because i'm an adult

I'm trying to transition out of Blogger, and I apologize for my absence. But check out the new site:

http://ameliawallace.wordpress.com/

It is still much a work in progress, but it's a little bit more professional.

Because sometimes there are things that I wish I could tell you.

But I just can't.

because fate is a wicked tease

I ran into Sol tonight.


My heart skipped a thousand beats


and then I had to remind myself to breathe.


All I wanted to do was look at him.

Not stare.

Not leer.

Just look at him.

Look in to him.


So deeply that he would feel the race of my heart beat

and look up

and our eyes would meet.


And I would just know.


Our eyes did meet.


I saw him steal a glance.


And then another.


And then he was gone.


I walked home, arm in arm with Johnson, and we talked about how we always expected that one day everything would finally settle. But that in reality turmoil will always be around and within us, but that doesn't mean we aren't at peace or content. And Johnson said something that hit me in my now weakened heart: that our reality never becomes our fantasies.


And I guess I just thought he would be there when I got home.

because ivan. and. alyosha.

Trying to find some peace in this hectic week.

Realizing that those moments might not happen, but I can still feel calm while working through it all.

Desperately grateful for the background noise.

"Does your woman take your dreams,
Shine it up and give it some wings?
You have found a beautiful thing,
a beautiful thing.

...

And there's a bridge
That we're crossing.
There is a life we should be living;
Everything is burning.

Did she get inside your head,
All the stupid things that you've said?
She's the only reason reason you get out of bed.

...

She brings me back among the living.
And I guess I am learning,
Everything is burning."

because here and now

I sat in my room last night, the small rectangle I call mine, waiting for my roommate to get out of the bathroom and wishing for the day that I didn't have to wait anymore.

I began to wonder if on that day I would be happy and then worried that even then it wouldn't be enough.

Suddenly I realized that maybe I should be careful what I wish for, because one day I will be there and the person I can walk in on and won't have to wait for may be messy.

And he may leave toothpaste all over the sink and cupboards open, and he may hang up his shirts in the wrong direction.

And some days, even though I may love him and the little beasties we created together, there might be days where I don't like him and I will get angry.

There will be days that I am bossy and mean, and other days where I might cry over spilled milk and cereal, and there will be days that we don't do anything and I will feel like a failure. And days where the kids tell me I'm the worst.

There will be the day that finally comes where my life won't be my own anymore.

And my body won't be my own.

And maybe it really is about enjoying what we do have

Here

And now.

And maybe I should be ok if God continues to answer my prayers in ways I don't expect or necessarily want.

music on a monday pt 7

Tryin' to fit your hand inside of mine

When we know it just don't belong

Why don't you be you and I'll be me

his site

pick yourself up and get on with it

It's possible that at times I am a masochist.

Feeling pain reminds us that we are alive.

And it helps us enjoy the good parts all the more.

Some times, though, I need to fall apart and just cry.

My mother always emphasized the fact that we need to allow ourselves time to grieve.

Grieve over a lost love, a lost day, a lost dream.

But grieve.

I remember a day seven years ago when I found myself sobbing in my room, in the apartment of my brother's where I lived that summer.

I was heartbroken over Riley.

I was barely 19.

But as I lay in the depths of despair, my brother came into my room and said "Cry, and then let's go get some ice cream."

All I could sputter out was an ok, because well, I could never say no to ice cream.

But that has become one of my philosophies in life (no, not never saying no to ice cream, although that kind of is my number one rule) but rather just feel it.

Feel the pain and sorrow all within and about you. And then pick yourself up and get on with life.

Grant yourself that small bit, but don't lose yourself in it.

Feeling great sorrow allows us to feel great joy.

because tomorrow is a new day, with no mistakes in it

I told myself I couldn't go to sleep until I had written something

This week has seen many late nights full of homework and reading, seeming to never end. Always one more thing to do. And by the time morning comes there is just another load.

On top of the homework and studying the to-do lists have still been full to brimming. Little things that don't seem like that big of a deal until midnight hits and I've realized I have gotten nothing done.

I've not been productive at all. My time seems to have been wasted on a hundred other things that came up, or just a lack of self-discipline.

As I finished up the third paper I had to write tonight, I checked Facebook for the umpteenth time tonight and saw this video Chloe had posted:

I recognize that my life is nowhere close to a mother's and that I had not done anything today for anyone except for myself.

But this video made me realize the importance of service and that fact that some days, I won't get everything done on my list because other things (like life) were more important.

It also reminded me that those little things that aren't on my to-do lists, but are forever in the back of my mind are truly the most important ones.

to be thought of

What's it like to be thought of?

I know in my daydreams I imagine conversations, moments in time and how I want them to go.

Other daydreams involve more intimate moments, hands touching. Kissing.

When someone says they've been thinking of me, do they mean the same thing?

Do they daydream of future days spent in bed together?

Or adventures, hiking boots strapped tight, soaking wet from rain. Miserable together?

Are they good thoughts? Indiscreet? Warm?

Is there love and respect somewhere lost in the folds?

music on a monday pt 6

I'll take the mess you are
And you'll take the mess that is me
And together we will live in beautiful chaos.

Vance Joy

because i forgot what it feels like to feel beautiful

We trudged up into the wilderness a couple weekends ago and camped.

It was miserable and wonderful all at the same time: miserable because sleeping in a hammock is a nightmare and let's be honest, I'm still a little afraid of the dark. Wonderful because nature is a love affair of mine.

Jacob put up with me complaining, tossing and turning all night. Eventually switching hammocks just so I could get some semblance of sleep.

He repaid me for my crabbiness with some beautiful photos.

I often look at myself in the mirror and wonder how I've gotten here, wonder if I'm pretty, wonder what other people see, wonder if anyone would ever want to keep me around.

Sometimes photos catch me by surprise. I was exhausted, moving on a couple hours of sleep after running 18 miles the morning previous, and was now making breakfast for a whole gang of ragamuffins.

I credit all of this to Jacob- because of his talent he captured a moment of me that has never felt more true to how I feel lately. And it wasn't because he told me I was ok to look at despite the grass and grease stains.

Despite all the exhaustion, smelling like smoke, the crankiness, stress of school and work, and all the turmoil hiding behind these eyes he uncovered some beauty that I have forgotten about:

That somewhere deep down I am ok to look at, because somewhere deep down I'm an ok person.

Even if no one tells me ever again, I can still believe that.

photo credit

because it's so much easier when they're jerks

I have spent the whole summer defending him.

