I pull out of the driveway of the house I have lived in for almost my entire life. There is a brand-new feeling in the pit of my stomach. It is unknown and uncombated, I know not how to cope with its influence. My car is in reverse but my life is moving ahead. I realize I will never live there again. The basement room I've called my own will now be used for guests, myself included. Future visits will be spent with suitcase in tow. The empty closets have bid me farewell. Gone are weeks and months spent there with nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. I stare in the "review mirror" as I drive away -- leaving behind who I've been and where I've belonged for so long.
The tears come as they usually do - sprung from a few simple words on the screen, in my ears: You continue to be one of the most amazing people I have ever met. I needed to spend time with you more than you know. The goodbye waves in the driveway they just resonate and a trembling silence fills the air. I have barely left town and already the truth pulls me back - I am missed; I am loved. I drive down the highway through foggy vision. I leave behind pieces, yet take with me memories and the assurance of people who will never let me go. I replay everyday spent through the weekend -- running down the streets I've grown to love with her, sharing ice cream with friends, laughing until I can't breathe, riding in his truck talking about life, freezing memories together through a lens, crying as we say goodbye. They say that leaving gets easier with time, but I don't know how. It is never easy to walk away from the people and the places that you love.
My future awaits in the distant. The horizon signals unforeseen destinations and sings an unfamiliar tune. I look again in the review mirror, wishing for moments that have already gone. I'm stuck in the middle -- driving toward possibility and onward from familiarity. I will spend days clicking through photos and listening to somber songs. Transition is only hard when where you've been is as important as where you're going. It hurts because I've dared to feel. It aches because I've been privileged to love. Nostalgia sets in because I have touched truth and tasted authenticity. I have believed in a place in time; that place molded me into who I am. I have given my heart to people; those people have filled me with things I never even knew I needed.
On my journey, there are the things I take with me: Laughter; the little comments, random conversations, and silly circumstances that bring a smile to my face simply upon remembering their happening. It is the laughter that helps me breathe. Faces; those lights in the middle of this new adventure, reminding me they're by my side, giving me the courage to believe in myself, because they believe in me. Truth; the words God gives to me everyday through His message and the words of others, renewing my mind and equipping me with strength. Memories; the things I once desired are now among the things I will keep forever, hidden away in my heart for safekeeping. The beautiful thing about memories is they can never be taken from you and there are always more to be made. Tears; for often tears can be happy or sad, yet either is simply a type of cleansing, of healing, of shedding a feeling to make room for another. The tears make me stronger; they help me feel.
I reach my destination and look in the review mirror for the last time. I see sky, and I realize it is the same here, there, and everywhere. We are all connected; we are all people on our own journeys, but we are never alone. For paths cross, intersect, and merge -- for moments, for years, forever. There is nothing we leave behind that isn't a part of where we go. There is nowhere we will go where what we leave behind will not serve to empower us in some way. Our lives are a string of destinations, but they are all connected.
I am where I have never been. Still, I take with me people - for distance only separates as far as one lets it. And I take with me myself - for I am the same person here as there, although my surroundings change, inside I remain the same. Fear of the unknown will never replace my desire to feel, to know, to love. And so, I look ahead.
July 26, 2011
July 14, 2011
Tell the Truth.
The room was filled with conversations we weren't having.
I wanted to tell him he was more than just a friend, that he had always been more than just a friend. Every late night conversation, every laughter-soaked car ride, every tear-filled goodbye -- they had all meant more than what we'd said. I wanted to tell him about the night we spent lying on my living room floor after too many... how when we had drifted off to sleep, I had awoken to his arm around me. I wanted to tell him he wanted me too.
She wanted to tell someone that sometimes she threw up the things she ate. Not because she had to, because she wanted to -- because she thought it would make a difference. She wanted to tell someone that she had never felt skinny enough, not even back in high school when her body resembled a twig like all the other girls, not even when she had been in the best shape of her life. She had always been self-conscious. She wanted to tell someone she was scared of gaining weight. She wanted to tell someone she didn't feel beautiful.
He wanted to tell them he was leaving, that he had enlisted in the Armed Forces. He wanted to tell them that he loved them but that he didn't belong. He wanted to tell them he was running away, but telling them would defeat the point of the mission. He wanted to tell them how his father said he would never amount to anything, that he was too much of a coward to stand up for himself. He wanted to tell them he was standing up for his country. He wanted to tell them it was because nothing else mattered anymore.
He wanted to tell her he didn't want to be that guy anymore. He wanted to tell her that he was done sleeping around, that he had never really enjoyed it in the first place, at least not to the extent he said he did. He wanted to tell her how he used to be. He wanted to tell her he believed in the same things she believed -- in God, in purity, in love, and in relationships. He wanted to tell her he could change. He wanted to tell her she was worth changing for. He wanted to tell her she would be his last conquest.
She wanted to tell them that she had a drinking problem. It was more than what they saw on the weekends; it happened on nights where she was alone. She wanted to tell them all the times she had drunk herself into a stupor -- all the times she thought she had gone too far, the hours spent yakking on the bathroom floor. She wanted to tell them she was buzzed now, that she had snuck off during the movie to take some shots. She wanted to tell them she was an alcoholic. She wanted to tell them she needed them to still be her friend.
