One of These Days

Recently, I qualified for my FIFTH trip on the radio. OH YEAH. But I never win. BOO. So why do I keep trying? I'm not really sure. Logically speaking, I won't win. But there is a chance.... A minuscule chance. That small opening is why I keep calling, time and time again.

I'm just so drawn the possibility of winning that I can't seem to stop. One of these days I have to win, right? One of these days some of that Irish fortune that should run in my blood will shine on me and I'll win, right? RIGHT?!? One of these days....

I think I'm addicted to hope. Hopelessly. This seemingly strange oddity is one I'll admit I'm a bit glad I have. If I'm going to be addicted to anything, hope seems the most viable option. Possibly, I'm also addicted to possibility. Like a bug drawn wide eyed to the light, hope and possibility beckon me. Usually, reality comes in and crushes my dream in an over dramatic show of machismo. After a brief wallow in self pity, I begin the cycle again. Possibility, hope, attempt, failure. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

But on occasion, I get to trump reality and actually achieve my dream, with "Eye of the Tiger" pumping in the background as I stand triumph with my hands on my hips, a heroic smile spread across my overly joyous face. These are the times I'm really addicted to. These are the times I hope for. These are the actualization of my possibility. Possibility, hope, attempt, achievement.

So I'll hopelessly keep calling the radio station, because possibly one of these days.....

Time Machine

Being 29, teetering on that landmark of 30, has pushed me into this childhood appreciation, or perhaps more LIFE appreciation. So I got this urge to build a fort. I shuffled my living room into an even bigger disarray, draped a sheet over the couch and the chair, and rigged the other side up with a broom handle. I was proud of myself. This monument to my childhood was turning out well. I threw in a blanket and some pillows. I lit some candles that I used to make s'mores. It seemed almost a waste to have a fort with no s'mores. A toothpick and a candle was a terrible substitute for a real fire and tree limb. But it worked. Kind of. Well, at least in the sense that it gave me a much needed break from the crushing realities of adulthood. My little fort: Time Machine to Innocence.

I came to this conclusion as I sat under a rigged up sheet in a pile of pillows with melted chocolate all over my fingers and face: Sometimes, you just need to build a fort. I will never be a carefree kid again, but I will certainly be a carefree adult. I will never be the innocence that embraced me as a child, but I will feel it again. I will never have to learn to ride a bike again, but I will learn to play the guitar. I will never wonder why the sky is blue or the grass is green, but I do wonder why we look away when someone is in pain. I will never be the heart surgeon I once dreamed, but I will still dream. New dreams, better dreams. Even though my yesterdays are lived and their significance is known, my tomorrow's mysteries have yet to be discovered.

Who knows? Maybe tomorrow I'll hopscotch.

Happiness is a beach

I find it incredibly ironic that I spent the majority of my recent (actually still current) vacation reading a book on happiness. It wasn't really to improve my own happiness, per se', but more of an inquisitive endeavor. I wonder "Can I really be happier?" Once I began to think about my own happiness and the definition of such a seemingly subjective word, I had to continue reading this amazing and profoundly simple book. "The Geography of Bliss" chronicles Eric Weiner's traverse across the world to find the happiest places in the world. (Sorry, Disney, you were not on the list, though I may just question Eric's motives...)
In an appeal, certainly to people like me, there is a distinct scientific approach to his journey. Honestly, I loved it. I love the book, the ideas, his writing; I was flat out amazed (and certainly not due to the amounts of wine consumed on said vacation). Beyond anything, it made me think. (Although, according to Mr. Weiner, that depreciates my happiness.)

The beach for me, currently, is happiness. But not for long. I find myself at a loss for what to do, where to go. On more than one ocassion, I found myself wondering around the condo looking for something, wondering what do I really want to do? Where do I really want to go? What would really make me happy at this moment? It's all about me here, alone, listening to the waves assault the beach below. Pondering how much more would I be enjoying this if there was someone, anyone, accompanying my journey? I've forced myself to be somewhat secluded and isolated. My realization that I've never had an actual vacation, especially alone, made me think I needed one. My current schedule of visiting and helping made me think I needed to go off alone, where noone needed me, or wanted me, or even knew or cared about me. Yes, I thought my happiness was lying dormant and would be unleashed on this white sandy paradise I now find myself in. Alone.
I think my conclusion is the same as Eric's (at least partially). I'm not too happy alone. Not only is that a science, it's personal. Oh sure, there are times when I long for myself, where I get so lost in others that I need to refocus on myself, and, strangely, come to the re-realization, that I am most happy with others. There are moments when nature and the roar of the ocean bring a strange silent peace to my soul that can only be experienced alone. And then I open my eyes to the nothingness in the room.
And then I realize... My happiness lies in all things. In experience and indifference. In people. In aloneness. In quiet and in chaos. My happiness lies in something far greater, yet so superficial. In darkness and in light. Sunrise and sunset. A complex contradiction, yet still so simple. I am profoundly astounded at the manners in which happiness reveals itself, if we let it. If we let ourselves.
So let yourself. Let yourself revel in the happy. Just take a moment and be.
Be happy. You don't need a book to tell you that. Or some insignificant blog, for goodness sake.

