a place to live.

we are looking for a place to live.
i have lived in three houses since i was born. the house i currently live in, however, i have lived in since i was eight.

sometimes we walk around the neighborhood - the park, my old elementary school. it is comforting to know an area, to have a strong connection with a place. i have been thinking about this since i will be moving out soon, perhaps to a different area. i love the charm of my city. the mid-century homes. the art deco brick work. the brick work, period. it is a microcosm. an iconic remnant of slow, small-town life. it is framed by four or more freeways, but is somehow removed from the frantic impulse of the city. i visit often. i walk the rotund and think, work out my life on my feet.

on saturday i visited a place that would give me the hidden, quiet existence i want. low hanging trees and whimsical, wild vegetation. front lawns. cozy homes with cozy neighbors and bad parking. not too far from coffeeshops and independently owned stores. a place to walk my thoughts. it is too small. the other apartments in the area have unexposed asbestos. is this a health hazard? is it worth risking to live in this enchanted area? maybe.

our home will probably be small and crammed with books and silence and music. there will be cornmeal on the floor from our pizzas and blankets tucked in every corner.

i will miss my home (and room) of fifteen years. by some magic my room itself has absorbed my character. it effuses who i am. this home is so unequivocally part of my history that i can't imagine a saturday morning waking anywhere else. but there is a pull and true desire to sink into a deep sleep with the feller and kiss him awake. to read by his side. to cook with him and, on occasion, for him. to create a home where others are safe and welcome. to, like my family, be completely and foolishly generous with our time and resources.

this will be my last holiday season living here. i will relish every detail.

more than bright, clear moments

every five years super bowl sunday is more than half-time productions, over-sexualized commercials, and my dad clapping fervently at the television (even if his cowboys fell short of actually competing in this senstionalized three hour event).  my birthday was february the third. when i was thirteen i wore baby blue pants and brought donuts and milk to church before a superbowl celebration where i would make efforts to ignore that damn pigskin that stole my day. when i was eighteen, my mother took me to see Wicked because she knew i would be ignored. my twenty-third birthday was different. i watched the superbowl. i sat on the couch with the feller and joined in unison with my dad when that one guy didn't catch the ball. i didn't learn any names of players, but i was able to enjoy the day without it being about me per se. i did wake up to red velvet cupcakes courtesy of my dad. his kind gesture was unexpected - his mother died in january. he has been sick and understandably not himself. it was nice to see him step outside of his fog for a day. what made the first day of twenty-three so lovely was that it was so fittingly understated. no big shenanigans here. cozy socks were enough. homemade sliders were enough. family was enough. we played frisbee at the park and it was enough.

that evening the feller and i went on a walk after purchasing our favorite ice cream cones. walks, for us, are a regular thing. our relationship took form on the sidewalks of our favorite old town. 

the conversation that night made a sad turn too soon for me. sadness because, though i've always known it, i am a nervous individual and many things scare me. i am working on vocalizing my opinions and feelings. you see, my words are dismissed at home. perhaps that is why i took to writing so young. a paper will never refuse ink. the conversation asked my opinion, my thoughts and, well, i was afraid of them. afraid to vocalize my fears.

lately, pressures of pending "grown-up" decisions have overwhelmed me. so, i picked up my pace when they became the topic of conversation. and because all things are connected and touching (spaghetti brain, jonie calls it) and because i am also nervous about my beauty, my gifts, and relationships i resigned to an impenatrable room of concentrated emotion. it is second nature to withdraw into myself. lord, have mercy. my steps reflected my thoughts - thrusting forward impetuously. my voice was raised and distant and teary. we walked in silence for too long. i was disappointed and angry that i had to acknowledge such sad things on a day of celebration. really? the last hours of my birthday and i am crying? it didn't feel fair. it didn't feel good. nothing was resolved when we said goodbye. we conceded that this sucks, that we love each other, and that we would talk the next day.

before we saw eachother the next day, 

i came across this:

it was perfect and precisely what i needed. 

i've had enough!

fear pushes away the good things. it erects walls in the quest for self-preservation. it assumes impending danger or pain, regardless if it is real or imagined. 

i will say that the threat that vulnerability poses to the self is a real thing worth considering. 

opening up oneself to the love of others is opening oneself up to the possibility of injury. 

speaking as one who has been injured, my awareness of the pain 

that can result due to the carelessness or stupidity or selfishness  

of others whom you have trusted

is heightened. 

so, i am nervous. and i am sad because i am nervous.

no one wants to live a nervous life.

i recognize that fear introduces instability. this instability sabotages forward motion. loosed, it is unwieldy. it requires me to escape to the bathroom during sushi with friends whispering to myself through deep breaths and almost-tears:

you can do this, you can do this, you are beautiful, you are loved. 

it is hard to fight alone. 

i was reminded this week that scripture, that an experience with God is transformative.

but life with God requires more than bright, clear moments of His word and presence. 

it requires the dailyness of relational care, of life lived with others.