I wanted to tell them the truth. The kind that wrecks your soul, yet leaves you begging for more. I wanted to give them authenticity, if only they were willing to give it back. I wanted to tell them life's too short for secrets. I wanted to tell them only truth would matter in the end. The words of wisdom I clung to in private were ringing in my head, and still I said nothing. I wanted to tell them the truth, but nobody is ever ready for the truth.
The room was filled with conversations we weren't having.
I wanted to tell him he was more than just a friend, that he had always been more than just a friend. Every late night conversation, every laughter-soaked car ride, every tear-filled goodbye -- they had all meant more than what we'd said. I wanted to tell him about the night we spent lying on my living room floor after too many... how when we had drifted off to sleep, I had awoken to his arm around me. I wanted to tell him he wanted me too.
She wanted to tell someone that sometimes she threw up the things she ate. Not because she had to, because she wanted to -- because she thought it would make a difference. She wanted to tell someone that she had never felt skinny enough, not even back in high school when her body resembled a twig like all the other girls, not even when she had been in the best shape of her life. She had always been self-conscious. She wanted to tell someone she was scared of gaining weight. She wanted to tell someone she didn't feel beautiful.
He wanted to tell them he was leaving, that he had enlisted in the Armed Forces. He wanted to tell them that he loved them but that he didn't belong. He wanted to tell them he was running away, but telling them would defeat the point of the mission. He wanted to tell them how his father said he would never amount to anything, that he was too much of a coward to stand up for himself. He wanted to tell them he was standing up for his country. He wanted to tell them it was because nothing else mattered anymore.
He wanted to tell her he didn't want to be that guy anymore. He wanted to tell her that he was done sleeping around, that he had never really enjoyed it in the first place, at least not to the extent he said he did. He wanted to tell her how he used to be. He wanted to tell her he believed in the same things she believed -- in God, in purity, in love, and in relationships. He wanted to tell her he could change. He wanted to tell her she was worth changing for. He wanted to tell her she would be his last conquest.
She wanted to tell them that she had a drinking problem. It was more than what they saw on the weekends; it happened on nights where she was alone. She wanted to tell them all the times she had drunk herself into a stupor -- all the times she thought she had gone too far, the hours spent yakking on the bathroom floor. She wanted to tell them she was buzzed now, that she had snuck off during the movie to take some shots. She wanted to tell them she was an alcoholic. She wanted to tell them she needed them to still be her friend.
I wanted to tell them the truth. The kind that wrecks your soul, yet leaves you begging for more. I wanted to give them authenticity, if only they were willing to give it back. I wanted to tell them life's too short for secrets. I wanted to tell them only truth would matter in the end. The words of wisdom I clung to in private were ringing in my head, and still I said nothing. I wanted to tell them the truth, but nobody is ever ready for the truth.
The room was filled with conversations we weren't having.
July 05, 2011
Daddy's Little Girl.
When I was a little girl, my Dad would tuck me in at night. I was quite demanding for a girl my age. There was music to be wound -- two boxes that twirled and a small lamb that played. The lack of harmony never crossed my mind; they were sounds of comfort in the darkness. It never failed that I would ask for a glass of water, sooner than later my Dad learned to have it ready. And, I couldn't sleep without my teddy; Bear Bear was always the companion at my side. My Dad never missed a beat, never let an animal go unfound or music box unturned. In closing, he would tuck me in "snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug," tell me he loved me, and turn out the light. I was always Daddy's little girl.
I went skiing for the first time when I was about five years old. It was soon become the tribute to "father-daughter" time. I can still remember my purple edgie-wedgie, a small piece of rubber hooking the front of my skis together, forcing me to naturally snow plow down the mountain. I remember his patience in teaching me. I also remember the car rides - it was the only time I distinctly remember country music being a part of my childhood. And, somehow, it created a bond between my Dad and me. The drive was only an hour, but we would stop for some treat on the way back -- hot chocolate, candy, or something of the sort. He always packed us lunch, because the slope food was overpriced, and he'd carry it in a little blue cooler, perfect for two. Weekends on the slopes turned into ski trips with mutual friends, conquering "big mountains" in Colorado. I haven't skied for years, but I treasure those moments with my Dad as if they were yesterday.
My childhood is full of adventures with my family -- my Dad standing as the leader over all. Hiking Harney Peak three years in a row, raining on us every time. Weekend camping trips equipped with endless games, laughter, and good food. He never left a detail unthought of. He was prepared for everything, or at least, that's the picture my memory paints for me now. My dad -- the protector, the hero, the one could fix anything. Fishing trips and days at the beach; catching nothing or catching too much sun. It never mattered. We were a family, and together we were happy. The adventure wasn't important, as long as it was being conquered. Even the adventure around our table, sharing scripture in the mornings before my brother and I went to school. The faithful way my dad drove us to church every Sunday. He was a leader, not only as a father and a husband, but as a man of God.