Believing in his goodness and everyone's ability to grow.

I don't think I pined away. Yes, I spent many nights asleep in his shirt, but I still put myself out there.

I dated, I flirted, I teased the emotions.

And I found hope in me and the idea of someone loving me for the mess I am.

There were some nights I cried, missing him, but as the days and weeks and months wore on those memories faded.

Only now when I read through past texts and remember him whispering in my ear as his hand found mine in the dark do I cry again. So maybe as long as I don't let that bittersweet taste of moments past linger I may not cry at all...

Or maybe the truth of it all, the truth that nothing has changed for him (that he still feels like breaking up was the right choice, that dating me isn't right - a new thought) hasn't fully sunk in.

Confusion still creeps in.

I'm forever baffled at how easily people can change.

I thought so highly of him, trusted him, believed those tender moments and sweet words he said.

In a way I never really understood until now, my heart breaks anew as I see someone I cared for so immensely change to something less than what I had hoped they were.

And yet, that little part of me, the one tucked away in the corners of the heart beneath my chest, the shy girl who hides there waiting...that little part of me who had fallen in love with him still might have wanted something different to have transpired tonight.

She still mourns her loss: a short-lived relationship that held more joy than any of the others. A beautiful possibility so near "what should have been."

But the logical voice in my head notes the almost 4 months of nothing. No note, no text, no call. And with that thought, the process of moving forward continues, almost at a breakneck speed.

Because it's always so much easier when they're jerks. When you tell yourself there's no way you would want to love or be involved with someone so thoughtless.

It's always easier when the person you cared for confesses to making it all up, to lying. That really they never meant any of it, because in your heart you want someone who would love and choose you and they are bluntly admitting that they are too rude and unkind to even stoop to that level.

And by some miracle, our hearts confront this truth and, like a slap in the face, wake up.

The rose-colored glasses fall away, all the signs we ignored begin waving their red-stained hands, and with that...suddenly it is so much easier to let go.

Because we believe we deserve better.

And we do.

We deserve someone honest.

And mind you, that person, that jerk may one day change and become that honest person. But not for you. For someone else.

And that's ok.

So though I may mourn the loss of what-ifs and maybes, I find myself content in understanding and facing the truth (and remembering that there is nothing wrong with me, sometimes it just doesn't work).

I just hope I looked damn beautiful as I walked away.

this is not one to trifle with

It's been a rough couple of days.

A song line keeps playing over and over again in my head, "when you think of love do you think of pain."

I openly admit to the fact that I am not perfect.

This weekend I realized how disgustingly bossy I can be, especially when frustrated. I can be snide and quick to anger at times; sarcasm flowing from me like a molten river of destruction.

There are times when I am not kind, when I am too stubborn and proud to admit my mistake or own ignorance.

Other times when I am so blindly selfish I do not realize the hurt or pain I cause to those around me, most especially the ones I love and the ones I am meant to help.

Jacob and I had an interesting conversation the other night, in which these two thoughts came to me:

1. I am tired of being selfish. I want someone else's problems to deal with and I want someone to help me deal with my problems.
2. We date to fall in love.

I've grown weary of friends calling to update on life and their first question always posed to me: "Are you dating anyone?" When do they start asking me about my writing, or my babies? Oh duh, I don't have any babies.

I don't date to get married. I'm looking to fall in love, marriage tends to just follow...

Marmee and I spoke last week. She told me my brother's concern was that I was desperate to be married and that because of that I was driving the men away.

I wrote to my sweet younger sister, serving a religious mission in California following that conversation and I write here some thoughts I shared with her. Please bear with me, it's the most exposed I have been:

"Marmee and I spoke the other day. She mentioned my brother's worry about my need for the next guy I date to be the one, but how can they worry about that and then turn around and stress the importance of marriage and its influence in our faith?

I have such a lovely belief that in the end it is only the two of you: your children will have their own spouses, and their children will have their own, and so on.

No, you cannot take the search for an eternal partner lightly, and no marriage does not solve any problems. It is only a new set, and I may one day miss having the struggles of single-hood. But how often I feel such a strong desire to be in love and to give of all this love I have.

I think loving someone is one of the most sacred, beautiful things - the ability to love unconditionally  might be one of the rare times we come to being Godlike.

So then why am I judged for wanting to fall in love? Why am I looked at as a crazy heathen for it? For speaking of it so often?

My patience is wearing thin. I feel my prayers becoming more and more shallow and small. I know that I will find someone I love and who loves me, but when? Why have I not been blessed with something I so righteously desire? What more can I possibly learn?

I hear the voice inside my head tell me the cure for my loneliness: service. Yet sometimes I do feel that there is a tiny little hole that can only be cured by the loving touch of someone you love embracing you. And I am ok with that thought."

I finally called Sol.

I told myself back in May that I would give him the summer.

As of today, summer is over.

He wasn't sure how he felt about meeting up, so he will be dropping my things off later this week.

I expect the worst, yet I'm not sure I would even want the best at this point.

My fight was ignored.

All those small feelings that could have been something so much more never had a chance to grow.

I was never acknowledged.

No thank you was ever given for the small tokens I gave.

I deserve more, do I not?

I want to believe that I only seek closure. An explanation, even a bogus one might sate my need.

I think I just need to hear it. To hear that there is no chance fall from his lips and allow me to completely and finally walk away.

And no longer feel the need to hope or even want it anymore.

But if that is so, why do I still dream of him kissing me so firmly and intentionally?

music on a monday 5

"I will remember your face, 'cause I am still in love with that place"

I do not know where to begin or end. So many tiny thoughts are erupting inside of me.

Words dance about in my head as I think about love and the future.

Where has this excited wonderment approached from? Such tender feelings toward someone I hardly know make me wonder how desperately determined my heart is to fall in love.

But is that aching desire something to be so ashamed of?

Oh no! Love is all inspiring. Should we not be praised for our wish to give all to another human being? Does not loving another soul bring us closer to being godlike?

Seeing past all imperfection, loving unconditionally despite sins and mistakes? Taking someone for all that they are: the rashness, innocence, folly and insecurity, passion and forgetfulness.

It cannot be a dreadful thing to want love so fiercely. And it must be accepted that love truly is the way to happiness.

Oh even just the idea of it makes me feel as if my body does float above the ground. Tingling with such ardor.

