52 Lists, Week 7

Happy Monday! Welcome to my 52 Lists Project, wherein I feature one list every week for 2015. To join in with your own list, scroll down to the link at the bottom, print out your own list, and then share it however you wish!

Week 7: List the Things that Make You Feel Healthy - Mind, Body, & Soul

Health is all the rage nowadays what with fad diets and crunchy granola and grapefruit continuing to be considered a breakfast food (seriously, what's up with that?). I'm in my mid-20s (cue freak out!) so I'm paying attention to my health more than ever. Here's my list of how I try to keep all aspects of my life feeling good.

Mind:

• reading challenging, thought-provoking, or inspiring books
• confiding in my favorite aunt
• getting my thoughts out on paper by journaling
• stimulating conversations
• dreaming about the future
• knitting
• saving money
• writing letters
• reading really good (articulate) blogs
• the satisfaction of a productive day at work and a clean home

Body:

• getting up early
• going to bed early
• drinking water and herbal tea
• eating fruits and vegetables with every meal 
• stretching in the morning and before bed
• going for walks by myself
• riding my bike at the beach
• dancing while I do my chores
• flossing
• washing my face 2x daily

Soul:

• listening to happy music
• singing in the car
• long drives at night
• hugs
• getting up early or staying up late to pray
• fresh flowers in the kitchen
• being fully present at mass and adoration
• long talks with people who care
• catching up with old friends
• laughing so hard I cry
• dancing with abandon

Obviously this list isn't the sum total of the things that make me feel like a healthy individual, but it's a pretty thorough summation.  

What about you? What are some things that make you feel healthy? Are there other habits you could start working into your day? Let me know in comments or with a list of your own - I'm off to go for a walk outside. 


Love, 

Willow

For more fun with 52 Lists, click down on "52 Lists" in the little categories section at the bottom of the post, and go over to Moorea Seal's site to see more!

Check out Moorea Seal's entire project at her blog below:
http://www.moorea-seal.com/p/52-lists.html  

When I Have Fears

It's been an interesting winter, I suppose, but finally, finally, it's turning into spring.  I love this time of year.  I survived the cold dark of fall and winter and now I'm to be rewarded with warm days that last and last.  I can always tel, because the wild mustard is already blooming on the hillsides, and even a few brave poppies have poked up their golden heads before the final frost.

Unfortunately, it also brings my birthday.  I know, it's a silly thing, and I should be excited or something, but the one thing no one realizes is that in truth, I'm terrified.  I know I say that and people laugh but. . . The reason I went so all-out for my birthday last year was because I rather planned on it being my last.

Don't freak out, I don't have any plans. I just - and I realize how ridiculous this is - don't want to get old.  It's a completely irrational fear, I know, but like all my other irrational fears, it comes with a great deal of anxiety.  It's hard to explain where this came from, only I know I've felt like this since I was 14.

I've always been afraid of aging.  I'm not so concerned for vanity's sake - neither my mother nor grandmother look even a decade near their true age - I'm concerned for other reasons.  For years I've felt like 21 was it.  And I royally blew it.  What did I do this year?  I spend a wonderful summer in Salem, OR, I went back to school and dropped out again; I reconnected with R--- and K---, I'm working a dead-end job for my father and have little more than a high school education.  Not much to show for 21 years on this earth.

And that's what I'm afraid of.  When we're young, we're starry-eyed dreamers, but we're gradually robbed of that as we get older until we're nothing but shells of who we once were.  I don't want to wake up one day and realize that I'm 40 with a husband and 3 kids and haven't lived my life.

I mean, how many 40 or 50 year olds do you know who are genuinely happy with how their life turned out?  Who rejoice in their aging? I've been told time and time again by people I love not to get old.  I know they mean it jokingly but. . . I genuinely don't want to.

Maybe it's just the Big D talking but . . .  I've been worrying about this for a while.  It's more than just worrying about not living fully or "making my dreams come true" (whatever that means...), but I can't quite articulate it.