Living Waters

Oh office plant. Your resiliancy astounds me. After every weekend away, you become droopy. My plant watering ineptitude becomes rather obvious as your slender stalks, weak from nutritional depletion, curl around the edge of your plastic container. You hold on just a few more minutes, a few more hours, until my return to feed you the necessities of life that you require. You know I will come. Propelled only by monetary gain, I return to my office chair, eventually gazing upon your withering leaves. I cringe, run to get you life sustaining water. I talk to you, giving you the heartfelt apology you have heard oh so many times. My fingers trace your seemingly lifeless petals that once were so beautiful before I came along. I try to lift you up. But I can only watch, and hope that my destruction has not fully killed the life you once had. In my business, I neglect to give you the only thing you require: living water. Every week, I know that you will once again rise. And every week, you do. Every week, your roots drink and your lifeless limbs echo a visible sigh of relief and delight.

And you, my little plant, give me reason to go on. Because if you can live with such a terrible caregiver, imagine what I can do with the God of the Universe caring for me!

So many times, I am depleted as you have been. So many times, I'm withering and breaking. So many times the only thing I need is living water. I wish I was that resiliant. I wish I would not always give in to my tiredness and weariness. I wish in that moment where the only thing I had to cling to was hope, that I would not give up so easily. I wish, my dear office plant, that I was more like you. Yet like you, I know He will come, has come, and traced my lifeless limbs. My roots drink and peace floods my soul as He drowns me in life sustaining, life giving, life altering living waters. He restores me, saves me, comforts me, and believes in me. I will rise again.

And this Friday, I will not forget to water you, Phoenix of flora. You are a small echo of my life, and I want to keep you around.

Knitty Gritty

"Central to the appeal of knitting is that it wakes like a meditation. Everything become quiet, still and peacful and all the turmoil of life seems to succumb to the silent rhythm of the needles and the orderly progression of the stitches."

- June Hemmons Hiatt

I've always enjoyed creating something out of nothing. From the time I made a diorama of a flying bee out of an old clock motor as a kid, just for fun mind you, to more recent ventures like knitting. I didn't have the benefit of a wise elder who has made everything from a simple strand of yarn she spun herself, her nimble fingers showing me how to weave the thread between the needles methodically. Nope, I never do it the easy way. I learned basically from a coloring book.

Learning to knit is not an easy thing to do. My venture started out at first as an obligation. I had taught myself to crochet fairly easily at 23. My sister, generally the best gift giver in history, mistakenly bought me a knit kit for Christmas. Great. Thanks, sis. Now I have to learn. I opened the box and luckily found instructions. Even more fortunately, there were pictures. Soon, I realized the complexity of this overwhelming task. The pictures I was so enthralled about only seemed to confuse more than they helped. Time and time again, I attempted to mimic the visual. Time and time again, I failed. Miserably. Very, very miserably.

I boxed up my present only a few months later in complete frustration. Then I thought, 'What was so hard, really? You're a smart gal, creative and whatnot. Perhaps a little less than graceful with sharp objects, but have another go at it! We can do this thing! WOOOOO!' And I got all pumped up. Again. And I failed. Again, only slightly less miserably. Over the next year or so, this happened several times. Like having a child, I would forget the pain of birth and want to try again. Finally, something clicked. Something beautiful. What happened next was almost miraculous, transporting me from my year in craft purgutory to the big yarn ball in the sky through gates of golden knitting needles. I knitted. AND purled! The child in me danced to the rhythm of the clicking needles while the adult in me sat in quiet satisfaction of creativity.

The first REAL thing I started to make besides practice swatches was a blanket for my mom. The two hues of purple contrasted the white perfectly. It's progress was punctuated by intermittent delays to make hats, scarves, mittens, baby clothes, etc. It was awfully hot to work on in summer, so winter became prime time to make progress as the blanket grew, stitch by stich, row by row. Three years later at Christmas, I made my mother cry by its sheer beauty. Either that or it was like when you bring a drawing home from kindergarten and your parents shamelessly hang it on the refrigerator to make you feel good. I'd like to think it was more impressive than the finger paint creativity of a five-year-old, but either way, my mom cried. Honestly, the thing was nothing like I originally planned. It was a mere remnant of my idea, with flaws only my overscrutinizing eyes could see. But purple sure is pretty. And I proudly gave my mom her prize.

Still today, I knit. When my needles move in harmony to create beauty out of nothingness, the world stops yelling obscenities at me, if only for a brief moment. Time stops, only to have to catch up real quick once I stop. And I remember to keep fighting, keep trying, because although you don't know the definite outcome, you know each stitch brings you closer to the dream. Even though it's never as easy as a coloring book picture makes it look.