Is not loving someone a way of giving them wings? To know you are loved, that someone has so severely and wonderfully latched themselves to you forever gives one such a feeling of security and vigor. That anything is possible, even the chance to defy gravity and all laws of physics and soar above the earth.

What delight there is to know of a force so perfect in the world that it not only grounds us with sturdy foundation but also opens the heavens of flight for our souls.

What silliness, I know, but never have I been so eager as to say those three words to someone (when all the timing is right) and put their heart at ease as I confirm to them my ever-present desire to be theirs and have none else, as they so earnestly feel for me.

Oh what exuberance, what youthful folly has slipped into my blood. Such excitement for thoughts and feelings unknown, so premature in nature yet so intentional in purpose.

Though such tiny seeds have been planted, I yet find myself embraced in excitement. The same kind I feel as I get to that part in a book where one must flip through to the end, begging for a glimpse of a word or sentence that confirms that all hope is won and love has conquered all.

But oh the journey there is just as delicious and I find myself longing to be in the middle of it, rather than the beginning. To be past the divide between the sure unknown and the birth of emotion and love.

Oh that I could jump that chasm and fall into the arms of assurance and routine. To find my hand constantly lost in his. My name breathless on his sleepy lips, our lives so clumped together that to unwind ourselves would create a mess and be foolhardy.

Oh to have that all again - dreams that we've painted together with the hope of our words. A future built with sacrifice and frustration and the knowledge that without one another we would cease to exist.

"May you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days

And out of that love, remake a world."

~Ray Bradbury

music monday on a wednesday

Because I forgot.

Because it's catchy and fun, and for a girl with hips I do so love the message.

A phone call.

A text.

A message.

An email.

A letter.

A single word.

Anything would have been better than nothing.

"love is not a fickle thing"

Love is not a fickle thing

to brush off with time

or the age of ease.

Love is not a weakness,

laughable, nor demeaning.

Love does not explode in immediation,

does not shut off with the lights

or escape away with a fancy.

Love does not twitch

or fade

it is not a kiss

to be wiped off.

Love is not a pillar of salt

to be washed away or forgotten,

shoved aside or gagged.

Love stands for always,

crumbling only when the physical

vessel that protects our vulnerable hearts

begins to decay.

Love is a mountain that falls

only when the waters of forever

have washed away the memories and pain

the heartache and shame.

Love continues to grow

in patterns and forms unrecognizable.

Limbs of souls stronger than our mortal imaginings,

roots of creatures more corrupt

than our most feeble moments.

Love is forever changing

with a bitter taste

or crooked smile.

Into resentment.

Or acceptance.

(I've never been good at revising poetry. I tend to just sit and do, scribbling it out as fast as it will come. Never really thinking to move or fix. All my poetry is rough draft poetry).

as long as you're mine

I finally had the chance to go see the Off-Broadway production of Wicked in Salt Lake last night.

I went alone.

Hitched an early train up, spent a couple hours doing some school shopping and eating, and then headed over to Capitol Theater.

It was as wonderful as I had expected, with a few twists on a plot I thought I knew so well from so often listening to the soundtrack.

Seeing the characters perform the songs also brought me a new perspective on those words that I could almost perfectly sing a long to.

Most importantly was the relationship between Elphaba and Fiyero. I mistakenly had believed it was always a moment of unrequited love, and that in the song As Long As You're Mine Elphaba had cast some spell on him. I never got to see his transformation, his love for her, that began from the start.

So as I sat watching them kneel there together singing about a love they knew couldn't work ("say there's no future for us as a pair, and though I may know, I don't care"), but it didn't matter because in that moment they had each other.

And suddenly I realized how very brainless I can be in relationships. How very brainless everyone can be.

Because even if there's the smallest chance that our tiny or momentous relationships might work out - the relationships with that the boy from the coffee shop, the best friend you've always known, the one who came back - if there's a sliver somewhere, or if there isn't, we should enjoy it.

Enjoy every tiny and big moment. It doesn't matter if it might end in a week, or three months, or three years, because in that moment you are his and he is yours.

I do such a good job at spending more of those precious moments wondering and worrying and sometimes even being immensely frustrated because things aren't going how I thought they would.

But wouldn't it be so much more magical to be in awe that he is there with you? That your "wildest dreaming" could never have imagined lying there with someone who cares about you?

And when you're lucky enough to meet the one who chooses to stay you can make up for all that "lost time" when you were both floundering around in the swamp of single-hood.

Yes, this is a sappy post, a call to action, a call to enjoy the little things.

And I apologize.

So maybe don't think of it that way.

Maybe just be grateful that you're lucky to have the chance to have someone. That you're lucky to love and be loved.

That somewhere there is a place (whether here and now or in the future) where someone who knows your name loves you and cares for you.

And in that place you will be holding each other.

As long as you're mine.

Image via katenikolas.tumblr.com

It would have made a great love story

music on a monday 4

this.

music on a monday 3

Givers...in a kitchen you guys.

But really, this is kind of cool.

Go look up their music on Spotify too, the recorded version is just as good.

their webpage

because he's married

I've thought of writing about him before. But it never felt like a hill I wanted to venture up (and I'm sorry this is a very raw post).

But then last week I found out that he's married.

The boy who broke me.

The one who completely ruined me has been married for over a year.

And he has a baby.

After all he did, all the crap he put me through, he's married and has a baby.

And I'm disgusted. Disgusted at myself for how I feel.

I guess I had always thought he would be miserable for the rest of his life to pay for how he treated me.

It only seemed fair.

But suddenly all these photos of him and his family flash before my eyes and scrape open old wounds. Feelings of such inadequacy, all the lies, the hurt, the late nights, the road trips, meeting his family, his cheating and other dirty secrets, falling on my knees to do anything and everything for him, the love and affection that I gave and wasted, compromising my whole being. It all came charging toward me like a full steam train packed with nothing but coal for the black heart I harbored for so long after him.

Yes, I rarely think of him anymore or what happened between us, but at the time I remember it being the hardest thing I ever had to go through.

It wrecked me for years and relationships to come.

I lost sight of my worth, my value.

I was nothing more than a pair of arms, and lips, and breasts. I was a bookmark in a boy's book of endeavors.

And for years to come that's all I saw myself as to any boy who ever paid the smallest attention.

There were times where people have asked if I have ever regretted anything in my life, and the only thing that has ever come to my mind was him.

And yet, as I think about who I have become since all of that, I've realized I can't regret it.