I mean, I feel like this is it.  My friends and I are growing up, we're running out of things to connect us.  I know that's a normal part of growing up, but I want a do-over.  I didn't do high school right, I royally fucked up my college "experience" and all I can think is that I'm running out of time to do all the living I have to do before I'm conned into giving myself up and forced to grow up.  The unfairness of it is so bitter and vile.

I look at Kenzie and how wondrous the world still is to her and feel sick when I think that in 15 short years, she'll probably be as disillusioned as me, if not more so.  And in 15 years, I'll be 37.


Am I a horrible person for feeling so trapped? I've heard all the "it's never too late to do what you've dreamed of" that I can handle.  I just want to know what my options are.  I'm really worried where I'll be in a few more weeks. . .

10 Books for Daughters

I was bopping around on Pinterest earlier and stumbled across this. It's brilliant. Truly genius. (Not mine, not stealing. Please please please go look at this woman's blog - it's brilliant.)

"10 Books You Must Read to Your Daughter (Or How to Keep Your Daughter From Ending Up Like That Horrid Girl in Twilight)

January 29, 2012, 5:31 pm

So now we have a baby daughter. Look how she slumbers. She doesn’t even know that I stay up at night worrying about her self-image. And, oh horrors! What if someday she wants to read Stephanie Meyer’s literary atrocity, the Twilight series? You know the one, the books featuring a non-descript female protagonist who, in addition to having no interests or talents of any kind (other than smelling delicious to a sparkly 100-year-old vampire), is helpless, boring, and basically suicidal when her 100-year-old sparkly vampire boyfriend breaks up with her? Yeah, those books. So, I’m coming up with a reading list containing female characters that could put a smack down on Bella Swan any day of the week and reveal what a real woman looks like.
1. The Anne Books by Lucy Maud Montgomery: Anne of Green Gables and the 7 sequels that complete the series were a staple of my childhood. Anne is fantastic. She’s clever, charming, resourceful, imaginative (to a fault), and hysterically funny. And she goes to college and gets a BA during the Edwardian era. So that’s impressive. I actually saw the miniseries first and read the books later. IMPORTANT: Anne of Green Gables the film and Anne of Green Gables the sequel (Anne of Avonlea) are wonderful but for Pete’s sake DO NOT watch Anne the Continuing Story. Pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s an absurd and wretched thing that dishonors the very name of Anne. Really. Part of you will die.
I agree completely. I read the Anne books as a girl and adored how vivacious, independent, and utterly extraordinary she was. She didn't necessarily fit in with the other girls but pursued her own dreams and set her own goals.
2. The Little House Series by Laura Ingalls Wilder: I was probably a little too obsessed with the Little House books in my day. I may or may not have worn lace-up black boots, braids, and read under an old-timey quilt next to an antique hurricane lamp most of the time between the ages of 6 and 8. File this one under the category of “capable women doing cool stuff.” Laura Ingalls is awesome, obvi.
I learned to read by age 4 when my father went through this whole series with me. I loved the fact that we were reading a fabulous story that actually happened to a real person. It blew me away to think that a little girl just like me wrote down her adventures. These books inspired me to be a writer myself. Not to mention how totally badass Laura's mom was...
3. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott: I have a distinct memory of finishing the last pages of Louisa May Alcott’s finest mere minutes before heading to the theatre to see the 1994 film on Christmas Day with my mom. What girl doesn’t adore the awkward and gutsy Jo March? I have to confess though that when I read it last year I realized I’m probably more like Amy—not because I have the slightest visual artistic talent but because we’re both selfish. I love that each of the four sisters are so different and yet each one exudes a positive kind of femininity, although, to be fair, Meg’s “I-don’t-worry-my-pretty-little-head-about-it” attitude isn’t quite what I have in mind for my daughter. Warning: after reading this I was rather bitter that I didn’t have sisters. Just a heads up.
I actually have not read Little Women. I know this is bad of me, but I have sisters so I don't think I'm missing much, and the movie really bugged me. However, I will concede that as female protagonists, they are pretty good. And I definitely remember trying to be a bit more of a tomboy to be like Jo...
4. The Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling: You’d be hard pressed to find a book series with better female characters. There’s a quote swimming around the internet attributed to Stephen King: “Harry Potter is about confronting fears, finding inner strength and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend.” I concur. I love that Rowling can depict a strong, brave, capable, intelligent, and compassionate woman in such a variety of characters: a middle-aged stay-at-home mom of seven, a pink-haired dark wizard catcher, an elderly spinster teacher, and an overachieving teenaged student, to name a few. If my girl emulates Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Minerva McGonagal, or, of course, my beloved Molly Weasley, I’ll be a happy mama. And it doesn’t hurt that the whole plot pivots around the sacrifice of one amazing mother (Lily Potter) for her son. Anyone who’s down on these books can’t have read them.
