The Definition of Happiness

Please note: the following post is long, confused, disorganized, and raw from my brain. I do apologize, but it's something I needed to say, and the best way I know how is to spew it straight from brain to screen.

Recently it was brought to my attention that I possess a crippling habit: list making.

I can't really be sure how this came about in my life. I used to abhor lists. Heather was always the one with the to-do list she was checking off. Maybe it was just the fact that I never seemed to accomplish as much as she did. Or perhaps she wasn't ever as detailed as I in list making. Where she put "clean room", I may have listed: "make bed, sort laundry, vacuum, etc". Who knows? I'll have to ask.

Anywho, at one time in the last couple of years I discovered the thrill of checking things off a list. Something about that tangible evidence that you accomplished something (even though you might be staring at the freshly scrubbed dishes or folded laundry, it's not the same unless you put a check mark next to that line). Hunger for that thrill developed into an obsession, and suddenly every aspect of my life went onto a list somewhere so I could proudly mark complete every visit to the bank; trip to the store to get ranch dressing (check), tissues (check), dog treats (check), flower pots (check), notebooks (crossed out because, turns out, I don't need another); and game prep completed for Wednesday classes.

I think it must have really started when I tried out that Day Zero Project back when I was sixteen or seventeen. At least in that case, it was all fun long-term goals I didn't really need to accomplish, but it was downhill from there.

Lately, I found that those lists were nothing more than a burden. They mocked me, especially when I forgot to turn off the notifications on the newly-discovered "Reminders" app of my phone: "walk your dog", "please put away that horrendous pile of laundry hiding your floor", "find time in your hectic schedule to tap out two or three hundred words so you don't fall behind", and on and on. Also, every Tuesday and Friday for the last couple of weeks, I've scribbled "BLOG!" on my daily list of things to do. Clearly I have a clear grasp of priorities. 

I also found I was relying on my notes for everything, particularly at work.

It hurts, guys. It's painful, like some terrible addiction I know I need to quit but can't bring myself to quit because it hurts. In her own subtle (or not-so-subtle) way, Mom intervened. (Love how I'm making this into a mock-drama of a drug addiction? You have no idea.) She casually remarked that, for goodness sake, I needed to quit writing notes for everything and just use my God-given (and God-ordained rather poor) memory like humans are intended to.

That's probably the most terrifying part: I'm so scatter-brained, without some sort of note to rein me in, I'm bound to forget something crucial at some point. But slowly I'm forcing myself to let go of that security blanket.

The lists are being reduced to taking notes from phone calls and to writing reminders for things I absolutely cannot forget at any cost (which turns out to be very little, really).

And now, I'm starting a new kind of list.

The idea started months ago, when one of the girls mentioned a challenge their youth group team leader had put to their group: every day, write something you're thankful for.

I have often found that I tend to focus on the negative side of life and don't stop to appreciate the bright side: I see the puddles and don't smell spring rain, which I love.

On the radio the other day, I heard something to the affect of "Instead of bashing the things you don't like, try promoting the things you do like". Which is something else I'm working on: not voicing rude things that come to mind when I'm in a bad mood, but smiling whenever I come across something that perked me up.

But back to that list: happiness.

When I force myself out of my own mental puddle and take a breath and a good look around, there are plenty of things that bring that smile to my face. My goal is to learn to appreciate those things rather than getting glum over their muddy counterparts.

Happiness is....

Sunshine

Fresh air

Home-cooked meals

When another driver lets me go first (unless, of course, their kindness results in me getting rammed into, but I've moved on)

Years ago, our youth pastor preached a message which has stayed with me. He talked about our personal levels of contentment, and I believe he used Philippians 4:11&12:

11) Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. 12) I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to hungry, both to abound and to suffer need.

The idea was that we can choose how much good we require to be content with ourselves and our lives. We define our own level of contentment. If we can agree with ourselves that we can be content with three square meals, a comfortable house, and a car that runs, we will be happy when we have those things. Furthermore, anything about and beyond that measure will be received as a blessing.

On the other hand, if we convince ourselves that we will not be content until we have a car manufactured after the year 2000, a house with an extra bedroom, money to eat out more than once a month, and our favorite store's entire spring clothing line, we will probably never feel content even with the many things we do have.

I have learned to be content with the condition of my life: my poor beater car, our big drafty house, my amazing family, and a talent for making a meal out of practically anything. However, when it comes to the day-to-day circumstances, my personal happiness can flop like a broken pendulum every time someone walks by.

I have a hard time taking every throw in stride, both good and bad. It takes me a while to recover from a hard word, a mistake, or bad news. And yes, I am severely affected by the weather, and possible the lunar phases as well, but I am consciously working on that.

Last year something I dedicated a post to Philippians 4:5 (or at least I tried to, but looking back, that post was all over the place). Very often these days that verse comes to mind:

5) Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand. 6) Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. 7) And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Brave the old post if you dare. In short, the idea is maintaining a steadfastness about your nature, not tossed back and forth from despair to joy as the wind changes; leaning on God, trusting Him with tomorrow (rather than borrowing its troubles today), and letting His peace reign.

Happiness is only part of the issue. Happiness is a temporal thing, measured and dictated by our current condition or circumstance, even when we struggle to be content with our lot. The real thing is joy. True joy is something only God can bring, and it is not defined by our outward condition. It's defined by our inward state and our identity in Christ.

I go back to Paul whenever this topic comes to mind. If you want to read about a man who took everything in stride, look at Paul. And after everything, when he stood before King Agrippa and was permitted to give an account of himself, this is what he said: "I think myself happy" (Acts 26:2).

He had suffered shipwrecks and stonings, betrayals and rejection, and now at last was brought as a prisoner before the king. Yet he found himself happy, because he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the king's full attention. Read Acts 26 sometime; Paul makes full use of the opportunity and lays out his testimony in full. Festus calls him a mad babbler, but Paul politely disagrees. He was confident in his work, knowing full well that he was right where he belonged and serving God to the best of his ability, and that was enough.

So maybe I don't have some "great calling" like Paul. I don't think I'd do too well with that sort of adventure right now, anyway. It's better that I bide my time, training myself to take every rude customer and bad day in stride and learn a lesson from each of them, the better to serve when the bigger opportunities rise.

Most of all, I'm learning to be content exactly where I am rather than longing for one more thing, dreaming of a bigger adventure, wasting my time wishing I was doing something else. I'm right where God needs me. I just have to be open for Him to use me in the ways I can't yet see. 

How I'm Slowly Coming to Grips with Adulthood

I'm sitting in another coffee shop this evening, polishing off some hot chocolate and contemplating the wrap and pie I just ate, which almost filled my meal budget for a week.

Yes, it was delicious.

Per usual, I don't really have much to say. I'm trying to work myself back into the blogging rhythm. Bear with me. Or, conversely, come back in a month and see how I'm doing.

In a month, I'll be 20. Yikes.

I'm not ready for that, guys. Mostly mentally, though a little emotionally as well. 12-year-old me was sure I would at least have a boyfriend by now and be halfway around the world on some grand adventure, or autographing my latest best-seller.

I miss childhood. The world felt so much bigger then. Now I'm settled into my adult job, doing my best to budget and dealing with the responsibilities of maintaing my own car, buying my own clothes and food, and not having to run every social engagement by my mother for approval. (Seriously, she is insisting I be the independent little adult she raised me to be and plan stuff without her ok. It's weird.)

Most days I struggle with my lack of time management skills. I get the feeling this may be a life-long practice. Bother it all, but I am bad at it. Once upon a time, I was that little girl in the corner stuck in her book with a bag of chips. Now I only snatch enough time to read right before bed or in the morning before work. It hurts.