So much of who I have become, what I had to force myself to do in these last 5 years has been because of all the pain and destruction he caused in my life.

But without it, I would not have learned to become the strong person I am today. I believe that from it I learned to see the red flags a bit quicker. I've learned to not give in so easily.

To not give favors for love.

To demand respect.

To not compromise myself.

To see my worth.

But most importantly to love myself.

So yes, he's married, and he's probably happy. He may even be a good person.

But rather than begrudge his happiness, and still be angry for the disaster that we were, maybe I can start to forgive him because in the end all that matters is that I am a better person now.

And that I learned something from it all.

possible stress fractures & possible fears

Ever since running down in So. UT over 4th of July weekend, my right ankle has been bothering me.

I didn't roll it, never heard a pop, nothing. But it's continued to hurt and be a bother. So I finally went in to the doctor last week seeing as our half marathon was coming up on Saturday and I didn't want to really damage it.

I'm not a regular at doctors' offices and going always makes me nervous. I always worry that I'll be going in for a broken arm and they'll discover that I have an incurable disease and only ten days left to live.

I had only gone in for my ankle, but I suddenly felt like every move I made was being put on review and this man in a white coat had the power to alter my lifestyle with nothing but a look and the word sorry.

"I know that's not probably what you want to hear, but you have to stop running."

Yes, that is exactly what he said.

They put you in those rooms, alone, to wait quietly pondering over all the things you've done wrong. Giving you enough time to rethink your decisions so that when the doctor comes in you're just a mess, fragile and weepy, sorry for the smallest mistake: skipping breakfast, running on a bummed ankle, not sleeping enough, and from there all the other life decisions start to come into question.

It's miserable. I was miserable. I started to cry as I waited to get an X-ray and then again walking home.

I'm not sure why I was so heart-broken. I had my heart set on training and accomplishing this great thing, something I probably wouldn't have chosen to do except in the heat of the moment, which it was. My sister had called me 3 hours before registration closed (and since it's a lottery there was a chance I wouldn't even get picked) and I thought, what the heck?! Why not? What are the chances? Sure. No problem.

I was determined that this great, big goal was going to define my life this summer. It was the thing to keep me going, the thing to keep me distracted and busy from dating and waiting for Sol. And suddenly I wasn't going to be able to do it anymore. I actually had a doctor tell me to stop running until I heard back from the radiologist and even after seeing a podiatrist.

But the tiniest part of me was ok with it, ok with not having to push myself to do something really hard, to not go outside of my physical comfort zone. Pushing yourself physically is hard enough, and I've done it before with rock climbing, but running felt different. It felt different because it's a "single's" sport for me. I've never had someone right there next to me, pushing me, encouraging me, telling me they believe I can do it. So this tiny part of me was almost relieved to have a good excuse that I could pull on to bow out gracefully, and I was almost more disappointed with myself and feeling that way than actually having a fracture.

My sister was sweet and reminded me that there would be other marathons as I cried over the phone, but I knew this was something I didn't want to do alone. I probably couldn't do it alone, and the thought of having two sisters as a support system when the big day came was comforting. I knew I could do it if they were there beside me, but to imagine going and doing it alone was disheartening.

I would have though, if I needed to. Maybe because the vain woman inside of me was determined to not suddenly go to mush after finding out about a stress fracture. I was going to continue to cross train and exercise and not gain anymore weight and stay thin and be beautiful! The vain one was panicking, I'll admit it. She was quite distraught, and that didn't help my disappointment (I'll speak more of her one day).

I spent the rest of last week resting, no running, no cross training. Taking the prescribed naproxen from the doctor helped seeing as I took it for one day and spent that whole day dizzy and sick and in bed.

By Friday I was again worried because I hadn't heard from the radiologist and was loathing going to the podiatrist the following week. But as I walked home I received the voicemail saying my X-ray was a negative for a fracture.

Remember Christmas mornings as a kid? That's what it felt like. It was wonderful and scary at the same time, though because that small part of me that was ok with bowing out suddenly had to wrap its head around training again. I couldn't back out anymore, not without admitting my fear.

So instead I have 7 miles to run tonight; alone.

I'm not looking forward to it, but I am looking forward to the after part. The part where I get to text my two sisters and tell them I did it, and it was great (even if it wasn't).

missing...

Love letters in the mail.

Secret notes.

Gifts, just because.

Wearing his t-shirt around the house.

Staying up late together because we don't want to stop talking.

Making dinner together.

Setting reservations for a night out.

Holding hands in the movie theater.

Or as we're crossing the street.

Getting dressed up to go to plays.

Knowing what his favorite drink is.

Watching movies on the lap top, snuggled up in bed.

 Reading books out loud.

Good morning texts.

Kissing pictures.

His hand on my knee.

Surprise work visits.

Camping trips.

And roadtrips.

Sharing a bowl of ice cream.

Stargazing.

Him.

image via

music on a monday 2

Such wonderful imagination.

and then this ethereal deliciousness.

crush

Oh what ticklish frenzies bubble up in my skin when that seed of possibility is planted.

Daydreams of stolen kisses and chance meetings are feasted upon as the day's hours pass on.

This idea, this delicious hope of...something...fed with tiny slivers of bashful maybe's. Blushing behind hands of timidly needed affection, teasing the mind with thoughts of brushing fingertips.

Memories of school-girl embarrassment envelope our bodies into a renewed, awkward jumble of limbs and gaits and nervous laughter.

Glimpses of him from across the room, eyelids fluttering with conscious fervor.

Knowing that any chance is held within his grasp, far from the control of my slender fingers.

Content though in that knowledge, willing to stake time and affection on lady luck in this crowded room.

Foolishly walking toward abandoned territory, praying that when our eyes meet they both flicker with mischievous wonderment of having a childish crush.

Come on skinny love, just last the year

image via

kneeling

Sunday, 12:16am

kneeling, face to face
vulnerable and broken together
hearts open and exposed
scars  fresh to see
fingers touching
closing the space between

image via

music on a monday

I love words.

The way they escape your mouth.

How some taste exactly how they mean.

And how music can express them in such ways that pierces your soul and lights your heart on fire.

Delicate.

because letting go

It's been a long time since I've written late at night. I try to avoid it since I discovered that most of what comes out in the wee hours tends to be shredded chunks of my soul spat out in a frenzy of desperation to remove the vowels and consonants that seem to be rattling about in my brain.

I'm not good at giving up hope.

It should be seen as a virtue, but some nights it feels more like a vice.

