A Life of Revision

It's come to that time whereupon reflection and revision increase as the days remaining on the calendar decrease. As I look back at my goals for 2011, I feel satisfied to have achieved many of them. This has indeed been a year of reading well and getting to know myself. It has proved to be a year where friendships have been not only my saving grace but have also produced such joy and humility. I wrote about investing in friendships with the assumption that I would focus on being a better friend, however, this year I found myself leaning on and depending upon others in ways I had never imagined. For those of you who have comforted me as I cried, listened as I tried to make sense through confusion, and poured out stern advice along with gentle encouragement, thank you. Those two words are not nearly adequate, but with all my heart, thank you. Again I find myself asking What have you learned this year? How will you live differently based on your experiences? Will you look at the world differently? Have your priorities changed at all? Perhaps these questions seem cliche or routine to ask year after year, but I truly believe that "life without revision will silence our souls." So for 2012, here are a few thoughts I hope will guide my year:

2012, a year of enjoying life. A year of seeking peace and making time to rest. A year of living well, in spirit and body. A year of taking walks and soaking in small moments. A year of being honest with others. Continuing to read well and beginning to increase my library. A year of baking - with friends, for friends, for myself. A year of writing. A year of giving my time more generously to family and friends, instead of just fitting them in. A year of planning to make no plans, just enjoying moments and fun. A year of trusting, in myself and that all things will work out for good in their own time. And finally, a year of laughter, because I've had enough tears this past year to last through the next.

I have no idea what 2012 will hold, but I hold onto hope and optimism that the heartache and mistakes of the year past will result in growth that will bring joy and wisdom in the year to come.

Middleness

It's that time of year again. Time for lights and parties and sweaters and food, lots and lots of food. It's the time of year when you can walk into any coffee shop and see every chair, table, and spare corner occupied by students with haggard faces and books sprawled in front of them. It's the only time of year I do not miss being a student. The memories of cramming for finals and staying up until the words blurred on the computer screen as I tried to finish that last paper are still fresh. That familiar knot of anxiety is beginning to tangle even writing about it now. For those of you in these coffee shops now, I feel for you. And I envy you. You are days away from ending a semester. Next year you choose new classes, you have a fresh start. One thing I have had to come to terms with is that I am a starter. I love beginnings. New semesters, new projects, new jobs. I started to notice in college that I was a great motivator and ideas generator, but the struggle for me comes in the middle, in finishing. And that scares me. Beyond college, there are very few fresh starts. There are beginnings to be sure. New jobs, new cities, new relationships. But the freshness is what becomes hard to find. There are no clean slates. There is baggage. There is a past. There are mistakes that follow you no matter where you go. It's this middle place that is hard. If I can't start over then I have to just keep moving even though every part of me wants to drop it all here and try for that fresh start that doesn't exist. Life after college doesn't have semesters. There are seasons, to be sure, but the branches that are broken under winter's ice are still broken in spring. Enjoy this week, students. Enjoy the fresh start after holidays at home. Know that this season is a gift, and gifts of other kinds will find you after this one ends, but know that it will end. This isn't sad. Our broken branches and overlap of seasons past are what build a life. They are what give us a story worth telling. They are the layers of our humanity. I am sure that anyone with a few years more of moving through this middleness has come to realize this already. I'm working it through, pieces of adulthood falling into place, naivety slowly falling away as I resolve myself to keep moving and stop looking to start over.

November

A year later, November is just as I left her. She has waited patiently through cold, and rain, and heat, for the gentle decay of the calendar until she could arrive once again. She came with familiar question, "Is this who you want to be?" And she came with hard decisions. This year when she came, I was in a different place, but it was the same place. November drove me to my knees once again, in thanksgiving and grief and relief. Yet on this hard ground I feel November's heart beating, as if to remind me that with her brokenness comes her grace. November has been my test, my gift, my salvation. Though she comes in cold and barren and with signs of death, she leaves a warmth and hope that keep my soul from abandon. Oh November, you are just as I left you, but I am not as you left me. I'm finding it in myself.

Happiness Lies in Being, Not Having

Neatly tucked inside a book called Oklahoma Boy, sitting on a dusty shelf in an antique store, these words have probably not been aired in many years, yet they jumped off the yellowed page with as much fervor and necessity as they day they were printed.

