Streams of consciousness

If I could become a piece of music, I would be Clair de lune. Over and over and over again.

Feeling somewhat like a child

I can't seem to pinpoint the exact moment when my days at home became numbered, but it's here. There is nothing left to do but accept the reality, the one I've been so desperately trying to ignore, that is staring me in the face.

Summer is ending.

I hate everything.

I hate how I can get my hopes up for something, only to have them dashed by a lack of funds. I hate that the only reason I can't go visit my friends this summer is because I don't have the money to pay for stupid expensive plane tickets or stupid expensive gas. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Alright, that's enough complaining for now.

From the mouths of babes

Today, when talking about the Beatles...

13-year-old boy: All I know is that they didn't really do anything after that Jay Leno guy died.

Me: ... John Lennon?

Boy: Oh yeah, him. Whatever his name was.


During a conversation about violent movies (you know, the ones they all love and watch over and over)...

8-year-old girl: Hey, did you ever see that movie where Jesus gets whooped real bad?

Me: You mean "The Passion"?

Girl: Yeah, yeah, that one. He got whooped reeeeeeeal bad.


Also, I have a gift for tie-dying and have made three friendship bracelets so far. I'm getting so good at it.

The greatest job in the world

So, I started my new job last week after getting home from California (which was excellent, by the way. Maybe I'll write about it sometime.) I'm working for Manor Township as a counselor for the Playground in the Parks program, which is more or less a day camp lasting eight weeks for local elementary kids. Why, you may ask, is it the greatest job in the world? It's like recess, only I get paid. Honestly, it can hardly be considered a job. By the end of summer, I'm expecting to be the master of most every sport/game you can remember playing as a child, because we play them all. Every day. I'm also going to be ridiculously tan and have an overabundance of handmade friendship bracelets, because that is what elementary girls do when they don't want to play sports. I still get paid when it rains and I don't have to go to work, and I get paid lunch breaks. Our first field trip is on Thursday. That's right, we go on field trips. Field trips! This job is so much better than any job I've ever had before. For real.

Being excited about going to work every day truly is a wonderful thing.

Anticipation

Seven hours. I will wake up, stumble to the van, fall asleep on the way to Baltimore (or be annoyed because one of my brothers will fall asleep on me), get on a plane, fly to California. This time tomorrow, I'll be on the other side of the country. I hope I get a window seat, but knowing how these things usually end up, my brother will probably abuse his "privilege" as youngest child and somehow con my mom into making me give him the window seat. C'est la vie.
I'm ready for this.
First stop, San Francisco.

A small piece of TiUA...

Ms. Haverstick:

Gabby is spreading
rumors and saying
that me and
Asia are saying
that Dashanique
is wearing tight
shirts because
she want to
show off her
stuff. And we
are getting sick
and tired of
it.


(from Erica, age ten, fourth grade)

Home, home, home

My first day of summer. So far, I've eaten a sandwich, thought about unloading the car, seriously considered buying a Macbook with the money I don't have, sat in my favorite chair, and lamented the fact that it always takes me a few days to be ok with being home. Typically I enjoy being home, but there always seems to be the odd transition time to get used to it. I keep telling myself that I'll be glad to be here in a few days, but at present I have resigned myself to thoughts of everyone and everything I miss so badly. These thoughts, like all things, will fade. I know this. I just need a few days.

On a brighter note, Mayterm was great. It has certainly provided a lot for me to think about, as to whether or not I want to teach and whether or not I could work in the inner city. My answers to these questions are drawn out and still uncertain, but for the sake of time and simplicity, I'll say that they have gone from "most likely not" to "it's a possibility." If you'd like to hear any of my stories from spending three weeks with inner-city fourth graders (and let me tell you, there are some good ones), please ask. There are too many to write on here.

Until next time.

Sometimes I pray for a slap in the face

I've taken to writing in a journal over the past few weeks. There's something immensely calming and satisfying in filling up pages.

For once, not having answers to the questions that seem to have taken up permanent residence in the back of my mind is alright.

thank you, adolescent lit class

Litany
by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

The usual battle

Do you know what I think my problem is? I have no direction. Sure, I'm a psych major. Sure, I want to eventually become a guidance counselor. Honestly, though? Those plans are not the manifestation of my "hopes and dreams." They were really just formed when it became the time for me to make a decision about what I'm supposed to do with the rest of my life. How am I supposed to decide something like that now? How is anyone supposed to know? I have no idea what I want. What kind of system is this? Elementary school prepares you for middle school, middle school for high school, high school for college, college for... life? This is the last preparation stage. Yes, I know that I have two years of school left, but I don't like being uncertain. Right now, everything feels uncertain. I hate how uncertainty about school invades other things. I suppose I should work on becoming confident that trusting God is the only way I'll make it anywhere.

I can't tell if I'm thinking about these things because I'm upset, or if I'm upset because I'm thinking about them.

simple joys.

Isn't it wonderful how a number of little things can make a day so much better? My least favorite class was canceled today because the professor is in Tennessee. I heard a song that reminded me of a wonderful time, and it made me happy (or happier, rather.) A paper that isn't due until Thursday is nearly completed, which is quite an accomplishment for me. I had ice cream sundae night with my floor. I made an important decision.

Sometimes (most times) I'm glad that it doesn't take much for me to have a good day.

Hello, internet.

Well, having a blog seems like it could be fun, so here goes.

First, I have to make a confession. This isn't my first blog. I started a blog on Xanga in 2003, kept up with it fairly regularly until about a year ago, and have sort of let it go to the wayside since then. I write a sentence or two every few months so the few people who still read it know that I'm alive and well, but also because I can't seem to let myself allow it die completely. Yes, maybe it's not really serving any purpose now and simply taking up space, but I sometimes enjoy going back and reading the musings of my teenage self. In one entry from maybe two years ago, someone I don't know left me a comment, telling me that I needed to start writing for myself and not for anyone else. He said that if I only wrote what I thought others wanted, I would never be satisfied. I'm fairly certain that I deleted the comment because I was weirded out by the fact that someone I didn't know was reading my blog, but I haven't forgotten it.

Living to gain the approval of others by doing what you think they want is no way to live. I know that. I would like to think that most people know that. Yet, I find myself falling into that trap time and time again. Now that I am older, I like to think that I am a stable and, for the most part, secure person. Yes, I have my insecurities like everyone else does. I fear rejection. Sometimes, I think I'm stupid/ugly/fat/annoying/immature/irresponsible/etc. I blame myself too quickly, to the extent that I somehow make myself feel responsible for the bad moods of the people I care about the most. I like to make and keep people happy, and feel like I'm failing if I can't do that. My point in saying all this is to tell you, the reader, that I know, but must constantly remind myself, that only seeking the approval of others leads to disappointment. As much as I love people, they are disappointing. Therefore, if I only try and please people, I lose.

Ok, back to the point I was originally trying to make (albeit in a very roundabout way)... I am going to write for myself, not for what I think anyone else wants to read. If you read this and enjoy it, great! Just know that I will continue writing, regardless of who does (or doesn't) read it. This is by no means an epiphany, but really just a way to sort it out in my own mind.

This may all seem like very "well, duh" stuff, and maybe I put too much thought into it, but you know what? I just remembered that I'm not writing this for you. Ha!

Until next time.