I've been told it will be a blessing when I am married - that I'm not a quitter. But until then I should be ok with walking away if I'm sacrificing too much of myself holding on to wisps.



I've often given advice to others to walk away, to let go, because unless you do you live in a state of false security.



Six years ago I fell in love with someone.

In the end neither of us was willing to make the sacrifice necessary to be together.

We stayed in touch though. A year after the first severing I asked him one night if there might be a chance for a second try. He didn't know.

Two years after that, he came back to me, but by then I had moved on. Still, I was too afraid of not having something, anything, that I gave him false hope.

I didn't give him the truth because what if I told him no and he walked away and for once in my life I was completely alone with no one loving me.

I couldn't do it. I pulled him along for some time until I came to that realization. And with that I finally gave him the truth.

It was scary and hard. But I knew that I wouldn't be able to give of myself fully to someone else until I had let him and the fear of being alone go.




This last week has been a small explosion of little somethings. New discoveries, new vibrance, new sounds, new smiles and faces.

And because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, the idea of letting go of Sol didn't seem so scary anymore.

I've waited. I've been patient (to a degree). I've grown, I've learned. I've enjoyed and I have continually waited for that phone call.

It hasn't come. And my faith and hope has waned.

But rather than demand of myself to be more constant or patient, maybe it's time I demanded my eyes to open.

Maybe I received my answer already.

Because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, I'm not so scared of walking away.

Because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, I have hope in someone else: me.

Maybe I can be loved by another.

And maybe it won't be that face I saw from across the room, the one who made me feel as if I had been waiting for him to notice me all my life. That if I just turned around he would be there waiting, wondering what took me so long.

Maybe it won't be that face. Maybe it will be another new face in a month, or two, or six.

(a new face that will make me feel the same - that he had been waiting for me all this time)

But remembering and believing in that has made the fear of walking away disappear.

It is no longer the hook in my back, pulling my heart down every time I think of Sol's face; the words he said.

Maybe I can be loved. For all the hopeless mess I am.

because of spilled milk

I think I set hell in motion at work yesterday.

I spilled my breakfast in my lap and spent the first couple of hours wet and smelling like milk.

I wanted to explode.

I'm tired. I had to run 6 miles last night and 12 more on Saturday. My ankle is in pain and I'm near positive that I'm iron deficient. I spent most of work yesterday researching injury prevention and how to fix my form for running.

Marathon training is getting harder. My runs are longer and I have to really be good about setting aside time to go when it's not baking outside. On top of that - water. I think I've always spent my life in a borderline state of dehydration. I've never been good at staying hydrated, and now when I need it the most I still just can't quite give up the soda. I can pound a good 32 oz water bottle into me by noon, but after that I spend my afternoons tired and bloated and sick of the stuff.

Before I fell asleep the night before, I was informed via social media that someone I really care about had lied to me. Over a petty thing. But I fell asleep crying with a sick feeling inside.

So yesterday morning I wanted to cry - over spilled milk.

After running home to change I came back to work, feeling a bit better after the walk. Grateful that I live close to my job to allow for that, and that my boss was kind enough to let me leave. Upon getting back she and I sat chatting. I needed it. I told her about the roommate drama and she gave me the validation I needed.

Then a kid threw up. All over the playground. I sat reading books to him until a teacher brought down another child who was sobbing with a big scratch across her face. We dealt with the neosporin, and my boss brought the culprit of the scratch in to sit with me. Mom picked up the sick kid, and I sat with a new student: a 4-year-old who thought it was ok to scratch the entire side of an older child's face because she bumped into him. Then from down the hall came the frustrated cries of another child being pulled from class for punching another student.

So there my boss and I sat. The two of us with these kids wondering which of us was the cause for the chaos.

We got through it though. Laughed and joked, rolled our eyes and found some little things to be grateful for. Whether it was another child in the afternoon class showing his new invention, or the fact that I had a fun night with friends to look forward to.

Something my boss mentioned made me really think though. As I told her I had jokingly wanted to cry over spilled milk she said it was a symptom. And I got to thinking about what my disease must have been and I discovered it was just self-pity.

And just being able to recognize that helped me yank myself out of that gutter and get over it.

I've never been a fan of self-pity and when I find myself brooding in it, the fear of being there gets me running out of the muck like a madman.

I don't let myself wallow. Wallowing is destructive. It can tear you apart from the inside out leaving you half empty and darkly hollow.

So I didn't cry over spilled milk. I didn't curl up in a ball and let the pity surround me in the dark. I pulled out a book and I read about Ophelia. I listened to Isaac Russell and let his music sooth my soul. I grabbed a soda and said damned if I have to go run 6 miles still tonight, I'm doing whatever I want right now.

And you know what? The sun kept shining through it all.

last night + the wind

Golden stalks of grass quiver as purple clouds float across the pink streaked sky.

Tiny mushrooms bloom at my feet as my toes sink into the fresh planted sod.

As I sat on the rickety, wooden chair in the middle of the lawn, my wet hair teased dry by the warm wind of July, I got lost.

Rogue fire crackers cackled a few houses down as I set my head back and watched the leaves of the trees dance across a power-line trapped sky.

If I was not human I would want to be the wind for she is both dangerous and wonderful.

Her voice is powerful, most often bringing an ominous cry of change.

Something is coming.

She pulls in darkness, pushes forward light.

She brings fresh air and storm clouds heavy with rain to wash all clean.

She teases our hair and tugs at our clothes telling us to look and behold.

Look there - look here.

Look everywhere at what has been created for you.

She never boasts of herself. Her movements always place another in front - the coming thunder, the majestic trees, the forgotten sun, the missing moon.

Her story is forever attached to another's - the pages of a book that rustles, whispering of the secrets inside.

She is strong and gentle.

Elusive, yet tangible.

Beautiful and mischievous all wrapped into one.

cheap goodbyes

I might begin a Music Monday thing or something (yes today is Tuesday, but maybe I'll start it next week).

Nicole showed me this song after we spent most of the weekend together fidgeting over life and love.

because maybe i understand a little bit

My British Lit professor this last semester pointed me towards this blog: Meg Fee.

She's wonderful, and has been such an inspiration toward my own writing and willingness to open up and be so very exposed. I often find myself understanding her thoughts and feelings a little too much. But maybe that's a good thing, maybe it's a good thing to actually, truly, fully relate to someone.