Yes, yes, yes and YES. I love this. Harry Potter is so full of very real characters, both good and bad (Rita Skeeter, Bellatrix Lestrange or Dolores Umbridge, anyone?). I adore that Stephen King quote (SO true), and there is also one from Emma Watson on her character, Hermione Granger. To paraphrase: "Girls are told they have to be the princess. Hermione taught them they can be a warrior." Someone else said of Hermione, "She, unlike so many other modern heroines, did not give up her femininity in order to be brave, to be 'one of the boys.' She maintained her emotional depth but was quite talented and stood out from the crowd as a powerful figure." Basically, almost all the women in this series are total badasses.
5. Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis: This complex book is a retelling of the Cupid and Psyche myth and Orual, the main character (Psyche’s older unattractive sister), is an incredibly complex character. It’s not so much that Orual should be a role model, but her spiritual journey is worth reading and the book is sure to lead to some good discussions about what a good woman should be. It’s notable that Lewis had lots of help from his wife, Joy Davidman, when writing this book. Otherwise, it’s hard to imagine how a man could be so amazingly insightful about a woman’s mind.
C.S. Lewis. Can't go wrong. I would add Chronicles of Narnia and Lucy Pevensie to this. Lucy was the one brave enough, sure enough in her convictions to lead her siblings (older and more influential than she!) to a world of magic, wonder, and learning. Way to go, Lucy.
6. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien: OK, so definitely not a girlie book (not that any book in this list has an exclusively female audience), and there’s very few female characters. However, the ones it depicts are fantastic. Galadriel? Eowyn? Yes, please. The book also exudes so many virtues that it seems hardly possible that having completed it your daughter will care two cents about Stephanie Whats-Her-Name. See? I can’t even remember because I’ve read Lord of the Rings. Also, it’s full of real men which is an important thing for a girl to be able to recognize. I’ll take Faramir, thanks.
Yup. This series is just awesome. I'll say my favorite thing about this series is that the characters are real - yes, they are virtuous, but they are also flawed. And that's real.
7. Anything Jane Austen wrote: Want your daughter to know a thing or two about interesting women? Read all six of these novels to her. After reading them, one should know exactly what kind of woman to be and what kind of woman to avoid. Elizabeth Bennet has more clever things to say in one page of P&P than Bella Swan could mumble in her entire miserable existence. And none of Austen’s heroine’s decide to curl up and die when they’re “crossed in love.” Philosopher Alasdair McIntyre supposedly said, “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like Jane Austen.” I quite agree.
Even Emma, which has Jane's most unforgivable female character, has strong female characters who are educated, brave, passionate, and driven. Even when Elizabeth Bennet's pride hurts her relationship, she learns from it and carries on. She is a strong contrast to her mother and youngest sisters' silliness and vanity. Way to go, Jane.
8. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte: A plain little orphan stands up to terrible relatives, survives a childhood of neglect and abuse, strengthens her mind with education, is the intellectual match of one of the most imposing and fascinating male characters in British literature, and makes the prettiest girl in the county look like a spineless nothing in comparison, among other impressive exploits. Supposedly, Charlotte Bronte bet her sisters (and fellow authoresses) that she could write a successful novel around a female character that was neither pretty nor charming. She won, obvi.
No. I cannot agree with this (no matter how much I agree with the others). While Jane was quite accomplished, in the end she goes crawling back to a man who lied to her, locked his first wife in the attic, and sends his adopted daughter to a horrible boarding school where she is taught to be quiet and look pretty. Why did Jane go back to this kind of monster!? That's not being a strong woman, that's ignoring your strengths as an independent woman and giving all that up for a man who doesn't deserve you! I'd much prefer my daughters were single, independent, and secure than married to men like that, even despite the slant of forgiveness at the end. I don't like it at all.
9. A Girl of the Limberlost by Gene Stratton Porter: Lesser-known book published in 1909, but a real treat. Stratton-Porter’s main character, Elnora Comstock, is so wonderful and endearing. Also she collects moths, so that’s cool (or at least Phillip Ammon thinks so). The prequel, Freckles, is also charming and delightful.
Hmmmm, I've heard a lot of negative things about this book so until I read it for myself, the jury is out. Sorry.
10. Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset: This three-part saga by Norwegian author Sigrid Undset won the Nobel prize for literature and is one of the finest works you will ever read with a female protagonist rarely paralleled. Kristin is an amazingly human character with as much depth as any female literary character I have encountered. Her spiritual journey is fascinating and the saga is set in 11^th century Scandanavia which makes it way more awesome to my medieval-loving heart. However, there are some sexual themes which might make it inappropriate for younger girls. Absolutely worth reading and discussing.
Yessssss. Kristin is wonderful! Definitely not appropriate for children but great for adolescent girls and a great book for discussion.