Also, I forgot to mention that over the winter (starting in September, really) I went on something of a health kick. Suddenly I found myself enjoying hummus (which I once swore I would never eat), buying essential oils at the health food store downtown, craving organic granola, and snubbing potato chips and pizza. What? Part of it can be attributed to the fact that by September I had been working a real job for a year. A job that required me to be on my feet and moving around. Turns out what I wanted during my beautiful childhood was a little more activity and a little less curling up to read. Much as it pains me to admit. (Come on. One fencing class made up the whole of my school sports career.)
When I switched to my desk job this September, I had a small moment of panic. Suddenly I was back to sitting for most of the day.
In short, I'm more conscientious of what I eat now. I'm even contemplating a membership at the gym. (Please contain your shock.) But I'm still learning, still adjusting. I'm slow like that. My biggest struggle right now is the feeling that I'm just spinning my wheels. I can't quite explain it, but it's like I just can't manage everything in my life, like I'm missing something in the chaos. Not that I have a lot going on, but I'm trying to figure out how to arrange everything so I can still do the things I love, the things that matter.
I think part of it is this horrible weather. Usually I love winter, or at least know how to endure it, but this one is making me feel a little stir crazy. I'm daydreaming of my garden this year. We didn't get one in last year, and that was rough. Which is silly, because before then I had a grand total of two years as a gardener. I put in a load of bulbs around the front of the house, and I'm eager to see how they will look. Mom is making plans for the vegetables we will have. Mostly I'm happy that the chickens will be contained to their run and I will be able to enjoy the fruits of my labors in peace without worrying that someone's beak will destroy them for a snack.
I'm also hoping to get into a good walking/running habit with Sasha. She's been driving us all a little crazy lately with her boundless energy. It's embarrassing what a terrible dog owner I turned out to be. Live and learn, right?
The beauty is that I can only imagine the ways God is going to use all of what I'm learning. I'm just trying my best to make the most of it while I'm here. My inner child whispers that somewhere there is a lesson that could save my life one day. That annoying mature, practical part of me groans.
I came here tonight with Mom, who had a Search and Rescue group meeting. Wanting to meet the people she and Dad always talk about, I joined them in their separate room for a while. It got weird when I choked on a bite of lettuce and realized if I showed signs of distress, I'd have half-a-dozen people jumping to offer assistance. Wesley and Heather know how well I handle the suggestion of CPR. I carefully and slowly swallowed that lettuce and soon left. And now I'm waiting, because I didn't expect it to take this long.
At least here I don't have the distractions I'd have at home. Like chores and a dirty room and a cuddly puppy and one of Allenna's shows on TV. That's the problem with me and time management: I have time, but worrying about how to manage it leaves me tired and I end up wasting my time.
And I'm just rambling. I should probably go. I will say, before I do, that my goal is to blog Fridays and Tuesdays as often as I can manage. I never realized how much of a stress relief blogging is to me. (Well, the stress mostly came from guilt that I wasn't blogging, but....) So until Friday, I hope!

The Language Barrier

When we were passing out tracts one day near the Presidential Palace, one of our group members handed a tract to a police woman. I wasn't nearby, but as he told the story, the police woman asked him a question in Spanish, and he told her, "No habla Espanol." She asked (I'm assuming in English, though it might have been through one of our translators) why on earth we were there passing out tracts without being able to speak the language.

An excellent question.

The moment I stepped off the plane in Lima, I asked myself the same question: why, oh why, hadn't I studied Spanish a little more? And I kept asking myself that question the whole trip.

I also witnessed how true it is that immersion is the best way to learn a language. The longer we were in Peru, the more I remembered from my two years of Spanish class and the more I was able to pick up. When we didn't have a translator to accompany us, I ended up helping Mom and Dad as much as I could with understanding what prices the vendors were giving. I'm pretty good as catching words and sorting them in my brain. Most words I filed away under "to look up".

I had the presence of mind to bring my Spanish/English dictionary with me, and that was a huge help (until one of the boys at the home stole it and wouldn't give it back, claiming it was his). 

Still, I only knew enough to squeak by, and barely that. I couldn't even have a conversation with the kids, much less the adults. If I wanted to say anything, it had to be through a translator.

Two days in a row we went to a nearby school. The first day, in the morning, we met with and talked to elementary and middle school kids, and the second, in the afternoon, with high school students. The first day, I had the opportunity to give a short testimony. I was super nervous and wasn't sure what to say, but I'd watched some others in our group (we'd split into three groups to save time) and knew I had to have a turn. Take note of the word "opportunity". I had to remind myself that it was a great opportunity, not a burden or something to avoid.

The nice thing about having to talk through a translator is the knowledge that said translator will sort out your rambling and make sense of it. That was my only consolation.

After our three groups had cycled through all the classrooms, we met outside on the court/assembly area/entrance place and got to spend some time with the kids. Mostly, they wanted our autographs.

I wasn't expecting that.

If you didn't have a pen, they'd steal one from a friend. Their workbooks provided the paper. You just had to scribble your name and the next one would be there in a second. Some of the kids were so excited, they didn't really pay attention to who was signing their books. Near the end, I was mostly pointing to my name and then pointing to myself. "That's me, there."

Halfway through, I decided I needed to leave some sort of note alongside my name. I knew the phrase "Jesus loves you" = "Jesucristo te ama". After some trial and error (mostly my English-speaking brain wanting to spell out "Jesus" and "Christ" as I know them) I got it down. I hope the kids saw it and took it to heart.

The next day, we gathered all the kids for one large assembly. It was the end of the school day and they were getting ready to go on break for their Independence Day, so this saved time. Some of the guys (including our youth pastor's son) gave testimonies, and then our youth pastor presented the gospel. The kids listened really well, and you could see on some of their faces that they were taking it to heart.

Afterward, we were approached by a number of kids who wanted to practice their English. Mostly they said  "thank you" when we gave them candy and tracts and waited anxiously for our "you're welcome". A couple girls came up to me and Mom and asked my name, and then hers. I introduced her as "mi madre", and they excitedly corrected, "your mother!"

In some ways, however, language wasn't a barrier. Some of my friends and I have this habit of turning any road trip over half-an-hour into a sing-along. Said friends, including my sister Heather, were present on the trip, and we quickly reverted to our old habit. 

This led to our being invited to sing a special (or three) at one of the churches we visited on Sunday. First we sang a version of "At Calvary" set to a different tune, but then we picked a couple familiar hymns. When the congregation started humming along, I was content. They might not know the words in English, but they knew the tune, and so knew what the song was about. That was a connection we shared, though we couldn't speak to each other. In that moment, there was no language barrier.

At the church right by the children's home (because we also went to another one) there is a drum player. He's a really cool guy in general, but then he's musically talented. I heard him humming along while we had a sing-along session on the bus, and made an effort to pick hymns.

The children's home houses a few interns, and on a couple different outings they came along with us. One day, one of the interns sat with the church drummer and chatted a while. They spoke in Spanish (he's still learning English), and from what I could gather by the tone of the conversation, he was helping her with her grammar and pronunciation. (And I don't think it counts as eavesdropping when you can barely understand the language.) I had a moment of revelation when he said a word and it automatically clicked in my brain. That was a wonderful moment.

As some of you may have seen on facebook, we also visited what is known as a holding tank. For those of you who don't know, a holding tank is kind of like a half-way house between the streets and a proper children's home. It's one step in a long process of finding safety and security in a home, and many kids don't get beyond this step.

The one we visited was for girls. Heartbreaking as it is, it's generally accepted that they come from backgrounds of abuse and human trafficking. What's amazing is that, though they're obviously hurting and some clearly have trust issues, they're still so sweet and open and aching for love and acceptance. They touched me deeply, because theirs are the stories that so greatly lack of hope. They might never get placed into a children's home; many of them are too old, or nearly so. They don't know what's in store for them.

There's a lady, Ms. Peggy, who works at the children's home. After one of our girls said hello and met each of the girls there (9 of them), Ms. Peggy shared her story and the gospel. The girls, especially one, were so attentive and so eager.

I'll share more of their story later. What of it relates to this post is one of the girls. She was born in Korea but her family moved to Peru. How she ended up in that building, she never said. What she did tell us was that she knew three languages: Korean, Japanese, and Spanish. She spent a few minutes with Bro. Mike, teaching him how to say certain things in Korean and Japanese. She was such a fun person to watch and to listen to. Then she asked Bro. Mike how many languages he knew. His answer?

1) Spanish, 2) English, and 3) Southern English

I don't think she understood the joke, but we did.

Somebody asked how Bro. Mike and his family still had such strong Southern accents. Someone else laughed. "Because that's the only English they hear."

Again with the whole living immersed in a language: our youth pastor is from the South, and his accent used to be a lot more defined. Now, however, he's spent time among us Yankees. Bro. Mike and his family and Ms. Peggy all have Southern accents, and they remain pronounced. I think I was even picking up on a little by the time we left.

When we reentered the States in Miami, we all struggled readjusting to an English environment. When the employees at customs were native Spanish speakers, we instinctively wanted to respond in kind. To every "thank you", we muttered "de nada"; to every nice thing, "gracias". When we bumped someone or needed to get by: "permiso, por favor". And then we had to remember that the prices were in American dollars, not Peruvian soles.

Communication - or lack thereof, rather - was probably the biggest problem of our group as a whole. When I go back, I fully intend to go armed with a better grasp of Spanish. And I do intend on going back! (Also, it's common courtesy, to me, to know at least a little of the language of the country you're visiting, because you're the visitor.)

I love languages. There's something so fascinating about studying the structure, vocabulary, and roots of a language; of seeing how it relates to other languages and how it differs; and, especially in regards to English, how it develops. And I've discovered that the more you learn about another language, the better you can understand your own. My geek fantasy is being the lead linguist on the Starship Enterprise. Yes, I seriously just admitted that.

Another fantasy I developed while in Peru is to become a translator. Seeing how myself and my friends struggled to be understood and how the translators sometimes struggled to help everyone, it would certainly help. Of course, first I have to actually learn Spanish.

