to be possible.

I don’t think this really boils down to never being happy with where I’m at.  I think some sort of a gypsy soul or spirit was instilled in me a long time ago. 

Today, my love of travel and culture largely encompasses my being.  I have travel plans, wishes, hopes, and dreams.  They are not really tourist destinations, so much as places I want to go to connect with people who carry within them a part of humanity’s history.  I long to breathe the air my ancestors have breathed, and experience the emotions of trial and triumphs from before my time.  I am a lifelong learner, and a lover of all that is human.  I want to understand the connection that Earth has had with its inhabitants over the centuries. 

Some people are content never stepping beyond their front porch.  Not me.

“And miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep.” –Robert Frost