At three months, I don’t think Baby Lucy is ready to dive into these, yet. In the mean time, this mama will be praying lots of rosaries. Anybody else have so many more worries about raising a girl?
Did I leave anything out? What are your recommendations? Any advice on how to raise strong, capable, intelligent, compassionate, confident women? I’m all ears…
If you enjoyed this post you might also be interested in 10 Books You Must Read to Your Son."

You can read more from this fine literate lady here: Carrots for Michaelmas.
To access the original post to read some (admittedly) really interesting comments, click the title and it'll take you there.
To this list I would add the following:
Ella Enchanted: Ella is such a strong, vivacious girl who reminds me strongly of Anne of Green Gables. She handles a troubled family life, the loss of her mother, and the complications of loving someone while cursed with such grace and strength; I loved Ella as a girl - my paperback is battered and well-loved.
The Hunger Games: Not the series, just the first one (I have certain issues with the second and third books). Katniss is a wonderful protagonist who puts her family before everything. She's a tomboy out of necessity, but is still a very strong maternal figure to her sister. Most refreshing, this is not a love story. There is romance involved, but is not the main plot of the books. For once.

There were others I would add, but I'm tired now. This is a great list (except for Jane Eyre, sorry) and I'm excited to read through more of this blog and see what other great things I find!

Peace,
Willow

Word After Word After Word

"I have so many word-thoughts rattling around in my head, but my hands aren't fast enough to copy them down. I feel them streaming out my ears, running down my arms and pooling on the floor, cascading into a puddle of incoherency... It seems the well has sprung at last."

That was running through my head just a few moments ago, and thus became my Facebook status. There's so much I could (and would like to) say about words, books, writing, and other such things, but for tonight I have something specific to discuss.

See a few weeks ago, R--- called me up and invited me out to The Press with her. I'd never been, but basically it's like a cafe/coffeehouse by day and a bar&grill/open mic by night. It was actually really fun, and after a few drinks and the amusement of some exceptionally drunk people in the ladies' restroom (including Madame Sake Bomb and High-Waisted Skirt Girl) we wound up walking a very deserted Claremont Village. While we walked, we talked about our current (or lack thereof) creative projects, and drifted to my writing. And it got me thinking. And then it got me writing.