"Recently a circular portrayed a family of four with beaming faces and each loaded down with bundles of goods purchased at a department store - with this caption: "You get more out of life the American way!" It went on to say, "The American way is to open a credit account - Do it today and you'll begin to get more out of life...the American way!"

That, of course, is one way. But that is not the whole picture of life. There is love and kindness and poetry and beauty and heroic daring; they too, have meaning. Most people seem to think the primary interests of life are material. "How much did he leave?" we ask when some well-to-do man has died. He left all he had. It is not how much? The question is how true; how good; how beautiful; words which are honest, deeds which are just, purposes which are beautiful; these are the highest satisfactions in life.

You see, satisfaction lies not in having, not even in doing, but in being. Yet the idea of having has gone beyond the wildest dreams, and the idea of being is classed among the lost arts. To get the most out of life the human spirit must be something.

Some of the highest satisfactions in life may be found in creative work. Anyone who has ever entered into creative has found meaning and satisfaction in life for it comes out of work more than from any other thing. All great books, paintings, statues and musical compositions were achieved by those who lost themselves in their labors, and worked primarily for the joy in the work.

Consider the idea of creative sharing: In your day's work, can you spare a kindly word, a friendly greeting, a wave of the hand? These simple actions have magic in them.

Can the idea by the great Idealist, "If you lose your life, you will gain it," possibly be true? Some have tried it and have not been disappointed.

And you get more out of life by adventurous living. The reverence of the heroic has not died among us. There are still opportunities for adventurous living. They are not all confined to the exploits of the sea and the fields and the air.

Emotional agitations, resentment and violence are still to be curbed; criminal and lower temptations have never lost their power; hate is as deadly as before. What do you suppose would happen, if we should whole-heartedly give ourselves to truth, beauty, goodness as the one passion of our souls?"

by R.E. Dreger, printed in the Tulsa World February 16, 1969

Scars

There are some hurts that fall off like scales. There are some that we must carve out like tumors. They invade every vein, every artery, every cell. With precision and gritted teeth,we must painstakingly remove all traces. Of a friend, a lover, a connection that’s woven itself into the fabric of our bodies. There is no anesthesia. The cries of pain from our soul go unmedicated and unanswered, save the placing of a scalpel in our hand. And so we must go to work. Eventually the shock sets in, and instead of pain, we feel numb. The hours of careful cutting leave us utterly exhausted. We get most of it out. What’s left, we let our body try to handle on its own. As we heal, we see the scars raise along our limbs, across our chest; remembrances trailing across our skin. But the only way to be sure it’s all out, is to cut ourselves open again. Each time the pain is fresh, but the scar gets thicker, the tissue builds. Over and over we must open ourselves up to see if the hurt is gone. Sometimes reopening the scar invites the hurt to settle back in. Sometimes reopening the scar, we are surprised to find that it has diminished to only a fraction of what once took over our entire being. Sometimes, we find that it’s not there at all, and we can let the wound heal once and for all. The hardest part is picking up the scalpel. Until we open our veins and see it with our eyes, it’s easy to dismiss. To walk around full of this sickening cancer, this disparaging hurt, as if we are healthy and whole. But once the slice has been made, there is no denying what flows through our veins. And we have no choice but to carve it out.

Waiting for the Axe to Drop

Sometimes I find waiting for a thing to happen is worse than the thing that actually happens.

Waiting for the Axe to Drop

It hovers above me

So far it could be a stream from a plane

But I know what it is

A silver blade, waiting, biding its time

It hangs like an omen, like a cliche

As I walk, it follows me, everywhere

You open your mouth and the blade quivers

It prepares to drop, a free fall, slicing through the open air

But you hesitate and keep our secret a bit longer

And so it waits

And so I wait

Eventually I know you must confess

The axe will drop

Blunt but piercing, the truth will cut through me

It will take all the strength my heart has left to stop the blade

Offering up arteries and vessels and chambers

Catching it just before it kills me completely

Observation

I am watching myself. Like an observer hovering over some experiment with a clipboard and pen at the ready. Did I go too far? Did I tip that scale where stable elements suddenly lose all stability and head towards escape and chaos? I am waiting to see how this will affect me. Too far in one direction and I know I will need to pull back, alter a few elements. No change? Then we will proceed. Although most likely with trepidation. One probably should not experiment with the heart or mind, but I will stand here with my clipboard and wait for the results.