There's the end of the story, but I'm going to try something knew here. There's this thing called "participation". I know normal bloggers like it when their readership participates in their blog, so I thought I'd try, just to switch things up and because I feel kind of self-centered making everyone read these long, boring things and then leaving like you don't matter (and also starting far too many sentences with "I", but I'm working on that).

So here we go!

To my fellow "Trippers" (including those who went in previous years), how well did you cope with the language barrier?

Do anyone else have a silly fantasy related to Star Trek? Which office or job would you most like to have on a Star Ship? Or am I just weird? (Because that's completely likely.)

Springtime, true to form

So, I sat down to blog today after my inexcusable absence and discovered a short draft of a post I'd started a week ago and completely forgotten about. Right. So here's that:

Jessi informed me yesterday that you cannot have a dream involving people you've never seen before. I have to wonder how that works for writers, because we often vividly imagine fake people.

Any way, I'm still trying to decide how I feel about that fact, because what brought it up was me telling her about my dream Sunday night.

As you may have guessed, it was another wedding dream.

This was has just cause. One of my cousins got married on Saturday.

My groom had a face! I just can't remember it. I do remember the hair color, which has been pretty consistent. But the ceremony wasn't even a key part of the dream. Nope. We got stuck in the Canadian wilderness in a blizzard. Go figure.

And on with more recent junk!

We've been getting a literal flood of true spring weather. The main road we take into town has been closed the last few days and we've all had to adjust our routes. Irritating, to say the least. However, I haven't even had to worry about driving lately, because.... I've been taking the bus.

Yes. This lovely city of ours has a bus system. (Actually, I have to use the county bus system because of where we live.) No one in the family really even acknowleged the fact until last week when Wes's van went ka-poot and suddenly I had no way of getting to work. Until my boss reminded me of the bus, which a co-worker uses.

Mom grabbed the idea like it was a life line and she in a hurricane.

I about had a nervous breakdown. It was pitiful and childish. I am ashamed.

In short, I've had...eight bus rides now! Yay me. On the first one, I actually sat with notebook in had and scribbled out every random thought, intending to turn it into this long blog post. Obviously, that didn't happen, and I am so glad! In short, I toughened up and managed to get through, though inside I felt like a piece of Jell-O at the mercy of a fork-weilding toddler. By God's grace (and yes, I mean that) the driver of my first-ever bus ride was super nice. Awesome, really. As was the old man who drove me home. (And I've never had the same driver twice, as yet.) The old man could be a tour guide with how much he knew about my neighbors. (Not that our stretch of road is really worthy of touring.)

So yes. That's about the only exciting thing. The chicks and ducks are growing (and, in the chicks' case, growing ugly). I kind of neglected them for a few days, being so busy with work and life in general, and when I returned the ducklings were about twice their former size and more obnoxious than ever. And I discovered it was pointless to name the  Buffs. I can't tell them apart at the moment. Sigh. Lobelia was getting to be so adorable in a chicken sort of way, too. She had this habit of hopping onto people's hands and trying to climb up their arms. She might be the chick who keeps flying up and perching precariously on the edge of the box. Regular daredevil, that one.

Um....

Well, crazy weather, bus rides, growing poultry, weird dreams. I can't think of anything else. It's been a rather unremarkable April. Some people will contest this, saying the weather is horrible, but hello! It's spring. Despite the name, it isn't all skipping through a field of flowers under a clear blue sky with a warm breeze blowing along. It's wet. And sometimes cold. And windy. And muddy. And we need it. Remember last year?

<end rant>

Man. I thought there was something else blog-worthy I wanted to write about, but I can't think of what it was. Guess I end here for the day.

Oh! I'm considering a sort of challenge to myself to post everyday. Not forever, obviously. Maybe a week at first, to see if I can do it. We shall see.

There's something wrong with my dog. (Also, my impending birthday.)

I should be cleaning my room, packing for the retreat, washing some very dirty pots and pans, and a load of other things, but no. I'm here instead.

Who's complaining?

Not I.

Actually, I'm currently trying to will away one of those horrid headaches which somehow affect the stomach. (I call it a migraine, but considering how some friends experience migraines, it seems a little rude and unfair to do so.) And also, for some reason, eating "Cap'n Crunch's Oops! All Berries" cereal in hopes that food will force out the headache. Don't ask.

I should also be writing furiously because tomorrow is my birthday and - oh, look! - it's been 16 months and counting since I started that *cough* book and I still have six or seven chapters, 20,000 words, until completion and  two weeks ago I thought I could get it done by my birthday. (16 months to write 70,000 words. What is wrong with me?)

And all I want to do is talk about my dog.

Last day as an 18-year-old. How creepy/weird/unnerving is that?!

Around lunchtime tomorrow, I will have been alive for 19 whole stinkin' years. (And what boggles the brain is taking into account that I'll be stepping into my twentieth year in existence.)

I was once again bemoaning the trials of growing up the other day. Used to be, my biggest dream was owning a horse. But, growing up and all, I've had to learn some hard lessons about life: horses cost money, and require space in which to house and exercise them, and the average American is hard-pressed as it is to make money enough to sustain themselves and a 50-pound puppy when the weather turns to snow and their place of employment caters to people who prefer sunshine to entice their appetite, thus cutting short said average person's expected weekly hours.

Not that I'm bitter.

Back on the "Why growing up is kind of emotionally painful" subject:

When you're a kid, you haven't lived long enough to discover the limitations and expectations and unfortunate truths about life. It's all open and full of possibilities. Anything can happen. And then, like an internet test to judge which occupation is best suited for you, the longer you continue, the more things get whittled down, and suddenly you can't incorporate plants and storytelling into one lifestyle. And one day, you're forced to choose which dreams to pursue and which to let free, only to be recalled when you're telling your kids, "Once, I used to want to...."

But life is also exciting, because sometimes things happen far different than you could ever have imagined, and in some ways the unexpectedness is a pleasant surprise.

Yes, my brain is stuck on surprises because people keep suggesting that that's what I'll be getting lots of for my birthday. Or maybe I'm just reading into all of my recent conversations way too much?

True, I've never been truly surprised for my birthday (Mom likes lists so she has some idea what we would like so we don't get disappointed or she doesn't guess way off or something) but I've come to learn that I don't really like my friends' idea of "surprises". (If you're reading this, Jordan Dear, I'm thinking specifically of you, and in the case of Christmas, I shouldn't have been surprised. But I felt scandalized. Just so you know.)

I was supposed to be talking about my dog.

Well....

Last week, she went to the vet for her skin issues. Bye-bye paycheck.

But no. First, she came to church with us. Because Mom had to take her to the vet so I had to take over Mom's co-op class for the day, and Mom wasn't going to drop us off and then go back home for the mongrel.

And I have decided that, as far as my dog ownership goes, I am a colossal failure. (I was doing to go with "abysmal", but....)

We were the first ones there. Fine. Sasha ran and played and chased and wagged her tail.

People.

Good heavens, people.

My dog turned into a monster.

I was on the verge of tears.

My habit of appologizing profusely when I'm upset or embarassed came out in full force.

Mom left early, dragging the snarling dingo behind her.

And the same display of attitude was presented at the vet.

I will probably never be able to convince my dog that it's okay for me to live with other people, should I ever move out and get a roommate (or get married...).

The vet said it was probably overstimulation or something (new place, lots of new people) and misery from an apparent yeast infection. And I felt like even more of a failure.

Why does my dog have to be bipolar?

I mean, at home, she's generally...well, not quiet, not sweet, but not a monster either. Just weird. But that's her normal. She's almost endearing for it.

Or she has us all deceived.

But she doesn't snarl and snap unless you try to use her for a foot rest. And she loves being petted and doted upon and talked to. She loves playing chase and abusing her teddy bear.

And tomorrow four boys will be arriving to spend the weekend and my darling idiot will be moved to another room while I, her mistress, will abandon her.

I have a very bad feeling about this. Downright foreboding.

So I didn't take my dog to training classes for socialization, and now.... She's hopeless. Good-bye, loving family dog who's so easy going and friendly to everyone and the picture-perfect American household.

And good-bye to "Oops! All Berries". My headache is still present and accounted for.

So the dogs have been begging for more time outside since the weather has changed. We don't have any sort of fense, invisible or otherwise, so I had to cave and get a run. (Even though now we're getting a proper fence soon, which means I wasted $20.) I put Sasha outside on it about 20 muinutes ago.

Apparently she needs me to hold her...paw when she's outside.

I snapped on the lead, took off the leash, and turned back for the door. Sasha didn't move. She just looked at me, waiting, expecting me to pace beside her while she did her business and then frolicked along getting all tangled.

I told her, "Too bad," and went inside.

I've checked on her three times.

She hasn't moved.