I spent 45 minutes compiling a list of over 80 books I want to read before the end of the year. One of the things R--- urged me to do was to get a library card. I live within walking distance of the La Verne library so why the hell didn't I think of that? It's the broke-girl's bookstore (I have ZERO money these days after paying bills and other such grown-up type things). But the list includes mostly modern classics by authors I should have read in college but didn't, and books I've always wanted to pick up but never bothered to.

How are the two preceding paragraphs connected? Well, a very intelligent screenwriter once lectured me thus: "If you're a writer, write. But in the same way that you can't run a marathon without having eaten plenty of nutritious calories, you can't write without having ingested words. Writers read - they read far more than the average person or the above-average reader. If you want to write for an hour, you have to read for at least half an hour. Bare minimum. And magazines don't count. You'll put out what you put in, so make it count." (Paraphrased, of course.) The man was a genius and had zillions of such epithets.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I'm trying to write again. I have a number of projects going on that require tinkering, fiddling, and other such edits, and they deserve my attention. I deserve to write, well and in excess. I haven't touched my Venice Story in months, I have no further notes on my Tattoo Book and nothing short of a few  half-finished sections and a rough outline on my Babysitter's Guide. (Yes. I'm writing a babysitter's compendium. Shut up.)  And I'm going to write letters. So if you know I have your address, be prepared for a potential onslaught and don't you dare throw them away - my words will be national treasures someday, just you wait.

And to those I scared, worried, or otherwise caused concern to a few weeks/days ago: I apologize. I am not and have not been in a good place as of late, especially with my birthday and some mysterious psychological "deadline" approaching in the near future. But it'll get better. Right?

jassloves.tumblr.com

Out of the Darkness

Alright, folks, I've got some big news. I've been kind of secretive for the last year, but I've been looking for a cause. Yes, yes, I'm a Free Hugger, but that's not really a "cause" so much as it's a movement and I don't feel about getting into the discussion of those differences. What I'm saying is, I've found it, and I'm stunned at how perfect it is.

As someone who's been living with diagnosed depression for over 2 years now (not to mention living with it undiagnosed for almost 12 years) and gone through the hospitalization and medication and therapy and blah blah blah, I'm kind of shocked how long it took me to find this organization - especially when I've been directly & indirectly benefiting from their influence for the duration of my treatment.

May I introduce: Out of the Darkness: The Overnight. 18 miles through the streets of San Francisco in one night. We're walking for the people we love who struggle with depression, the ones we've lost to suicide, and every single soul that resists the temptation to give up every day. I cried when I found this, because it reminded me that I am not the only one who struggles and that there is an army of people out there who come together to offer each other support.

SO! I'm taking donations. It costs $1000 to participate as a walker (I even joined a team! Team Death is No Parenthesis - from the e.e. cummings poem) plus the registration fee and airfare to get up to San Francisco in the first place. That said, I've been using my position as the Free Hugs Girl to further my cause. I'm there every Sunday anyway, and I have a modest following already, so I might as well commandeer their assistance. Drumroll!

Day 1 in Claremont and the conclusion of my first week of fundraising has elicited a total of: $54.52!!! I've committed myself to $20 a week and all the change I collect to this project, so the total donations I've received from strangers comes to $30.98, which is still awesome! As soon as I register I'll have an online donor page, and I know some of you have already made pledges to my cause, but every little bit helps! This cause has become so important to me in the last couple of weeks... It's put on by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, which is an organization that supports programs like the Trevor Project, clinics and early-diagnosis centers at universities across America, and various other programs that save lives every single day.

I'll be posting more next week, with an update on my fundraising status and all the ways I'm getting ready for this. I have 14 weeks until the walk, which is June 9-10. Until then, anyone have any fundraising ideas for me???