My Dad always pushed me to be my best, and he always lended whatever expertise he had to help me accomplish my goals. I remember nights at the kitchen table, pouring over math equations, or hours spent finding me the right doctors and the right shoes to make my high school running days as pain-free and optimal an experience as possible. He was always there -- cheering me on, pushing me to do better, loving me no matter what. He accepted me for who I was. When I chose to pursue a college education he wouldn't have chosen, he did his best to provide me the adequate resources to make sure it was the best experience possible. When I wanted to transfer schools, he drove the hours with me. The important decisions were made together. My dad pushed me to be my best, and I let him because I have always looked up to him.
Now that I'm getting older I see things I didn't get to see then. The way he loves my mother. The way he loves me and my brother. His gentle heart. His quiet spirit. His attention to detail. His silent way of seeking God -- the way his faith arises in moments spent with family and friends. He thinks before he speaks, and speaks with eloquence when he does. I see the way he has not only pushed me, but the way he pushes himself. He sets goals and he completes them. I get to talk to him, not only as my Dad but as my friend. We share a glass of wine over dinner and talk as if the world will never end. I call him for advice. I call him for answers on simple things, like how to cook a steak. I can come to him in tears. I can come to him with smiles. He is always there, with open arms and a supportive answer. He guides me as I grow. He quizzes me for "big-girl" interviews, and sends me money for professional attire. He tells me that God has a plan; he encourages me to keep praying for the way to go.
My dad is the first man I ever gave my heart to. It's going to take someone amazing, someone completely from God, to force me to give my heart again in the same way. My dad is the best father a girl could ask for, and I know my mother would say he is a great husband. Those are some large shoes to fill, ones I am not quite ready to set out on the market. I like the spot my dad has in my life -- where he is on my speed dial and how he's still the one that can fix everything.
I have always been Daddy's little girl, and I always will be.
I went skiing for the first time when I was about five years old. It was soon become the tribute to "father-daughter" time. I can still remember my purple edgie-wedgie, a small piece of rubber hooking the front of my skis together, forcing me to naturally snow plow down the mountain. I remember his patience in teaching me. I also remember the car rides - it was the only time I distinctly remember country music being a part of my childhood. And, somehow, it created a bond between my Dad and me. The drive was only an hour, but we would stop for some treat on the way back -- hot chocolate, candy, or something of the sort. He always packed us lunch, because the slope food was overpriced, and he'd carry it in a little blue cooler, perfect for two. Weekends on the slopes turned into ski trips with mutual friends, conquering "big mountains" in Colorado. I haven't skied for years, but I treasure those moments with my Dad as if they were yesterday.
My childhood is full of adventures with my family -- my Dad standing as the leader over all. Hiking Harney Peak three years in a row, raining on us every time. Weekend camping trips equipped with endless games, laughter, and good food. He never left a detail unthought of. He was prepared for everything, or at least, that's the picture my memory paints for me now. My dad -- the protector, the hero, the one could fix anything. Fishing trips and days at the beach; catching nothing or catching too much sun. It never mattered. We were a family, and together we were happy. The adventure wasn't important, as long as it was being conquered. Even the adventure around our table, sharing scripture in the mornings before my brother and I went to school. The faithful way my dad drove us to church every Sunday. He was a leader, not only as a father and a husband, but as a man of God.
My Dad always pushed me to be my best, and he always lended whatever expertise he had to help me accomplish my goals. I remember nights at the kitchen table, pouring over math equations, or hours spent finding me the right doctors and the right shoes to make my high school running days as pain-free and optimal an experience as possible. He was always there -- cheering me on, pushing me to do better, loving me no matter what. He accepted me for who I was. When I chose to pursue a college education he wouldn't have chosen, he did his best to provide me the adequate resources to make sure it was the best experience possible. When I wanted to transfer schools, he drove the hours with me. The important decisions were made together. My dad pushed me to be my best, and I let him because I have always looked up to him.
Now that I'm getting older I see things I didn't get to see then. The way he loves my mother. The way he loves me and my brother. His gentle heart. His quiet spirit. His attention to detail. His silent way of seeking God -- the way his faith arises in moments spent with family and friends. He thinks before he speaks, and speaks with eloquence when he does. I see the way he has not only pushed me, but the way he pushes himself. He sets goals and he completes them. I get to talk to him, not only as my Dad but as my friend. We share a glass of wine over dinner and talk as if the world will never end. I call him for advice. I call him for answers on simple things, like how to cook a steak. I can come to him in tears. I can come to him with smiles. He is always there, with open arms and a supportive answer. He guides me as I grow. He quizzes me for "big-girl" interviews, and sends me money for professional attire. He tells me that God has a plan; he encourages me to keep praying for the way to go.
My dad is the first man I ever gave my heart to. It's going to take someone amazing, someone completely from God, to force me to give my heart again in the same way. My dad is the best father a girl could ask for, and I know my mother would say he is a great husband. Those are some large shoes to fill, ones I am not quite ready to set out on the market. I like the spot my dad has in my life -- where he is on my speed dial and how he's still the one that can fix everything.
I have always been Daddy's little girl, and I always will be.
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