She has remained sitting at the end of the lead, watching the door and looked all excited when I appear.

How can this dependant little creature turn into such a horror?

What have I done?

Or is it, What haven't I done?

Well, there. I posted on my last day as 18. Mission accomplished.

Someday, my prince will come?

My cousin is getting married tomorrow.

She's the first grandchild on Mom's side of the family to get married. It's a tinny bit bittersweet, since Grandpa died this May. That's where Mom and Wes are. They took a train! Of course, it was in the middle of the night, but still. A train! I'd take that over a plane any day.

Meanwhile, I'm home alone. Again.

Well, not entirely. Dad's here, just at work. By now, I'm pretty used to this routine. Possibly too used to it. I had Hershey pick the movie last night. And then I cried through the movie. ("Ms. Potter", if you were wondering.) And then I watched "Push", about superheroes. Well, superhumans. And ate macaroni pies. Which I made while listening to Christmas music.

I was going somewhere with this, I know it. I think it was going to be deep and thoughtful. Somehow.

Oh. Right. Weddings.

And, no, I'm not going to talk about my wedding dreams. (Oh, goodness! Last week I had another. Well, it wasn't the wedding exactly. And the guy had a face! But I digress.)

Years ago, when I was, like, twelve, I fantasized about being married by the time I was 18. Probably in part because that's when Mom got married. I've always been in favor of marrying young. (Not absurdly young, mind you.) As I got older, I waited and waited for "the ONE" to magically appear and sweep me off my feet.

Is it because I read too many fairytales? The only romances I like are the old classics, like Pride and Prejudice, where there's more to the plot than just the romance.

Anyway. Obviously, I'm even in a relationship yet. And whenever I consider the fact, I feel begrudingly grateful. I doubt I would have been ready emotionally for a relationship even 6 months ago.

Mind you, I don't agree with the whole attitude of "waiting till we're ready", because my experiences with life have proven that things never line up the way we imagine. That's life for you.

As time went on, I found more and more people and books talking about having contentment in singleness. For a while, I agreed with my mouth but not with my heart. Somehow I figured God would agree with me and toss a shiny knight into my path just because my heart said I was ready.I built all my dreams around it. I spent my time staring off into the distance, waiting for Mr. Right to crest the horizon, wondering if maybe his horse threw a shoe on the way over, and generally pining away for something I'd read and fantasized about and about which I still have no clue.

Finally, I got jogged on the head hard enough that it clicked: singleness is a stage of life, not a transition. Life doesn't run childhood-transition-marriage-happily ever after. After the big mental/emotional growth spurt, when we start realizing what life is about, is a new stage. Where I'd been spending all my time waiting for the next stage to arrive, thinking of it as being what my life was all about, I was wasting valuable time.

Singleness is an opportunity, just like every other stage. It has its own challenges, its own chances to grown and learn and do important things. It's to be embraced, not endured.

Some of you might be rolling your eyes. "Yeah, duh. Is that what you've been thinking all this time?" Give me a break. I take a while to catch on. I'd actually welcome a helpful slap every once in a while.

Here we go again. Another thought I can't quite put into words. Bother it all.

Okay, fairytales. Most of those ditzy princesses and scullery maids had one goal in mind: find the prince (or otherwise exceedingly dashing, witty, chivalrous, well-built, man) and fall in love-at-first-sight. Subconciously, I'd made my role model more like Ariel the dreamer (sorry, Jessi) and Snow White, the whistful maid singing into wells and listening to her own voice echoing obnoxiously. In fact, it's supposed to be more like Rapunzel (the Disney one): reading, painting, learning to cook and play guitar and make candles, and carrying on lengthy conversations with a sarcastic amphibian. You know, not wasting her time gazing out of windows thirty stories in the air. She wasn't even thinking about being resuced by a dashing rouge with what, frankly, I think is a ridiculous smolder.

Okay, so maybe not quite like Rapunzel, but I hope you get my meaning.

Yes, I really just wanted to try to make a comparison to Disney princesses. Then there's Belle, who sees the true man behind the hideous face.... Ah, I give up.

My point goes back to my ever-present theme of making the most of every moment; something I still fail at quite regularly. I spend my days waiting for the perfect man to come along, and all the while I'm not working to grow into the strong, spiritual, helpful, smart woman he deserves and is looking for. I have at my fingertips everything I need to grow into that person. Or - deep breath - I may never get married. (I hate considering that alternative, but this is reality.) Either way, God has a plan for my life, and He's shown me the kind of person I need to be in order to be the most effective, with a man at my side or all by my brave, adventurous self. I'm the same person either way. I know what I need to do, and instead of wasting time waiting for God to take my advice and just give me the guy and expect it all to work out beautifully despite my lack of efforts to prepare, I should be doing something. Anything, really.

It's an attitude I have to force myself to adopt every day. It's painful and itchy and two sizes too small for my silly day-dreaming heart, but it's the goal. I've been laying out all my dreams like the plot to a fairytale. Have you noticed they don't usually get far beyond "I do" and the happily-ever-after spiel?

Fact is, it's still life. It will still have its challenges, and I still have to be ready to meet them. A kiss doesn't magically solve everything.

So here I am, 18 and...more than a half, and learning to make the most of it. Or trying. And I'm starting to realize that, unfortunately, we never stop growing. Maybe growing up, yes, but not growing. Again, that's life. Why does it have to be so confusing?

Flying, Short Stories, Kid's Books, and a little more on Dreams

Ever since my last post about dreams, that subject seems to have come up a lot more than usual. Probably part of the reason is because I did write about dreams, which means Mom and Dad got the e-mails of my blog and read the post like the loving, caring parents they are. (Oh, and I had yet another wedding dream. I'm starting to think talking about them makes them occur.) Somehow, on the way home from church on Wednesday, we were talking about dreams. In particular, flying.

I don't remember ever having a dream about flying. The closest I've ever come is falling, and that happens a lot. Usually from a treehouse, though sometimes I'll be stumbling downstairs (I've lost my breath twice doing that in real life, and it was one of the scariest experiences to me) or be leaning too far over something and tumble off. Dad and Heather said they both have had flying dreams, and went on to describe them.

Heather said it was the coolest thing, because it literally felt like flying. From the way she described it, I was jealous. Why don't I ever get those sort of dreams?

Dad said flying always took a lot of mental effort, and on occasion a cardboard box. When I asked him to elaborate, he explained that it was less like soaring and more like floating, and he really had to concentrate on it, with varying results.

I think I read somewhere that flying dreams are some of the most common. Don't quote me, though. We know how great my memory is. That notion seemed a little odd to me because, like I said, I've never had any such dreams that I can recall, and I haven't heard many other people say that they have (and there are days when the whole family has spent the previous night experiencing strange dreams, and we discuss them [except Wes who, apparently, doesn't dream]). But maybe it's just me. Actually, it probably is just me. I wonder what that says about my subconscious compared to my dad's and sister's?

I suppose the topic of flying was more fascinating to me because I have a character in a little short story I'm working on ("short" being a tentative term) who's a dragon who can't fly. Yes, a dragon. I tried writing "normal" fiction, and I just can't seem to manage it. And I like dragons.

In any case, the idea of a dragon who can't fly might be in part inspired by the Wyvern (or "wyverary") A-through-L in The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, which I read recently and greatly enjoyed.Of course, in A-through-L's case, his wings were chained to his sides because the law states, "Aeronautic locomotion is permitted only by means of Leopard or licensed Ragwort Stalk." In the case of the unfortunately nameless dragon in my so-called "short" story...well, I'm still undecided as to why he can't fly. Probably something as boring as malnutrition and having been in captivity all his life, unable to properly use his wings. I had the vague idea before reading The Girl Who...etc, but I'm just now fleshing it out. That's the one problem with all this reading nonsense: I have an idea for a story, continue my bookwormish life and discover a story with a similar idea, and then worry that I'm unconsciously copying that story, even though  I'm consciously trying not to.

I found it characteristically strange that I have this dreadful fear of heights and yet I love the notion of flying. Under ones own power, that is. Must be all this finally-reading-of-classic-children's-fiction, Peter Pan included. "I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and away we'll go." How do unimaginative people live. You know, like, really live.

"Oh, but Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, you haven't left me any time at all just to-to live!"

"To live, child! What do you mean? As if you weren't living all the time!"

"Oh, of course I'd be BREATHING all the time I was going those things, Aunt Polly, but I wouldn't be living. You breathe all the time you're asleep, but you aren't living. I mean living- doing the things you want to do: playing outdoors, reading (to myself, of course), climbing hills, talking to Mr. Tom in the garden, and Nancy, and finding out all about the houses and the people and everything everywhere all through the perfectly lovely streets I came through yesterday. That's what I call living, Aunt Polly. Just breathing isn't living!" (Pollyanna, by Eleanor H. Porter, my most current read)

The Dark Side of Dreamland (AKA my subconscious)

How does one distinguish between dreams and nightmares? While many of the dreams I have can get pretty dark in content (Doomsday is a popular topic in my subconscious, apparently) upon waking I realize they're more ridiculous than anything.