I Do Believe in Magic

Today, just for a little while, I experienced magic. Perhaps it's because this week marks the release of the final Harry Potter film that I am especially nostalgic about all things magical and muggle in nature. As one of my most beloved stories comes to a close, I will surely relive in the final moments of the film the heartache and longing for more of J.K. Rowling's world, as I did with the books. As I have with all books that have transported me into some other world for however long the pages last. These kinds of stories are the kind that convince me that magic is real. Not the kind of magic that comes from the end of a wand, but the kind of magic that is born inside when one finally realizes that there is something greater, some epic purpose to our lives, something beyond our understanding. This kind of magic is awakened someplace deep within and grows like tiny branches of lightning until it reaches my fingertips and toes and eventually my eyes so that I can no longer hold back the tears. This is the kind of magic I experienced today. For a few hours I was immersed in stories yet to be told. Stories that traverse worlds I have never seen, encounter people I have never met, but that hold truths that harken to the world in which I live, all the while begging me to explore that which I don't know. Movies are magic. And today I was completely overwhelmed by the magic that comes with working in this industry.

I Am Not a Robot

Dear Chelsea,

In case you were wondering, you are not a robot. You are a human being. You cannot be programmed for perfection. You can be expected to make mistakes. You wear your heart too easily on your sleeve, so yes, you are bound to be hurt. You will move on though and time will take care of everything. You can stop freaking out now, because you are human, and that's okay. You are not a robot. Remember this.

Delusional Expectations of an Aging Millennial

Because I couldn't have said it better myself:

I will develop a “bedtime routine.” I will make a diligent effort to wash my face every night before bed. I will dab anti-wrinkle cream on my fingers and gently trace circles onto my aging skin, like I’ve watched my mother do. Once a week, I’ll apply a facial mask that will require fifteen minutes of doing something else until it dries; something noncommittal like fixing a cup of tea.

Bedtime will arrive at approximately the same time every night, and I’ll wear something soft and feminine. It will probably be a cotton teddy with lace trim; it will be something I would wear out of the house if I were a few years younger. I will not sleep naked or in an ex-boyfriend’s t-shirt or in whatever outfit I wore to work/ the bar/ a date. I will sleep in my own bed. I will not let exhaustion/ laziness/ contentedness become an excuse for sleeping on the living room couch. I will not let the lull of infomercials carry me in and out of dreams.

My friends will get married, and I’ll attend their weddings without a date. I won’t lament attending weddings without a plus one. There will always be one good-looking bachelor, slated to be my partner in flirtation for the duration of the reception. We’ll both know how to slow dance. I won’t feel clumsy or out of place.

I’ll live alone, maybe. I will learn the correct way to paint a room. I’ll own a tool kit. I’ll never spend the day just existing, just doing nothing but breathing in and out and flipping through channels. There will be too much to accomplish. I won’t waste a Saturday. I won’t meet friends for brunch and find myself closing down a bar eight hours later. I’ll go to the Farmer’s Market before that happens – or the flea market, or the supermarket. I will have an income that will allow me to knock out all three in one weekend, if that’s what I want.

I will always have friends in my city. If one of them calls me up and asks me to come shopping or get a pedicure, I won’t have to turn them away. I will always have plans for the holidays. My parents will always send me a gift on Valentine’s Day with a card reminding me that they’re, collectively, my first Valentine(s). This will happen regardless of my romantic status, how old they get, how old I get.

I won’t remember what it feels like to have a broken heart. I will stop caring about the people I could not be with when I was younger. I will not wonder what they’re doing or feel empty when I hear that they’ve succeeded in building a life without me. I won’t “check in” or sob over photographs of them living new lives. I will fall in love, one final time. My parents will like him. We’ll take road trips to nowhere and dusk will be our favorite time of day.

Someday, skinny jeans and towering heels will go into storage for nine months. My closet space, once reserved for plunging tops and backless somethings, will belong to empire dresses and pants with elastic waistbands. I’ll be bloated and sore and fatter than ever, but everyone will say I’m “glowing” and I’ll accept it. My breasts will blow up, engorged with mother’s milk. I’ll give birth, and I won’t be mortified/amused by what excrement my child causes to escape/ is wearing all over its veiny, bloody little body. I’ll breastfeed myself down to a size 4; motherhood and stress and a boozeless 270 days will whittle my figure down to something it never was before. I will never wince at cellulite again.