i need the support and help and kindness of dear people in my instability.

i need truth in my ears and from the mouths of others.

their love, the face of God, gives me courage.

cheers to a year where the "small things" are enough.

cheers to a year noticeably marked by courage and not fear. 

i could recognize

two thousand eleven was entirely about survival, pushing through, making those damn difficult decisions.

twenty-two years kept my vague impressions of what i loved and didn't love and who i am and who i certainly am not just that - vague, incommincable. the theatrics of living, the obsession with busyness and, perhaps, the very human avoidance of truth that incriminates or frees limited self understanding.  catastrophes were survived and deadlines were met but stillness was actively eluded.

two thousand twelve was the quiet that made way for discovery and disclosure and a laying out of who i am. it was, seemingly all at once, an unfurling and a settling into.
it gave me words to my notions, words that pulse and ache with vitality.

i could recognize myself, finally. a young lady who is enamored with the outdoors. who will go on walks and touch any plant within reach. who would eat stale cereal if it meant she could have it for breakfast. who learned Grease word-for-word in 3rd grade and still gets chills during Rizzo's ballad "There Are Worse Things I Could Do." who doesn't fuss over personal boundaries and manners. who washes her hair less often because it means less effort.  who is full of warnings and caution and preparedness. who will put forth remarkable effort for the things and people she loves. who would, if it were possible, make a home in the hollow of an acoustic guitar just to hear the picking. who would kill for a quiet morning. who most identifies with janie or charlie or francie or esther in the pages of coming-of-age novels.  who is coming to terms with the loveliness of her body, every arch and angle and small curve. who is confident that love and obedience inform one another.

thank you, two thousand twelve for being kind to me.
you saw me through graduation, a batch of trial-and-error reconciliation attempts, and the beginnings of a disciplined and fruitful life.

cheers to two thousand thirteen.
i have high hopes for you.

p.s. no picture. i couldn't decide on a mirror or blurred words or a watercolor, of course. but it's okay.

and smile.

"miss r, you look like an adult."

this was the confidence of a fourth grader at the end of her 2011 school year - 

despite my tussled hair tightly secured in a messy bun and my bare face. despite golden feathers the length of my pinky nail hanging from my ears and the feller's least favorite shirt, incidently one of my favorites at the time, her eyes widened with admiration and discovery - i was an adult. something magical and to be desired. 

i felt the change but could not name it then. she was perceptive enough to take note and say something. and i knew, then, sitting on mustard lunchtables that i would remember her words and her face. thank you, mckenzie for noticing. and for saying so.

nothing is more adult-ish than knowing oneself. my twenty-first year was one of the most difficult for this reason.  to know oneself is to see oneself clearly. among other things, i was selfish, deceptive, a contradiction, and deeply, horribly insecure. the process of knowing myself, which is on going and never quite sufficiently completed, revealed good things too. tenderness. creativity. the ability to care. i digress. as i was saying, knowing onself is a sure marker of adulthood. scrutinizing oneself is invaluable. scrutinizing with gentleness and graciousness. never the mean kind that cynics and unhappy people do.  that day at the lunchtables i knew who i was. the terrible and the terribly good. i looked at the trajectory i would soon be headed and was at peace.  i could sit across from myself and smile. knowing my worth and knowing my strength and knowing my beauty. knowing i would not go at it alone.  of course, i doubted all these things. and sometimes i still do. hello, human condition! you are a predictable one. but in those moments i sink myself in the truth. i do combat with truth. i come up breathing with truth. and in the process i am becoming a young lady. an adult of sorts. how adventuresome and peculiar and mysterious and wonderful to be taking shape, to become.

p.s. tomorrow is twenty-two months with the feller. eeks!
p.s.s. i bought a bathing suit today and had a wonderful experience. this week i will write about it i promise.
p.s.s.s. book club is this week. brave new world. hoorah!

not always

i helped the feller and his roommate move on saturday and sunday
twenty plus hours of packing, cleaning, more packing and more cleaning. lots of music and ridiculous statements/jokes. complete exhaustion. food breaks (i.e. sandwiches, pho, ice cream sandwiches, vanilla filled pandas, barbecue chips, orange chicken and rice). jacuzzi time. finally cable and internet and planet earth: incredible families. snuggling and quick signs of affection between lifting, organizing, and scrubbing.
i've never helped anyone move before like this. i'm sore for goodness sake. and i can't calculate the number of bruises i've accumulated over two days. but it was so much fun.
and i am excited for the future. for moving out. for moving in. for eventually living with people other than my parents. for grocery shopping, dish washing, and bills. yes, even bills. for small experiences i will capture with my holga, given to me about a year ago from the feller.

we will not always be young.
but while we are young let's set this world on fire.
i had to do that.
ahem.
but while we are young i resolve to enjoy and be thankful for every ride in a uhaul, every cheap and filling dinner, every dog that playfully attacks me, every hug and kiss, every deep gaze, every every every.

p.s. their new place has windows, long open windows. natural light galore. my favorite.