I've talked about my dreams before, but just the purely stupid ones. The wedding dreams. Yeah, I had another of those a month or so ago, I think. Still no face for Mr. Groom. Stink. But I'll not go into that. 

The last time I had a dream that haunted me for weeks afterward seems silly now: weasel-like rodents racing around an apocalyptic world, gnawing through 2-foot thick metal and taking down whole buildings; sick and injured people stumbling around in the streets and taking refuge in makeshift hospitals in libraries and such; and the only way to stay safe was to carry some sort of talisman that surrounded you in a circle of light that acted as a shield. (I felt certain it was a Bible. Hmmm.) Yeah. But man, those creatures were creepy. They had teeth like rats, and they were big, and I don't really have an aversion to rodents but I hated these.

For a while I was plagued by bad dreams. Just a couple years ago, a while after we moved into this house. I don't remember what they were about; probably some of them involved people I loved dying. (In one, people tried to console my grieving self by tempting me with a trip to an amusement park. Right. Like that would ever make me feel better in any circumstance!) I once had a dream were both Wes and Dad had died (and possibly Hershey), and I woke up in the middle of the night and was desperate to be a little kid and stumble into Mom and Dad's room for a hug. I felt fine after a late night shower and some time in my Bible, but Mom was at a loss as to how to console me. It wasn't even a realistic dream.

That's the worst part about some of my dreams. In the dream, I'm struggling to figure out what's reality and what isn't, and when I wake up I'm overwhelmed with sorrow and spend the next few minutes trying to figure out if the bad parts of the dream were memories or pure fiction. (Like when I was little and dreamt about having telekinesis. I spent the better part of the morning trying to bring various objects to my side with a wave of my finger before I was finally resigned to the fact that I couldn't do it.)

And then there are the dreams where we're running from something. When I was little and Wes's obsession with Bionicles filled my subconscious, it was some creatures in an underground land filled with lava, and my favorite Bionicle heroes came to the rescue and got me out. Last night, it was a tornado.

Of course. Always a tornado. I can't count how many times we've had to run from tornadoes. I guess I'm glad now that most of the characters in my dreams lately are human and stay that way. (Have you ever had a dream where someone keeps shifting from human to animal, all the while the same "person"? Hate that. Can never keep up a good conversation.)

I can usually trace parts of my dream to things I was doing before I went to sleep: that stupid zombie show I watched, the book I read, on occasion the food I ate, though no lumps of mustard or undercooked potatoes. I'll venture to guess that the end of last night's dream - where some guy who'd been following us in our escape from the massive tornado proposed to me - can be traced to the fairy tale book I was reading before bed. I was only half-way through when I put it down and already anticipating a proposal.

And yes. Dream guy had a face. Hurrah!

No. I didn't recognize him. No, I won't tell you what he looked like, either.

And to think that my subconscious begged me to stay asleep long enough for the bumbling idiot to just get on with it. Of course, I woke up before that.

And then there's the moment when you're between sleeping and waking and your conscious starts fabricating a quick ending to tie everything up satisfactorily: give me the ring, open the door, kill the beast, stop crying and get out. 

Some people say they don't dream, which I refuse to believe. I think they just dream like me and not like the "normal" style of dreaming where it's harmless and dumb and boring, and they're afraid to admit they're haunted by rabid rodents or getting proposed to when there's a cyclone on the horizon. That, or they do dream normally and it's too insignificant to remember. Poor people; even in their sleep, their lives are so boring.

How I sometimes wish I were they! But, as far as dreams go, it's probably my own fault, considering the wild and adventurous stuff I read, most of it fantasy.

And then there are the recurring dreams, where I'll have a dream and be certain I had practically the same one a few years before. Or the series dreams, where I'll have one dream and then a while later another one that seems to pick up right where the first left off.

The annoying ones are where I'm wandering through some creepy place and keep coming upon things from horror stories. Although, Heather gets those more than I do. In those dreams, I berate my subconscious self for being so stupid hanging around those dark, creepy places instead of running while dream-me has the chance. I really hate horror-style movies and dreams alike.

But then, what can be described as a "normal" dream? They all have those stupid twists and dark moments, at least in my experience. And in answer to the question I posed at the beginning, about the difference between nightmares and other dreams: I really don't know. 

I once had an idea for a story where a girl was cursed to wander the land of dreams. It wasn't a happy place, and she was one of the most miserable characters I've ever tried to write. She must have been spending a lot of time in my dreams.

I have Dreams of Being a Secret Agent

I don't often get to feel very devious. I'm horrid at sneaking about secretly. I get so excited I grin and giggle like an idiot, no matter how hard I try not to. I always grin stupidly when I'm excited. That or cry pathetic tears of joy.

However, yesterday I got to be devious and I did a swell job of it, in my opinion.

Whenever we come to Grandma's, Grandma has a list of projects for Mom to work on. One of them this time was putting a railing on the basement stairs. I was in the guest room reading when Grandma called me, saying Mom had called her to tell me to check my phone. I found a missed call from Mom. She wanted me to see her on the basement stairs.

When I arrived, Mom showed me a bloody knuckle. Her hand had slipped with one of the tools and some wood had cut and bruised her knuckle, and she needed me to get something to put on it without Grandma knowing. Immediately, I wondered how I would manage being subtle enough, especially  when I didn't have a clue where Grandma kept her first aid supplies.

I ran upstairs and got a washcloth in the linen closet in the hall, and then went on the hunt in the bathroom. My efforts turned up a single band-aid and some antibiotic ointment. Now how to get it past Grandma?

Then I had a stroke of genius.

Hurrying back into the room I'm sharing with Mom, I grabbed one of the Ranger's Apprentice books I'd brought. They run kind of big, perfect for my needs. I flipped to a middle page, set my supplies inside, and stuck the book up close to my nose to pretend I was reading and to hide my smile.

Yeah. Honestly. I felt so awesome.

Looking back, I was probably just a little obviously on a mission and not at all interested in my book, because I walked all the way back through the house to the basement stairs instead of settling on the couch to "read". Whatever. Grandma's back was turned anyway.

Mom wasn't impressed with my ingenuity, though I don't really blame her the way her knuckle was looking. Still, I felt like I'd just accomplished something huge.

Give me a break. I'm a homeschooler. My best act of rebellion is taking off my shoes in church. For someone who's awful at covert-style adventures, this was a huge feat. Not much slips past Grandma and, like I said, I'm not subtle.

I haven't had that much fun since Youth Conference when we had a secret meeting on the hotel stairs between the guys' and girls' floors to deliver a piece of pizza. Now that was awesome.

I guess this is just adventure practice. One day I'll do something that truly is huge and fantastic and a work of genius, and it'll be because I practiced by sneaking bandaids past Grandma and escaping hungry teenage boys looking to steal the pizza.

The Purpose of this Blog....

Before I get to the actual point of this blog:

I totally forgot to mention another thing from our trip down south: I decided that I want to learn to play the spoons. Right after I achieve ambidexterity. Then again, all my practice to become ambidextrous may be the only thing that will enable me to have the coordination necessary to play the spoons.

I'm not kidding you. We saw a hillbilly band during our touristy touring. Washtub, banjo, guitar, and spoons. Of course, I'd probably end up with bleeding hands and arms for the first two weeks of practice before the calluses developed, judging by the way the woman played those spoons. 'Twas fascinating, truly. Good thing I don't have nice, dainty hands I want to keep in flawless condition. Wonder what it would do to my fingernails, though....

Onto the real subject: I'm thinking about changing the title of my blog. Indeed. When I titled it "Breathless", I'd set out with the idea that I'd take what I saw and did in my everyday life and write about it, similar to One Magical Moment Per Day. Clearly that plan didn't turn out the way I'd expected. I'm still trying to find my blogger's voice (if you couldn't tell), because rambling on and on and recapping all the time irritates me to bits. The original idea of "Breathless" isn't quite what I'm going for any more.

I'm thinking about maybe "The Definition of Me", though that doesn't really flow. The idea behind it is that, lately, I've started "discovering myself", if you will (I know, I don't like the New Age connotations, or whatever that's related to, either, but I can't pin down the proper term). It's hard to put into words. It's all about this growing up process, and how I'm stepping away from being a child defined by the authority figures around me - my parents, especially - and changing into the person I'll be the rest of my life. I'm trying to capture the idea of that journey from child to adult, I guess. I don't know. That doesn't really make sense, even to me.