These are a few of my favorite posts of hers:

on wanting (and not needing) a man

procreating + puzzles / guest post: alisha giampola

Say yes. and yes. and yes again.

attraction and expectation.

the fundamental truth / guest post: chelsea latimer

advice + attraction + many muddled thoughts

because of Caleb and tiny boxes

About this time last year I was suppose to be on a honeymoon with Caleb.

I think he and his wife are expecting their first baby in a week or two.

You do the math.

There is a tiny place in my heart that sometimes twists and kinks when I think about him and how he handled everything. How he hurt me. Sometimes the kink sticks around for a day or so creating a painful ache and sadness that seems as if it will never leave.

But it always does. 

Those moments come less often and are less painful now.

Often on those hard days I have to remind myself of what I learned from him, from that relationship, that journey.

Through him I met Jacob.

And through Jacob I met Sol.

And through it all I found a part of me.

Even though everything didn't work out, I still have to be grateful because each of those relationships molded me into a better person. Each of them taught me something about myself and love as a whole.

Some people close to me haven't been as forgiving toward Caleb as I have been, and I wonder if I should have been angrier. I don't think I ever got angry. I cried, a lot. I spent nights on end at my brother's place filling that hole in my chest with unconditional love from family.

I don't believe Caleb ever meant to hurt me. I believe he was unsure, and I greatly believe that he was also overwhelmed by panic and anxiety. But in truth (when it all came down to it) in the end he had a choice. We both did.

And he chose no.

The last time I saw him was when we stood in his driveway - my brother in the car for moral support, Caleb there in his pajamas, and me holding a small box that I hoped as it left my hands would remove any resentment that might grow. A small box that had held something so beautiful and precious. A small box that held a future, a past, memories, and forgotten love. A small box that still held a part of my broken heart.

In that moment all I could think was "You took my heart, you took my hands, you took my whole body, my whole soul, all my love, and now you are asking for this one last thing and I don't think I can give any more."

That tiny box was the end.

I don't pray about it anymore. I don't wish on stars for a second chance anymore (not really possible anyway). Instead I just give thanks.

I give thanks for the lessons he taught me and the respect he gave me. I give thanks for meeting someone who showed me I can be loved and that I can be with someone who would go down on one knee, someone who would ask my father's permission.

I give thanks for the hope he gave me in a tiny box.

I kissed him on the cheek because I felt the forehead wouldn't do. But oh, how I do love forehead kisses.

because i'd rather start over with you

I know that at this point that it has been long enough that I am going to have to start over again with him, or with anybody. It's been long enough that I've grown just a tiny bit different, and I hope he has too. But despite that...I'd rather start over with him than anyone else.

That last post might have been in response to reading this:

http://www.megfee.com/2014/03/11/notting-hill-movie-turned-day-around/#.U7R3cPldV8E

because i wasn't being honest

I wasn't being honest with you or with myself, and it wasn't until yesterday that I admitted that maybe this has meant more to me than I have let on. Maybe I fell a little bit harder than I expected to. Maybe I opened my heart up a little too quickly. Maybe I did daydream a little too much, wished a little too hard, ached a little too tenderly.

But where is the error in that?

Everyone is always told over and over and over and over again to live. Live. Live. Take risks, go and do, just do it, believe, reach for the stars. How many slogans tell us to take life by the horns, get back on the saddle, jump in head first, go for the high dive? So where was my error?

I spoke earlier about how I wasn't going to listen to all those other voices, how I was going to accept the bumpy road that I chose. And yesterday as I sat in a room full of friends and strangers I admitted to myself that part of this struggle has been the fact that I wasn't being honest. I wasn't being honest with anyone about just why this has all mattered.

So let me be honest.

Let me tell you why I'm fighting for me, for him, for a chance.

I'm fighting because there was something in the way he sang. In the way he expressed his dreams in song. The ones he wrote and the ones he just played. We sat forever on his bed thumbing through the whole Beatles Collection, picking song after song after song just for him to play and sing to me with his raspy voice that scratched from a weekend cold. And then he would play a song that he had wrote for someone in his future and I caught a glimpse of the man he is, and the man he some day will be.

I'm fighting because it only took him 5 days to tell me how he felt. Not 5 months. And after a long time of not having someone in his life, I felt pretty special that I was the one he picked. That from that first night of just taking me to dinner we moved through months of silence to end up in my hallway scrubbing floorboards after a night of him going out of his way to just be there for me (someone he barely knew), during a time of transitions and endings.

I'm waiting because of all the little things he did. The drives home, the hand always on my knee, the wait before I let him kiss me, the late nights of just holding me, the reservations at restaurants, the defending me to his best friends, the reading books out loud as I fell asleep on his chest, the crazy stories, the silence as we laid there - a mess of limbs and blankets.

I'm waiting because of all the things he said. And I won't say all the things he didn't say, because he said everything. He was honest, he was open, he was unabashedly exposed during it all. And I guess it's my turn to finally be exposed too.

I'm waiting and I'm fighting because I saw something that could be. Because I saw a chance to do something good, to make something good of me and someone I cared about. I'm fighting because I kind of wanted to tell people I was his and he was mine. Because I wanted to see if I could maybe, actually, possibly, fall in love with him. And see if maybe he could love me too. Because I saw someone who wanted what I wanted. Someone who treasures family and love and life as I do. I saw someone who struggled, who felt pain, who felt joy, who felt frustration, who felt ecstasy. I saw someone I wanted to make smile. Someone I wanted to bug, to be bored with, to be angry with, to cry with, to kiss. Someone who could understand me better than I did.


I saw something.

I guess that's why I'm here. Still wondering, still waiting.

So please tell me where my error is. "Where was my fault in [wanting to love] you with all my heart?"

dream life

A week ago yesterday, Em and I were headed home from beautiful San Diego. As the conversations of a 22-year-old friendship and roadtrip music had died down and as we drove through sleepy Utah, she asked me what my dream life would be.

When my sisters and I were younger and we played The Game of Life, I always wanted to have the Country Cottage with its white picket fence and two cars full of kids. I was going to be an artist with a paycheck of $100,000. I had a great imagination then.

Over the years that dream has been reshaped often. In the beginning years of college it was often formed and carved upon by whoever I was dating, with a few small parts of what I had wanted as a kid. I was easily swayed by what they wanted. Maybe not swayed. I formed who I was based on them. I hadn't really found myself yet. All I knew was that I wanted someone. And a family. And a house. I didn't really care about the details.