November

It's November again. Strangely, I don't feel much different than I did last November: a little hopeless, absolutely exhausted, unmotivated. But there's something stirring in me this time. Last time I had completely given up and surrendered to the inevitability of my exit. I ran away. This time, I'm stuck. I can't leave again - that option is no longer viable unless I never want to return - and I can't keep doing what I'm doing these days. Skipping class is so easy and so sensible sometimes. I can't prepare for class since I don't go, therefore I continue to skip since I'm not prepared and unable to prepare because I don't go. It's a continuous cycle of self-sabotage. I go to work, though; that I never miss. I think working grounds me. Working and going to therapy give me a little bit of structure so I get out of bed every day.

I've been reading a lot of I Wrote This for You in the last couple of days (do you italicize the title of a blog or put it in quotes?), and it's made me think a lot about the person I want to be - aside from a person who's alive, of course. I want my spark back, but wanting it doesn't just make it so. It seems I have to go out into the world and bring it back into myself.

Basically, I'm going to start writing again, more frequently, and I'm going to start dancing again every day. I've really let that go in the last year and I want it back. I'm happier when I'm active and I know it, I just need to do it. And I need to work on school but thinking about it still makes me a little...panicky. So we're gonna move away from talk about school temporarily. I'll deal with it, but... Now's not the time if I want to hold on to the small bit of sanity I have left over from last week's suicidal shit show.

In addition to writing here more frequently, I've also started a little side project (because I need something else to do, right!?) for a certain super-special someone. For those who know, there's this amazing, precious, sunshiney 3 year old in my life who means everything to me. Her birthday was a couple of weeks ago and it got me thinking about who she's gonna be and whether or not I'll be around to see it. I don't mean that in a Big S------ way, but things happen: lightning, car accidents, sickness, gang wars, alien abductions, psycho roommates, freak happenings, etc. So if something happens, I want her to know how important she is. And maybe I can let some other people feel important while I tell her. If you feel like peeking, it's after the jump here at Letters to a Blueberry Girl. It's kind of like the video diary for Good Luck Charlie on Disney Channel, but... on the internet. And from her aunt instead of her big sister. And Kenzie is WAY cuter than Charlie, with tons more personality to boot, so there.

I just need to get through to Thanksgiving. I keep giving myself deadlines and pushing them back to get myself through the semester. You see, at first I just had to get past October 8 (the date of the Big Mistake), and then it was November 1st, and here we are. Frankly if I get through the next two weeks I'll have beaten my record for consecutive school in the last year, which is good, but then I have to get through Thanksgiving. And the nightmares that are coming in about 2 weeks or so. That'll be fun. I'll keep you posted.

But yeah, I guess it's November and we can get ready for Christmas and things. Kr---- and I are getting ready to decorate our apartment. She wants a real Christmas tree - I don't want to have to clean up the damn thing - and I want Christmas candles. We'll have to compromise. But it should be lovely all the same. I'm excited.

Oh. And I'm seeing Katie tomorrow. I'm trying to remember how to breathe without a panic attack jumping in. My hands are shaking. It'll be okay, I'm just... I don't know what to say to her. I don't know if I'll be able to look her in the eye or even be near her without freaking out altogether. I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow.

Lastly, this is what's keeping me together right now:

"Place your right hand on your left shoulder blade. Keep it there. Now place your left hand on your right shoulder blade.
And squeeze."

- ~ I Wrote This for You: The Clouds

Just keep squeezing; I'll get to you soon.
Willow

“November — with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes — days full of fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees”

- L.M. Montgomery, The Blue Castle

"Promise"

I went home this weekend and - of course - my mother asked about the usual people, how they're doing, where their lives are headed, etc. I gave the standard answers, and in some instances (when she asks about people I no longer talk to, for example) just glared at her. In a good-natured way, of course. If that makes sense. Anyway.