Let me try one more time. Much as I dislike the phraseology, the idea is a journey of self-discovery, in the simplest terms. It's what I've been struggling with for the last year or so: trying to figure out where I'm headed, "what I want to be when I grow up", and, deep down, the sort of person I'm becoming. The struggle with a new sort of independence and existence that kids my age face. That transition between child following parents to adult stepping out based on the guidance of those parents. If you get my meaning, and it's okay if you don't, because I hardly do.

"The Definition of Me", or "Defining Me", just sort of came to me a few days ago, along with that whole confusing concept I just failed to put into words. I don't know if it fits, but neither does "Breathless", either. Basically, the goal I have for this blog is to allow people to share in my journey by looking at the little things that define me as a person; like my love of gardening and cooking and writing, my brat dog, hopefully soon the stage of life where I start my first real job, etc. Less of me rambling about nothing in particular like I would in a private journal, talking about what I did in general, and more of a story highlighting the things that are special to me.

That's the dilemma, in a nutshell. Concision is not my strong point in writing! I'll mull over the one, but if anyone has any grand ideas, by all means, do share! "The Definition of Me" doesn't really roll of the tongue all that well, and, really thinking about it, I don't much care for it. Help?

It's not what I wanted to say, but it's better than silence

I've been avoiding this for too long. Believe me, at first I did try to write, but it ended up being a jumble of thoughts that I couldn't and didn't want to sort out, so I gave up. I'm still struggling to find something to say, though there is a lot I need to say.

But I think I'll be a cop out and not say much, because everyone who reads this pretty much knows how my life has gone lately.

I think this is one of those stages of change in life. Transition is definitely how it feels to me. School is done, I had my first job interview (I didn't get the job, though), and I'm trying to figure out just what I'm supposed to be doing.

Mom told me a while ago that this age was the worst. It's like everything is happening and yet nothing is. It's that pause between acts, when the stage goes dim and everyone is changing outfits.

Clearly I'm feeling far more mellow than normal. I can't usually manage that kind of metaphor.

I don't mean to make it sound like life hasn't been busy. We've kept moving from one thing to another. I've had plenty to occupy my mind. But I still feel like the actor who can't remember their lines or their position on the stage. I know I need to be moving, but I'm scared stiff.

At the graduation ceremony at church a couple weeks ago, I said I still didn't know what I wanted to be when I grow up, but for the moment I planned to continue at our church's institute and help Mom and Dad with their missions work. That's all fine and dandy, but Institute doesn't start for what?, three months? And there isn't really very much I can do to help Mom and Dad right now. That's all just in theory at the moment.

Change. A part of me dreads it. The sane part of me likes feeling settled, knowing the routine, knowing what to expect - demanding to know what is to be expected. That illogical, hyperactive, colorful part of me screams for adventure, and adventure requires change. That part of me wants to keep moving, keep trying new things, and has very high expectations. And tends to wrestle control of my brain out of the hands of the sane portion.

I'm supposed to be looking for a job. More than that; I'm supposed to already have a job. But I've come to find out that - lately, at least - I'm the sort of person who isn't very self-motivated. Not that I'm making excuses. It's just another bad habit I need to beat. But how does one who procrastinates and lacks incentive find the willpower to tackle those two faults? That's almost irony.

Now I'm really babbling. Hopefully once I get this mess out of the way I'll be able to blog more clearly.

I suppose the struggle I'm dealing with is finding purpose. I've always had that struggle, but it's become far more evident lately that I seriously need some purpose. I'm dissatisfied with the life I'm building. I need to find something worthwhile. Don't worry; I'm not going to rush off on some sort of self-discovery type of adventure. I'm just trying to get a better perspective of life.

The sane part of me keeps urging me to settle down and get serious, to find something to do and just do it. That part of me is heavily influenced by my wise parents and my well-meaning youth pastor, who may not even realize how deeply their words hit me. However, that uncontrollably wild side of me refuses to accept that I have to choose just one path to take in life; refuses to believe that I might possibly have to accept a job I couldn't like without forcing myself; refuses to accept any responsibility for the choices I'm making. That part of me wants to believe anything is still possible, I can do whatever I want, and I have all the time in the world to do it.

How? asks the sane part. By dreaming? Unfortunately, this world requires at least a little money to fulfill dreams. And, as much as I still plan to get published, that process takes a while and I kind of need something to happen right now.

Wow. This post turned into an inner battle. Lovely. But there: there's my struggle. There's the truth to what I haven't been able to find the words to say. Maybe I'm looking for some outside support, some peer pressure, I don't know. Like I said, I don't really know what I want to say. As well as feeling panicked by this rush, this urge to change, I also feel lost in the bustle. Maybe I wrote this because I needed to, for my own sanity's sake, because I seriously need a reality check. I don't know. I can't believe I'm actually going to post it, too, but I need to so it's all out of the way and I can get back to some semblance of regularity.

So here goes.

The Quest for Ambidexterity

Who needs weight lifting when you have dogs that pull like they're in a sled race and lots of fun games on an X-box Kinect?

Since I started walking the dogs (I know, that's all I seem to talk about lately), my left arm has gotten considerably stronger, because I hold Sasha's leash in that hand and she pulls. Constantly.

And then Wes pulled out his Kinect (the one that's "like the Wii but you don't use a controller") and let us girls play it. I tell you what, the javelin throw and discus are amazing! And I think I pulled a muscle in my arm playing them yesterday. That and Fruit Ninja really throw my wimpy limbs for a loop.

Over the past couple of months (maybe the last year), I've developed a new goal/dream for myself: to become almost entirely ambidextrous. (Y'know, both sides of the body being equally strong and agile.) Why? I don't have a clue. Maybe it's this deep-set fear that one day I'll break or lose my right arm and I'll be completely useless because my left hand can barely hold a pen, let alone use one, not to mention lift things and open things and all manner of other activities that are commonplace for the right hand.

I don't know what prompted the creating of this goal. I'm totally uncoordinated, and very right-hand dominate. If both hands are equal in strength, will that make me more or less coordinated? (Knowing me, the answer will be the opposite of whatever it logically should be.)

Perhaps I want to be ambidextrous (that's such a fun word!) because I'm sick of my right arm getting tired stirring some thick batter but not being able to switch to the left hand and make much progress. (Then again, that might be because I'm kind of a weakling when it comes to arm strength.) Maybe it's because, deep down, I'm jealous of individuals with the tenacity to write with both hands! What a great way to prove me innocent if I'm accused of a heinous crime! ("No, the suspect was clearly right-handed. Look at her! She uses her left hand!")

Whatever the reason, I have a dream. I don't know if I will ever achieve said dream, but it's there to keep me going when I want to throw the discus with my right hand alone. And the fact that I can get a higher score with my left hand makes me feel awesome.

That's it, then. I desire to feel awesome. Ambidexterity is a completely understandable reason to feel like I had skill.

(Let's face it: how many ambidextrous people do you know? Lefties are closer because a lot of things are made that require the use of the right hand, but how many of them even are truly equally balanced? That's what I thought.)

Strange dreams, hair curlers, and pet rivalry

I was going to do a post on pictures, because I haven't posted very many pictures yet, there's a recent one of Sasha that I managed to snap in a rare moment where she's not moving, and the pictures have been accumulating on my phone and I need to take care of them. But either Blogger or our internet (or both) doesn't want that to happen, because the pictures simply won't be uploaded, no matter how long I wait for it. So that's for another time, I guess.

I do have some stories to tell!

I have this thing similar to recurring nightmares, but it's not actually the same one over and over. It's not even a series. (Yes, some of my dreams have sequels.) It's more of just a strange theme running through them. I don't know when I had the first one. Years ago, I guess. But I had another yesterday night. In the middle of the dream I was thinking to myself, "Oh, no. Not another one of these."

The dreams? My wedding.

This last one must have been number 7 or 8, though I'm bad at remembering most dreams so I'm not sure. Every one is different. Different people are in it, a different location.... There's only one thing that's consistent: I never see the groom's face. In one of the first ones, he even looked directly at me. There was nothing there.

It drives Mom crazy, though I'm not really sure why. She wants to put out a notice on facebook along the lines of: "Will the man stalking my daughter's dreams please show yourself?" Yeah, that'll go well.

The crazy dude always has his back to me and pretty much never speaks. Well, I only assume it's the same guy in each. What I have seen of him is pretty average.

Hang on. The pup is attacking my hands as I type. I should probably take her out.

That took longer than I thought. Where was I...?

Oh, yeah. Mysterious, faceless dream stalker.

As far as looks go, what I can see of him is pretty average. Average height (by my standards, not my brother's), average hair. I think once someone said his name, but I don't know what it was.

So that's what haunts my dreams. After the fifth one, it started to get old. This last one was super boring.