I will pay off my student loan debt before I die. Eventually, I will stop thinking about how my monthly payment could’ve been better spent. I will be able to afford to go on trips that aren’t work related or paid for by someone else. I’ll be free from worry, from dread about the future. I will make a living. I will have an IRA. I will have CDs. I will invest in gold. I will have health insurance. I will have life insurance, because someday, other people will depend on me.

If I had to guess, I’ll live for another 60 years. I will grow wiser, more graceful. I will never hurt someone I love. I won’t die suddenly or tragically. It will become what other people expect of me; every passing year brings me closer to my temporary home at the crematorium. I’ll be sprinkled on a windy day, somewhere insignificant. My ashes will fly back into the face of the person releasing them, burning their eyes and affixing to their tongue like bitter, grey snowflakes. They’ll feel both scarred and grateful to have a funeral story to repeat at family dinners and after-work engagements. My final gift to the world.

Written by Stephanie Georgopulos. Re-blogged from Thought Catalog

Fight or Flight

We have two instincts: fight or flight.
I want to think of myself as strong.
I want to think of myself as a fighter.
But I only want to fight if it's with you.
I'm tired of fighting alone.
I'm tired of fighting the same battles.
Familiar scars.
Familiar tears.
I'd rather fly.
I flap my wings harder and harder, but feel no lift.
They've been clipped.
No new horizons.
No new landscapes.
Same faces.
Same eyes I must stare into and try not to feel anything.
Same battles.
Instinct surrenders to the concrete around these ankles.

All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues

Few things can entrance and enrapture me like a good story. Whether it be told through film, on pages, or in the lyrics of a song, I believe stories are the most powerful gifts we as human being possess. What I love most about a story is the arc that the character has to go through. It's not a straight line to the end. There are ups and downs along the way the prevent or stall the character from his or her goal. Any basic scriptwriting class will teach you that this element, a character not being able to achieve a goal, at least for a certain period of time, is the key to writing a successful screenplay. This dynamic of the story is what keeps us tuning in to our favorite television show or sitting on the edge of our seat during a movie. In a very poetic and cliche way, I like to view the course of my life as a story. New years and seasons as chapters, people as characters. I want my life to be a good story, one that I can reflect on fondly and that will be retold when I am gone. But every good story must have its ups and downs. So why am I always surprised when my idyllic plateau falls into some deep valley? That's the way of it, I shouldn't be so taken back. But I am. I think I'm just now accepting that this is the way of my story, of any story. It's funny too how quickly the ups are met with their decent. How a single email can ruin an otherwise lovely day. How you can meet a person and feel all kinds of excitement and emotion, and a few weeks later feel alone and confused. Up. Down. But what I am also learning is that sometimes the most beautiful moments in a movie or a book are those low points for the character. That's where the transformation takes place, or the lesson is learned, or the due is paid. This week I received a letter from someone who was part of my deepest descent, and I realized that even from that blackest of darkness, light can be found and beauty can come from the mire. Luckily there is no plateau, lest we ever be caught in a constant down. And at the end of even the longest valley road, there is another peak to climb. Such is any good story. So will be my story I suppose.

Confessions of an Introvert

I feel that there is an entire group of people who must think I am incapable of speech. It's a strange feeling, the desire to speak is as strong as the physical need to remain silent. Somewhere along the way, I assumed my childish tendency to retreat into silence would dissipate and a confident, witty storyteller would emerge. Like a bright, colorful chrysalis in an Eric Carle book. Instead I find I am at war with myself. A war of words.

Time Stands Still

There are days I wish time would stand still

So I could stand in one place all day long, all eternity long

So I could breathe in the sunshine

So I could hear them playing in the yard

So I could feel the breeze blowing in across the fields

Alas, these photographs are all I have.

Let's Get Fucked Up and Live

The other day, a friend of mine sent me a song by Motion City Soundtrack called "Let's Get Fucked Up and Die." He told me this song basically summed up his existence. I listened to the song over and over and poured over the lyrics until my heart couldn't take it anymore. How could I tell him that life doesn't have to be this way? That "fucking up" doesn't mean you have to die. I was so angry and hurt for my friend that he wasn't more angry and hurt himself for living that way. I couldn't take this being the only option: to get fucked up and die. So here is my response. Watch the original song. Read my poem. You can get fucked up and live.