But as I've gotten older and found my own footing. As I've discovered all the parts of me that have been hiding, the parts that will be forever here to stay, the parts I love, I've started to recognize the value in having some insistence on the details.

I don't think I'm picky, most importantly I want to marry and start a family with someone who loves me and if what comes with it isn't exactly how I had imagined, I don't care. As long as I'm happy and he's happy and our children are happy.

But as Em and I drove through the soft light of dusk, the green hills of central Utah twinkling with farm light, I told her what I wanted my dream life to be, because I finally really knew what I wanted. I finally knew the lifestyle I desired and hoped to create...

I'll marry someone who's fitfully, patiently, warmly in love with me, and I him. We'll have kids, four or five. Though maybe we'll give ourselves a year to travel and just be the two of us taking on the world.

We'll have a house with a big porch and a bit of land some place green. There will be a garden, maybe a barn, but definitely a shed with a worn down old VW bug for the kids. A pair of dogs and maybe chickens.

We'll have a studio split in two with one side for my writing table and another side for his desk for whatever he does. My heart still yearns for a creative soul, but if he's an accountant I'm sure I'll manage.

We'll go on adventures as often as possible. We'll conquer mountains and explore the deep waters. And every now and then we'll go live some place exotic for a year while I research and write a book.

We'll raise our children to love God and the earth and all that is in it. We'll nurture, guide, and protect them to the best of our abilities. We'll start our own family traditions and give them some place safe and cozy to always come home to.

And we'll continue loving each other and doing good in the world. Kissing the scrapes and bruises, wiping the dripping ice cream from our chins, and forever holding hands. Fingers intertwined.

marathon madness

I finally had a panic attack the other night as I realized just what I had gotten myself into with this whole marathon business.

I was creating a route for Saturday's 9-mile run while Meg was checking my schedule and telling me when the half marathon was coming. As I navigated my way through GoogleMaps, the fact of just how far 26.2 miles is struck me and I started gasp-laughing (aka hyperventilating of sorts), which is basically a combination of laughing at the ridiculousness of it all and gasping for air in sheer panic.

It is 26 miles from Provo to Draper, UT. That's a THIRTY-SEVEN minute drive!!!!!!! Which will take me 37 hours to complete then at best. People should NOT be running for that long. It took me a minute to get a handle on myself as I remembered that I've done this before, halfway at least. I've done the training, the hard work, I just need to do it again, for a bit longer, and a bit farther. No biggie.

Everyone keeps saying that I'm in the "prime of my youth," but there are days that I don't feel like it. Days where my knees are creaking and my ankle is sore (the latter has actually started to worry me). Days when I can't wait to get home to just take a nap, and still manage to get to bed by 10pm. And other days when I can barely manage a 12-minute mile.

Running a marathon has always been a goal of mine, and I kind of like the idea that I'll be 26 when I do my first. But reading other people's stories of their own marathon/triathalon/ironman experiences has really worried me. What if I get halfway and all my faculties shut down and I have to be carried away on a stretcher with an IV jammed into my arm? What if my legs turn into jelly at the finish line and I wobble over it, fall down, pass out and again am carried away on a stretcher with an IV jammed into my arm?!

But more importantly, what if I get injured? I strained my IT band training for the half, ran injured, and then didn't run again all summer. Then just this last Christmas break I strained my MCL while sledding (I know people who have been paralyzed from sledding so don't you dare laugh!) and all I can think about is what if I injure myself to the point of no return and can't run ever again, turn into a couch potato and then Gilbert Grape's mother?!

So instead of freaking out for the rest of the summer, I've started stretching any chance I get. I've looked into post- and pre-workout exercises to help, better cross-training ideas, yoga, hydrating, better eating, just about anything so that I don't die in the process. I don't mind if I die after I cross the finish line, but I'd like to at least get there.

all the love you can give

I recently read this post on a friend's blog (I say friend but really he's an acquaintance from The Porch who I told the first time meeting him that I wanted to meet his mom). Aside from that, and the fact that I have been blog stalking him endlessly during my down time at work.... this specific post was about The Sound of Music and all about our dreams, our situations, our realities. It was about looking inward and being honest with ourselves.

I got to this specific part of his post:
"Mother Superior tells Maria to be willing to climb every mountain and do all of the hard things and self-reflection she needed to do to find her dream, 'a dream that will need all the love you can give, every day of your life, for as long as you live.'"

And it struck me that I haven't given my dreams all the love that I could give them, and then I wondered what that even meant.

He went on to talk about how Maria has to be brave and strong enough "to do what feels right and true according to her capabilities and life circumstances."

I feel like I've done a good job in always being honest with myself, in admitting my fears and in knowing what I want. But I got to thinking about this past week and the discouragement and frustration it has been and maybe I haven't been brave enough to do what has felt right to me all along.

I've been raised to say a prayer every morning and every night, but lately I've really only been good at the night part. Most times when I remember in the mornings, it's during my walk up to work, so I stumble out a quick thank you and please-bless-us. But it just so happens that the morning before I read Eli's post I found myself mindlessly stitching together something to resemble a heartfelt plea. And as I stuttered my way up to work, I found myself really talking to my Father in Heaven. It was then that a groggy lightning bolt hit- I've always felt that my Father in Heaven has faith in me and trusts me to make good decisions (despite the years of making some really dumb ones, He still believes in me). But even though my Lord trusted me, I didn't trust me. I didn't believe I had it in me to make a good choice. Especially when it came to love because, well, I've done a fair job of always making what seems like the wrong choice. I've had moments where I have selfishly told the universe and my Father in Heaven I was going to love someone despite all the red flags and signs, I've had moments where everything felt right and good and in the end that person made a choice to not continue forward, to not love.

And then I've had moments like now, where all the goodness and hope is staring me in the face and all I can do is get defensive and worry about what others must think of me because I chose the hard way. I know I chose the road of heartbreak. But the fear of judgement and worry from others has almost paralyzed me. I find myself lying in bed asking what to do, what to do. Someone pick for me, someone choose for me because I don't trust myself to make the choice you all want me to make.

But that's not what life or love should be. I should be making choices on what I want, I should be following my dream. And even if our dreams are similar, my journey there is my own.