The Sr. High Christmas party is tonight, and, for the first time (to my knowledge) it's formal. Mom took Heather and I shopping yesterday for shoes and some accessories. At Payless, we were served by a girl who seemed either seriously starved for human interaction or just overly friendly. Either way, she came by after I had found some shoes (only $11, though they seriously up my chances of killing myself) and was browsing around while Heather hunted for her own pair. I kept pulling out the gaudiest shoes I could find and showing them to Mom, and Ms. Friendly asked if I was getting married!

Yeah, I'm actually still talking about my dreams/nightmares, not shoes, because the irony is so funny.

My first reaction was to blush. Second was a slow, quiet, "Um, no."

She went on to ask what the occasion was ("Prom?") and then decided to ask how old I was. When I told her, she kind of smiled and said, "Oh. The way you carried yourself, I thought you were, like, 21."

Is this a good thing or bad thing?

If nothing else, our interactions with her provided some humor.

Okay, onto something else besides my crazy dreams.

Yesterday Mom took us to get our Level 1 licenses. We left around 9, which had Heather up at 8. (Yeah, Mom called her to get her up and asked, "Are you up?" Heather said, "Um, no." She told me she was staring at the dark window and wondering why on earth she'd be up so early.)

We wished for two miraculous things as we headed to the Secretary of State office: a short line and a nice person to wait on us. Neither has happened any other time Mom's been in there. The service could make bridge trolls look friendly and helpful, from what I've heard.

But miracles do happen! When we arrived, there were only two people in front of us, and the person who helped us was apparently the manager and wasn't so sunshine deprived as her colleagues have all appeared to be (in regards to their temperaments, not complexions). She was friendly, she was patient, and she didn't give us any problems. (And she was wearing a very cute jacket.)

When Mom went to do the same thing with Wes, they gave her trouble over the documents she brought to prove residency, legal presence, etc. We have friends who brought in six or seven things just to make sure they weren't missing anything, and the people got mad at them for bringing too much, while they said the four items Mom brought to cover the four required areas weren't enough. (Fickle, much?) But not this lady. Mom brought two or three extra things for each of us and she didn't ask to see any of it.

After we filled out our forms and she got our names straight, she had us take the short vision test. Heather did fine, even though she's been saying she needs glasses. I, who have glasses, didn't do so well. Evidently my left eye is much worse than I had believed. They split the thing into three sections: left, middle, and right. I could barely tell the left section existed, but the right was clear.

Little things like this make me blush, and, of course, I did. But no worries. I survived.

After that adventure, we went for a little drive to see the snow. Thanks to routes, that didn't last long. Then, because we were nearby, we grabbed papers, and I ended up sitting through the whole route because it was easier than Mom dropping me at home. Cold is the only word there. The heat didn't kick in until near the end of routes. Again.

Then we did a little shopping and headed home.

Mom decided I needed a curly up-do for the party, and she is determined to make my hair curl. (It might just be me, but it doesn't hold a curling-iron curl if I use a whole bottle of hairspray and sit like a statue in an air-tight room all day. [Not that I've tried.])

So I took a shower, towel-dried my hair, and silently submitted myself to Mom's hands. (She can get borderline-violent when it comes to doing hair.) She loaded it with this weird smelling gunk and then loaded the top part with curlers, twisting the bottom in small strands and holding it all together with bobby pins because we ran out of curlers. Then I had to sleep with it like that.

And do papers routes with it like that, because Heather is at a friend's.

We had to get gas first, and I knew Mom wouldn't let me pump after the fiasco on Thursday (I'd rather not talk about it), but I assumed I'd go in to pay. Turns out even Mom isn't (usually) so cruel as to subject me to that torture to my pride, so she paid. Then to the paper office. No one in sight!

Actually, I almost made it through the entire routes without anyone seeing me (to my knowledge). Until we were three minutes from being done. We pulled up to one of the apartment buildings. There was a guy standing outside smoking.

"Do I have to do it?" I groaned, sinking down in my seat.

Mom insisted. I tried covering my head with my hood. No good. The hat Mom had brought? It wouldn't fit.

"He's probably already seen you. Just go."

So I went. I walked quickly up the sidewalk. He glanced at me, muttered a good morning, which I responded to, and turned away to pace up and down the grass. I rushed inside. Down stairs, trip on top step, drop paper, up stairs, smack self in face with paper, drop paper, mumble to self, back outside. The guy wouldn't look at me, and I hurried back to the car.

When we got home, I took Sasha out and then went to bed, drifting in and out of sleep for three hours before I decided I should probably get up. Sasha was two hours overdue for breakfast, and she wanted out.

I've been avoiding mirrors, windows, and puddles because every glimpse of my reflection I've had makes me cringe. Ah, the things we do to look nice. Now my neck and shoulder hurt because I couldn't curl up on my pillow, but the curlers are still intact. And they must remain so all day.

My hair better curl well, and it better stay that way until I take a shower tonight.

What else to say? Um, on Thursday one of the girls at co-op came up to me and remarked that I was wearing a NaNoWriMo hoodie. I excitedly asked if she knew what it was. When she said she did, that's she'd done it, I bounced and nearly squealed. She probably regretted saying anything at all, but it makes me really happy that someone else knows. I'm still waiting for the day a random stranger at the store will say, "You do NaNo? So do I!" But I don't see that happening any time soon. I keep trying.

I made a remark the other day while Sasha was in terror mode that I should have chose the fat, sleeping puppy. Let's be honest: she was in the middle of a nap, and when she did wake up it was because two of her sisters were sitting on top of her biting her tail and face. She didn't even have a chance to come when I stuck my hand in and called because she couldn't move.

And then Sasha calmed down and took a nap and I decided I could live with her. But I do have to wonder what would have happened if I had chosen any of the others. They didn't have very defined personalities at that point, but they were each different in subtle ways. What if I had chosen the sweet one Allenna picked up, or the cute one Heather grabbed, or the biggest, laziest one who didn't even look up?

Who knows?

Who cares?

Sasha's about 13 weeks now, and she is getting better. Now most of her accidents occur because I know she needs to go (she's only been barking in my face and pacing around for five minutes) and I ignore her for too long, or she's been in the crate for an hour too long and just gets too excited when I walk in. She's still not getting very far in training, but what puppy really learns much outside of the very basic commands before they're a year old? Hershey still doesn't obey unless he feels like it.

Yeah, it's not really the best idea to compare them. Not to be mean (though it'll come out that way) but Hershey is kind of...dense? He was crazy as a puppy, but now he's a laid-back, totally mellow, lazy dog who isn't too fond of copious amounts of fresh air and chasing a ball. Sasha could spend all day outside if the weather is good and is always demanding to be played with, and she picks up on things much faster than Hershey ever did. Granted, she's still a puppy, but they really aren't comparable.

Also, our household does not support pet equality, which really frustrates Sasha and makes Hershey smug. Hershey is allowed on the furniture and Sasha isn't. Hershey gets human food and Sasha doesn't (though she still thinks any and all food is hers by rights to take as she pleases). Before Hershey got angry and destroyed them, there were some toys that only Sasha could play with, but his heart was not off limits to her. (Oh, the things we could do with that rubber heart of his. Another time.) Hershey sleeps in the girls' room on a bed, and Sasha sleeps alone in her crate. Sasha has to eat at a specific time, but Hershey is free to eat whenever he is inclined to. (Don't worry, he doesn't over eat in any way. He just doesn't like eating if he's all alone. Especially lately, someone has to stand within sight of him before he touches his food.)

Okay, enough about the pets. (All three of which, by the way, are napping in the living room as I type this.) Actually, I can't think of anything else to write at the moment. And any way, I think this post is long enough now.

So a little cleaning, a little writing, and then probably two hours of preparing before the part tonight. I should be back tomorrow to write a little about that, and maybe I'll even manage to post a picture or two.

Future World Traveler...and her dog

One very important detail was far from my mind when I picked that puppy out of the back of that truck and brought her home: the future.

Seriously. What have I moaned and groaned and puzzled over for the last couple of years? What I want to be when I grow up. When I started to figure it out, I decided a fair amount of world travel was likely to be involved. While the idea is romantic in a way, world travel with a dog can get confusing and difficult.

As weird as it may be, I didn't want a puppy for the sake of having a puppy. If I could skip the stage where it's all fluffy and bouncy and curious and hyper, I honestly would. I want a dog: a steadfast companion who follows me gladly with tail wagging, catching a ball in the park and curling up beside me in bed while I read and making people ooo and ahh over how pretty and well-behaved it is. But to get that, you have to survive the puppy stage so you can make sure the little (demonic) fur ball is learning the way they need to, looking to you from the start as their friend, and immediately understanding the rules. (Like the fact that, hard as it is to believe, not everything [including me] is edible, and not every creature will bow in submission before you, and when I say 'come' I honestly want you to come. Like, today.)

Sorry for that pretty much pointless rant. As usual, it's easier to write than it is to say, and as yet all attempts to explain it have failed. Mostly because I don't have enough patience. So I skip the face-to-face vent and bring it to you instead. :) Also, it's been "one of those days" (read: months) and my brain is being a bit slow sorting through the jumble of thoughts rolling around in my head, and then I'm too lazy to see if they actually are coherent when they come out.