Let's Get Fucked Up and Live

“Let’s get fucked up and die.”
The cry of my generation.
“Let’s get fucked up and die.” Because what do we have to live for really?
We live for parents, and teachers, and tests.
We live for ACTs, and SATs, and DDs on the weekends.
We live with ADD, and ADHD, and labels that we take to heart.
I am what you define me as.
I am inadequate, unmotivated, a slave to my emotions and immaturity.

“Let’s get fucked up and die.” Because we can’t get fucked up and live.
Can we?
We are the generation of Experiencers. We can’t be persuaded until we’ve pursued.
We can be told until we’ve tried.
We are the culmination of our experiences.
And when we find ourselves failing, falling, and fucking up,
Well it’s easiest just to die.

We can’t get fucked up and live, because then we might be expected to learn from our mistakes.
To live would mean we’d have to move on. To fuck up again.
And really, how much can one person take?
How much can one person change?
“I’m about to explode.
I’m a mess, I’m a wreck.”
Will you be the one to pick up my pieces?
Like the egg on a wall, will you be there after I fall?

Or will you point and say, “It’s what we expected.”
I will not point. I will not let you lay shattered on the ground.
I will not define or label you.
I believe you can change.
I believe you can fuck up and live.
That our fuck ups are hiccups, and back-ups, and turns in the road.
But they aren’t a dead end.
You don’t have to die.

I believe you can overcome this and beat everything in the end.
You have to stop choosing the abuse, the self-hate, the parent-hate, the God-hate, the everyone in the world wants me to fail so FUCK YOU I WILL!-hate.
You can win. If you decide not to die.

True Joy in Life

“This is the true joy in life - being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.” - George Bernard Shaw

I find this an to be an interesting thought: true joy in life coming from being used up in a purpose you find meaningful. Too often, I think my generation believes happiness is found in the absence of work. Isn't that the goal of retirement? Isn't that why we kill ourselves when we are young, bemoaning the 8-hour (don't even get me started on overtime) work day and the (god-forbid) expectations and responsibilities placed upon us by our employers? In hopes that one day we can live the dream and not work? Now, I am not of the opinion that life should be all about work, that trivial things like family, rest, traveling, and fun should always take a back-burner to jobs and opportunities. I think there must be a balance to it all. But I also think that a lot of the people I have met who are my age, are genuinely disappointed that they are expected to work at their jobs. They expect the world to deliver happiness to their doorstep, without ever stepping out and getting their shoes dirty. I guess I just love the challenge to not become a "feverish selfish little clod," but to seek out my own happiness and to pursue those things that I deem mighty and purposeful. My happiness and my success are in my own hands. They can remain idle, or I can put them to work and make things happen.

I Believe in You, Tulsa

And so another season begins. All my boxes have been unpacked and suitcases stowed away. My room has been rearranged, and then re-rearranged. Things are starting to fall into place. I accepted a job at a production company in Tulsa couple of weeks ago. I must admit that although I blatantly, violently refused to even search for jobs in the state of Oklahoma at first, I have come to love my morning drives towards the downtown skyline. The commute usually affords me ample time to set the day's mood with the perfect music mix or a healthy dose of NPR. It's taken quite a bit of kicking and screaming but I have been persuaded to give Tulsa a chance. Having a job that I look forward to everyday and coworkers who are as brilliantly creative as they are kind, make it a bit easier. Not to mention having all of my friends within a 30-minute driving radius, instead of a 4-hour journey for coffee and gossip. Living here is growing on me. I like to describe Tulsa as an angsty teenager, who isn't really sure what she would like to be. She's tried sports for a while, but it never really caught on. She has a rich history of music, but sometimes I think she forgets her roots. Sometimes she's eco-friendly, sometimes she's eco-fallible (I must admit, that I happen to mimic her in this way. Ever hear of a reusable bag, Tulsa? I think as I stand in the Target line behind a woman with enough plastic bags to clog a small ocean. Damn, I left mine in my trunk! Oh well. And this is how it goes.). Tulsa is home to some pretty talented artists but like any moody teen, she does a good job of keeping her talent hidden from the world. Funny thing though, as I move back and begin to compare Tulsa to (what I consider) the awesomeness and adult-like self-confidence of Kansas City, I have started to hear other Tulsans echoing my sentiments. The potential of what Tulsa could be is here, she's just going to have to make up her mind as to what she wants to be. I believe in you, Tulsa. I think you can be something amazing. And since I'm committing to work and play and live in this city for a while, please do something.