On Saturday, I stopped by the house and we were doing laundry and talking about miscellaneous things (I know how to spell that without using spell-check: what now!?), and she turns to me and says,

"So Mark asked about you the other day."
Me: *Mark? Mark... Who the fuck is Mark? Mark, Mark, Mark....* "Who?"
Mom: "You know, the cutie at the bank."
Me: *Oh, GOD, stop! I don't want another relationship! Make it stop! ... He is super cute, though...* "Oh, really? Did he 'lose my number' again or is he just a chicken shit?"
Mom: "No! Well, I think he did actually lose your number and is just too shy to ask for it again -"
Me: "*snort*"
Mom" -- but I was telling him how you're back at school, and he commented on what a pretty campus it is and how he'd like to meet you there sometime for coffee or something."
Me: "What, does he want to transfer so he can ignore me at close range?"
Mom: "No, but I think it's worth a shot. Why not go curl your hair and put makeup on and come to the bank with me this afternoon?"
Me: "No. Because we both know he probably has a girlfriend and just wants a 'back-up plan.'"
Mom: "You might be right; he's way too cute to not have a girlfriend..."
Me: "Thanks, Mom."
Mom: "But he could be a good friend! God knows you're in desperate need of that. He could just be a nice person to get coffee with. He's such a nice boy, give it a try."
Me: "Mom. I don't want a boyfriend or any kind of "boy" "friend". I just want somebody to make-out with!"
Mom: "Well. I can't help you there."
Me; "Of course."

These kinds of moments always strike me. I mean, it's been over a year since R----- and I broke up. Okay, so I technically broke-up with him, but it was all his idea: I didn't have a choice. Since then, though, there've been so, so many moments like the one with my mother you just read. The very first was Brian. Oh, Brian... He basically looked like an angel - sang like one, too - but (as usual) he never called me back. After him was my first encounter with this Mark character by way of my mother's lovable meddling. Then there was Darren who came into the shop ALL the time and then disappeared one day... (I had nothing to do with that, in all honesty. No murderers here.) Then there was Riley at the Governor's Cup, David at my aunt's cottage, and now Mark again.

What I'm trying to say is that in the year or so that I've been in the shell-shocking state of singleness, I've been reminded more and more that I'm not "damaged goods." I'm young, (somewhat) pretty, (used to be) vivacious, (still) passionate, and (completely) driven. Nevermind that I've got one hell of a mental disease and all the social complexes that go with it, but what I mean is that I've still got life in me. It's like that song by The Rocket Summer:

"You've got so much love in you,
you've got so much love in you.
I'm amazed that I'm talking to you -
you look like the songs
that I've heard my whole life
coming true.
You've got so much love in you."

Right!? I've still got all this life and passion inside of me that one person didn't appreciate or deserve toward the end. So I need to start paying attention to the potentials that have... Promise. Like Mark. Maybe next weekend I'll curl my hair, put on my favorite dress and some red lipstick (which was finally returned to me by my aunt by way of my grandmother - thank you, Leslie!!!) and see if he'll live up to his promise. All of these situations birthed the beginning of a song (as yet unfinished) that kind of reminds me of every girl I've ever met.

We all daydream and wonder and fantasize about every guy we meet that has any kind of potential. We all wonder about the promise of what may or may not come next. I guess I should open myself up to it.

"So baby how can't I want want want this?
When we've got so much promise..."

I guess that's all for now. I should probably head to the library and get some work done.

Peace,
Willow

[insert title]

After being lectured about not writing, here I am at 11 at night, writing. It's important, I know.

This weekend has been frightfully normal. No craziness, no insane adventures, just homework, being at the condo (I guess I live here now?), and seeing R--- and K---. Talking to them keeps me sane, I swear. If I didn't have them... we won't go there. But they keep me sane and normal. As normal as normal gets I suppose.

I've been thinking about him lately. Not in a longing kind of way, but in a pensive, wonder-how-you're-doing way. I'm not interested in another relationship, truly, but I miss having someone. I guess I like having someone to fall apart with. Is that sound? Careful: insanity is catching.

That's all for now, but know that I am writing. It's all in my head, but isn't everything in the world?

But you're in my head, too.

“We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds, our planet is the mental institution of the universe.” -Friedrich Nietzsche

Peace,
Willow

The Truth About October

You want the truth about October? October hurts. October is cold, windy, and full of memories. A lot of firsts, and plenty of lasts happen in October.