So, moving on.

The first few days after getting Sasha, I suffered the teary-eyed remorse while I pondered how this one little (rather expensive) choice had altered all the plans I was starting to form.

Then I got over it and decided I may have stumbled upon the thing that would make my adventures even more amazing. It didn't change my daydreams; only added another layer of depth and color to them.

So one minute I'm picturing myself standing on those seaside cliffs in Ireland or sitting on the grassy slopes of a Scottish countryside or walking down a country road in England. And then there's one little addition to the picture: a dog.

How cool is that? Yeah, it makes me happy just thinking about it.

Of course, then I google "world travel with a dog" and reality throws me a line, tells me to hang on, and tries to haul me back down to earth. Turns out now isn't quite the time to start worrying about how all this will work out. I have years, in fact, because before the world traveling can commence, there's the little issue of monetary means to deal with.

Keep your life line, Reality. Don't you know I just have to get one of my books published, become a famous author, and fund my way around the world?

And then I remember: I haven't really written in a year.

I know I've said it before, but I'll reiterate: this whole growing up thing can certainly be a messy business. There are so many other variables to factor in that alter everything, which is frustrating for a person like me who likes to know the where and when and how of it right now.

Sigh.

If that didn't make much (or any) sense to you, it's okay. I'm probably as much or more confused as you.

Along the same lines as world travel and the future is my dream of finally uncovering the truth about the elusive and confusing history of Robert Royce. Compiling the family tree, I'm never sure what to enter about Robert or those in the generations immediately before and after him. Pretty much no one agrees on the name of his wife, the number and names of his children, where he was born, or even when he was born. (Seriously, between 1603-6 and 1562 are very different.)

At first, I planned to go to Somersetshire, England and dig for records there, but some dispute that Robert didn't even live there or, if he did, it wasn't for long.

These are the times when I wish I could time travel. I'd find Robert Royce and at least figure out where to start searching for information. I'd learn the names of his kids, his wife's maiden name, his birthdate. How amazing would it be to meet an ancestor who lived four centuries ago? Who honestly thinks about what will happen when they're dead and a few generations have passed and people start wanting to know their family history? I bet Robert never considered he would cause so much trouble to his distant descendants.

As it is, I think my starting point will have to be where he was buried in Connecticut, relying on no information but what I learn for myself. I know I can take a dog there without too much fuss.

Once I finally figure out the truth about his life (and I intend to), I'll be able to go back further and figure out how close my family comes to royalty. I'd be happy with a duke!

Living with Purpose

I was going to pop on and do a quick recap of my eventful week, but something came to mind during church today and I decided to save the dull recap for another day and ramble for a bit instead. You've been warned.

Okay, where to start....

Well, we had a "guest speaker" in Teen Church today, because our youth pastor is out of town (the "guest speaker" being a man from our church who has some kids in the youth group). The speaker, Mr. Haught, likes audience participation when he preaches, or at least when he preaches to the youth group. He usually asks for a show of hands or input on whatever subject he's preaching on. Today was about serving Christ, and he started by asking some of the kids what they are thinking of doing when they grow up (and on that note, I think I'm finally figuring that out for myself!). A little while later, he asked one of the boys to give his salvation testimony. First "How old were you?" and then "Explain what you did" and then "Why did you do that?". The answer to the last question was, "Because I didn't want to go to Hell."

Bro. Haught agreed to that for his motivation to seek salvation. Thinking about it, it seems when people give their testimony, typically they say they got saved because they feared Hell.

Here's where my thoughts become a little incoherent.

I have a tendency to get distracted and start mentally wandering from the subject at hand when struck by thoughts relating to that subject. (See? Incoherent.)

Let me try that again.

Usually in church services, when something is said in passing that piques my interest, sometimes my mind wanders away from the actual subject in pursuit of that one little idea.

That happened today, and the result of that long mental amble is this blog post.

My mind went back to the day I got saved (March 28th, 2004). I can't say my motivation was a fear of Hell. Hell wasn't anywhere on my mind. I don't even know what started it, just that I had this inconsolable, indefinable fear come over me. I felt restless and nervous and completely undone. The only solution in my young mind was that I needed God.

I didn't get saved to avoid Hell (well, not just to avoid Hell). I got saved because I felt lost and alone and without hope. God was the light in that fearful darkness and I ran to Him. Often still I'm overcome with feelings of hopelessness, but now my heart has a refuge. I turn to God, and I find peace. The only way to truly know peace is through God.

Now my thoughts are a bit jumbled.

The note I scribbled in my notebook during the sermon to define this train of thought was "is it possible to get saved for a purpose outside of not going to Hell?"

I don't know why, but that thought struck me as profound. When a person is witnessing, typically they say that we need God's salvation because it saves us from Hell. And that is one of the reasons. But salvation also brings peace and hope, and it shows us what true love feels like, and it fills that gap in our souls where God belonged before sin came in. Another thing I wrote was "salvation is more than heaven". It's about more than the simple fact of where we spend eternity. It's about how we spend this life.

Okay, I'm going to jump subjects and slowly bring two thoughts together.

Mom spent three weeks in Peru, and then spent a week in Mexico with Dad with only one week between trips. A bunch of people at church teasingly ask how long they'll be home before going to another country. One man suggested with a smile that we put a curfew on them so they don't leave soon.

I passed this comment on to Dad, and he said, "I wonder if they realize that if we aren't going anywhere it means were out of God's will."

This new direction our life as a family is taking has really begun to impact me and define my vision of the future. Like I've said before, this has been a growing year for me in all aspects: mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. (Yeah, not physically. I'm now the shortest in my family.) My dreams have started to change and become more than vague images. They've started to take shape. I still can't see the road that leads to them, but I'm confident that if I keep moving forward like I know I should, I'll eventually get there.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm starting to figure out what exactly I want to do, and my parents' new ministry and helped me determine that. For a while I thought that when I stood up in front of the church at the graduation ceremony next year, I'd be saying something like "I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up." But when the question was posed to me during lunch with a friend last week, I was surprised to learn that I had a ready answer. Still a bit vague, but an answer. I've only ever been able to speculate before now.

All of a sudden it's hit me. In the past few months I've mulled over it subconsciously, and it seems like just this past week or so I was able to clearly say what I want to do. (I know. The suspense is killing you, right?)

However, like giving a description of my current writing project, it's difficult to put into words. Let's see....

Something along the lines of missions support combined with world travel. For a while missions work has been near the top of my "ways to spend my life" list, but I've also developed a passion for world travel, because I want to get to know more about the world I live in than this little corner of it. And then I also want to use my writing abilities in some way. So I have this vision of follow Mom and Dad in visiting, to begin with, the missionaries supported by our church and helping them in their work, learning about the country they live in, and using writing to help those back home get an idea for what they do.

Yeah, like I said, that whole vision of the future is still a big foggy, but I'm getting there.

Here's where those two seemingly unrelated and rather incoherent thoughts are combined.

My dreams used to be very self-centered. I considered every course of life that held some interest for me, yet they all seemed rather empty and vain. Through this year my vision has changed. I can almost look back and trace the change. It's no longer what I want to do for myself, but what I want to do for God. When I consider how He changed my life, how can I go on living as if nothing has changed?

I can just imagine people muttering that I'm wasting my gift using it for missions, or that any of the great young people I know are wasting their talents and dreams giving them to God. But how is it a waste giving my life to God, using the talents He gave me for His work? I hope people stop and wonder why I'm doing it. I want my whole life to be a testimony to the greatness of God, whether I end up across the world helping a missionary (or being a missionary myself) or live my whole life right here writing books or running a cafe or teaching kids how to ride horses. Wherever God takes me, I can have peace knowing I'm giving my all for Him and I'm right where He wants me.

On that note.... While Mom and Dad were gone, I had people frequently come up and ask me how I was doing. I don't know if I looked worse than I felt, or maybe they didn't even mean it like I took it, but a few looked at me seriously and said, "Really?" when I answered that I was doing good. Maybe I was over thinking it or reading into it too much (I tend to do that), but it seemed like they were...disappointed?...that I was feeling perfectly fine even though my parents were both gone in another country. But it didn't bother me. In light of Dad's response to that comment about giving Mom and Dad a curfew, I can agree that I wasn't at all worried because I knew in my heart they were off doing what God has led them to do. Why should I worry? I'm so thankful for the ease of mind God gave me while they were far away doing His work.

So that's almost what was on my mind today. Why is it so easy to form the thought but so difficult to get it out and make sense? Moreover, why does it take so long for me to finally get the thought out? Maybe with some practice (and a more regular blogging schedule!) I'll learn how to share what's on my heart without all of the rambling.