I need to do what feels right and true to me, depending on my capabilities and my heart. Because I am the one who gets to love that dream "every day of my life, for as long as I live." So even though it may seem stupid and wasteful to others, I've chosen something I believe in and something I could maybe love. If my God can trust me, then I should be able to trust me too. And trust that I can make not only good decisions, but ones that I want and love and that really are good, even though it may not seem like it to those on the outside. So I'll keep praying for my personal miracle and courage in myself. And I'll keep trusting and believing in that person and hoping that maybe he'll come and prove everyone wrong. And if not, I'll find a new hope (wow, didn't even try for that. Too much Star Wars lately).

And while I patiently wait I will enjoy my life now. Because it is good, and all is well. And all the worry of what I feel others might be thinking won't make the empty nights any easier. Being me and enjoying what I do have is what will help me up that mountain.

can't stop. won't stop.

I really did not like this song when I first heard it. In fact I can probably replicate the face I made at Kali when she tried to make me listen to it in the car on the ride home from climbing.

But here I am, slouched splendidly in my chair at work and I've listened to it 28 times (I might be on the 29th currently as I type this).

That's almost an entire hour and a half straight of the same ridiculousness. And don't worry that it's not on Spotify, so I haven't had it just on repeat. I actually had to go in to YouTube every time and click "replay" 28 (make that 30) times.

Ignore the earrings! If I stare at them too long I start to ponder on my own credibility.

a conversation post running

Marathon training is a lot harder than I expected it to be.

I recognize that I am in my prime but dang it if my body doesn't vehemently hate me right now!

I got back from running yesterday and proceeded to have this texting conversation with Jacob. Mind you this was after THREE MILES. THREE. ONLY THREE. Ten minutes into my run I had to take a minute to walk and passed this crazy lady on the sidewalk who proceeded to talk to me, with one hand in her armpit, the other tucked in her pants. She asked me how long I had been running and guessed an hour (an hour!), and as I was panting and trying to keep my legs under me I realized how terribly pathetic I must be that after TEN MINUTES I looked like I had been running for hours.

I lied. And I told her about a half hour, because, well, it was better than ten minutes.

I finally made it home and as I lay on our hallway floor directly under the swamp cooler, half dead, decided to try to get some sympathy from a dear friend. I failed. But did manage some internal hysteria.

Conversation:
"Me: it took me 40 minutes to run 3 miles today :(

Jacob: you are tired. Let's work on your form.

Me: my knees hurt. it didn't use to be this hard!!!

Jacob: they are not the bees. hot bath

Me: ugh that's the last thing i want to do right now. it's ROASTING outside.

Some moments later...

Me: I don't know why I'm listening to you. But here I am sitting in our twice-scrubbed-yet-still-filthy-tub, pretty sure I just flashed our male neighbors through the open window, wondering what I ever did to you to deserve this.

Jacob: are you talking to your knees?

Me: no i was talking to you.
I WAS BEING A LITTLE DRAMATIC."



I don't think he quite got the fact that I needed sympathy. Though it will be nice to have someone help me with my form. My 26 going on 76 year old knees need some help.

a sneak peek at last weekend's adventures and the current music obsession

Haven't flown in THREE YEARS!!! So I figured I'd provide an airport photo with my sweet new rucksack and leopard shoes.

(I really can't wait to tell you about last weekend)

Also this fabulous song that I'm currently crushing on:

Little Bribes by Death Cab for Cutie

baby pigeons and crippling fear

First off, where are all the baby pigeons?!?!?!?!?!?!?! (thank you never-ending, Summer binge watching of 30Rock)

Second, as I laid in bed last night I heard something rustle in my laundry basket and I'm positive it was a snake.

Rather than investigate, I moved my basket to the other side of the room because if there was a snake he wouldn't be able to slither straight up into my bed of course (Right. It would only take just a little longer for him to make it across the room and into my bed where he would then wrap himself around my ankle cutting off the circulation in my foot rendering it dead whereupon when I woke in the morning we would have to cut it off making me a cripple although then I would have an excuse to start using a cane).

Snakes scare me. To death. I see them and my toes curl involuntarily, tears well up in my eyes, and my skin starts to retreat into my body as if it is trying to make my whole form shrink into nothingness. It's a crippling fear and I wholeheartedly confess it. I once was forced to pet a snake and my hands would not come of my armpits where I had crammed them into in hopes of continuing to maintain all ten fingers.

So no, I don't handle snakes well. And I'm not really sure where the confirmation of the mysterious noise came from since it was more than likely to be a mouse or the recently dried clothes settling.

And yes, I still have no idea what the noise was from, so on the off chance that it was a snake I must go home and burn the whole place down. Just to be positive.

dear june, again

Where do you think you are? Seattle?! This is NOT ok. You can tell July she's welcome to move in early.

d-d-d-

Dashboard. I woke up with stinking Dashboard Confessional stuck in my head as if high school was trying to sneak quietly back into my life and remind me of all the awkwardness that once was.

I was surprised at how well I still remembered all the words, and I'm starting to wonder if it's a sign because the specific line "And I'm throwing away the letters that I am writing you, 'cause they would never do, I would never do" was the first thing to be screamed into my head as it popped off the pillow.

Maybe looking for signs isn't all it's cracked up to be, though.

(Or maybe I only like looking for them when they go the way I want them to, or lead me to what I really want. Not necessarily what I need).

Or maybe it was just a weird coincidence that the first song to seep into my foggy brain this morning was about writing letters because I spent a fair amount of time writing a couple letters yesterday.

(I should probably look more into this whole sign-searching business).

Either way thank you Dashboard, you have sprung upon me the youth of yester-years.

poem : miracles

Remember when I spoke of miracles here?

I had included those same thoughts in a response to my sweet sister and her letter that had sparked that realization.

She wrote me back this week. With her letter she included a poem she had written, combining her words with mine and producing a precious piece of beauty. She said it needed some work, but I didn't dare touch it:

"I've often overlooked

or

perhaps ignored

what a

miracle is.

Assuming it to be

merely

the stuff of angels,

where I'm sure

a trumpet

sounded

and mayhaps some

heavenly light

was seen.

However,

miracles are quite

different.

Miracles are

loud.

Ones that make

men weep

and demons

hide

for fear.

Miracles are

quiet.

Ones that bring

more later.

Be it a simple prayer.

Miracles are

personal.

I can't say for you

and you can't say for me.

Personal miracles

are naturally 

more sought for

and

more appreciated.

These are loud, quiet,

big, small

and all things

in between.

And

most important.

It's a miracle

I've made it

this far.

It's a miracle

you have

risen from

the ashes of

all things

unexpected.

That cause emotional

storms to

subside."