I'm not making sense. Again. Give me another chance.

I love autumn. I love the chill in the air, the clear days with amazing clouds and the occasional rainstorm. I love the bicycles and the sweaters getting pulled out of drawers and shaken free of cobwebs and memories. I love settling into school and getting back into the familiar rhythm of classes and roommates and "life as we know it."

I don't love the memories. I don't like Octobers because of what happened last October. The Big Mistake which led to the Big S------. I wish I could forget. I wish I could call the Big Mistake a Big Mistake and stop looking back at it fondly. Because it was a mistake and it ruined me. It was stupid, and selfish, and hopeless. But I walked into it anyway, knowing all of that, and I still look at it and know that at the end of the day I probably wouldn't do it any differently. Because I wanted it despite all the reasons around me screaming about what a terrible idea it was.

Slow down a minute.

SO. Octobers. Leaves are dropping - though not as dramatically as they are on the East Coast - and I'm dreaming of scarves and Christmas. It's eons away but I still dream. And I'm fantasizing about a year ago today, when I first heard the M--------- word. And it scared the shit out of me. And I set into motion the events that led me here. I started crying for no reason a bit ago. It wasn't for regret so much as missing how things used to be, when life was something similar to simple. A year ago today. A year.

But tomorrow I drive north, like I do every October. 1st week: Rodeo. 2nd week: roadtrip. It's that time of year I take for myself and run away to people who lovelovelove me and sing and cry in the car and escape the city I love. Then, 48 hours later, I'll return, tired and perhaps hungover, but return I shall. Because unlike last October, this one won't break me. If only because I'm not giving it the chance.

I guess the truth about Octobers is that they're a time of change and settling. Settling into change, I suppose. I've settled into school and work and now I'm working out the balance. I'm doing things I enjoy - hugging, knitting, spending time with the few friends I have left, and bracing myself for the harshness of November. If I make it through those first few weeks, I'll make it through the rest. I have to. No repeats, no do-overs, no backing out. Not this time. So the truth about October is that it's forgiving, and allows some room for stretching out and re-settling. So I'll settle in and get ready for the cold that always comes, but this time I won't freeze. I'll huddle in a blanket but I'll get up every morning and do the things I know I'm supposed to. Because it's a new October for me.

A New Year Resolution

When I say "New Year" I mean a new school year. Just so we're clear.

Basically, I have this really awesome Screenwriting professor who has a zillion brilliant adages on writing and what it means to be a writer. He's quite simply a genius. But the crux of what he says is that. as writers, we should feel miserable when we're not writing - true - and guilty the days we don't write - too true - and that we must write every day if we ever want to consider ourselves "writers" - infinite truth.

However, being a college student (again *groan*), I don't always have time to dedicate an hour or so to writing each day. I have other things going on. Sure, if I never got on the internet again and gave up my Solitaire habit I might have that kind of time at my disposal, but at this point... no. But I need to write more. Really. I know, I've said this a zillion times before, but I mean it this time. It's time for me to start taking my craft more seriously like my screenwriting professor insists.

So I leave you with this, and will dedicate the next 20 minutes to starting to write something, anything, to share with you tomorrow at some point.

“A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man – or this woman – may use a typewriter, profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I have done for 30 years. As he writes, he can drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time he may rise from his table to look out through the window at the children playing in the street, and, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or he can gaze out at a black wall. He can write poems, plays, or novels, as I do. All these differences come after the crucial task of sitting down at the table and patiently turning inwards. To write is to turn this inward gaze into words, to study the world into which that person passes when he retires into himself, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy. As I sit at my table, for days, months, years, slowly adding new words to the empty page, I feel as if I am creating a new world, as if I am bringing into being that other person inside me, in the same way someone might build a bridge or a dome, stone by stone. The stones we writers use are words. As we hold them in our hands, sensing the ways in which each of them is connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes almost caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens, weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and hopefully, we create new worlds.”
- Orhan Pamuk in his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize in Literature (December 2006)

Peace,
Willow