Food Fight

The days you fight over deviled eggs, really aren't about deviled eggs.
They are about uncertainty.
They are about feeling insecure and like you are not in control.
It's about pent up hurts and bruised egos.
It most definitely is not about deviled eggs.

Indefinitely, For Now

I have been home for almost 3 weeks. Much of this blog has been dedicated to bemoaning my discovery that adult life isn't easy, and that it is especially not easy when you move away from home - from family, friends, the familiar. It's funny how after six months of wishing I could click my heels three times and be in Tulsa, I am now finding myself anxious, jittery, nervous about being back here. For the first time in at least 5 years, I find myself unloading boxes and bags with no intention of packing them up again. Instead of returning to college, or trips abroad, or commuting back to Kansas City, I have no definite plans to move anywhere. It's a strange feeling. I find myself relating to Edward Bloom, larger-than-life, bigger-than-his-small-town, adventurer in the delightful film Big Fish, who said: "The truth is, I'm just not ready to end up anywhere." After all the tears, lonely days, and long-distance phone calls, part of me became accustomed to living away. I could see myself easily settling down in Tulsa. It's a great city, lots of young professionals, job opportunities, low cost of living, plus the nearness of those I love. I'm surrounded by a lot of pro-Tulsa people who are excited about this city and its potential. Ending up here wouldn't be bad at all. But I don't know if I'm ready to end up anywhere yet. There are cities I want to visit and move to, jobs I would like to try out for a little while. Am I ready to stay in one place?

A Farewell Letter

Dear Kansas City,

Strange to think there was a time I barely knew you. In a few short months you've gone from a stranger to a place I cannot imagine not being a part of my life. Sometimes it still feel like I don't know you. Sure, I've learned your streets, I've seen your charm. You've won me over in more than one way. But there is so much of you that I have yet to discover. I realized today, that to you, I am just a girl who moved in and who is moving away. I guess I always thought it was something more. That you would ask me to stay, woo me to explore more of you. That you felt something more for me. I shouldn't be so hurt by your nonchalance. The truth is I chose not to let you in either. You are not my home. As much as I want to love you with my whole heart, I couldn't bear to let you in. So I suppose this is partly my fault. I can't expect you to feel more about me. It's her you love, the one who is from here. The one who knows you in a way you wouldn't let me know you. She will be here once I am gone. She will stay with you. Your dark I know, your city lights, your exciting and dangerous parts. But she has your mornings, your breakfasts, your long conversations. So I suppose it's partly my fault. We remain shallow friends. Sure I will come to visit. And I'm sure you will embrace me with open arms and take me through your streets once again. But I want you know that you have changed me, Kansas City. You have been here through some of my best and worst moments. I left my home for you. I have made so many mistakes with you. And now I must leave you. You will move on, you will find another girl who will move in and hopefully she will love you more and no less than I have. You may forget me, another face lost in your long memory. But I won't forget you. I am sorry I didn't let you in. I suppose it's partly my fault. It will make this departure easier, but I will always have this regret: that I didn't ask you to love me like you love the one who will stay here, that I kept you at a distance, because part of me thinks you would have been a lovely place to call home.

I will miss you and care for you always,
Chelsea

Allowing the Story to Soak In

Water for Elephants.


Began and finished in a day. Feeling accomplished, I wanted to immediately move on to my next book. Start ticking off their numbers one by one. A goal of 50 books this year. An arbitrary number which put me at a pace of about one book per week. But that wasn't really my goal. I don't want to just speed through a booklist. This should be a year of reading well. I make myself put down the next book. Stop. Take a day or two to reflect on what I just read. Don't be too eager, too greedy that I miss out on allowing a story to soak in.

What did I love about Water for Elephants? Jacob. I loved Jacob. Yes, he is the narrator of the story, but it was more than just because I see this world through his eyes. It was like his fears were my fears at times. To be old and left alone. With only memories. Family moving on without you. Being left in a nursing home - above all else I fear that. That is not the end to a good life. That is not the end I want. Strange to think of such things at the age of twenty-three, but I do. Perhaps it was our visit to a nursing home while filming. The cold hallways. The group "exercises." The lonely men and women lined up in their wheel chairs, who I know are someone's parents or grandparents or uncle or something. This is not the end I want. 


Even in Jacob's youth, his struggles with faith, with his feelings for the married Marlena. Doing what is right can be difficult when your heart betrays your logic. That is a lesson I have been learning over again this year. His desire to stay, but choosing to leave. The moments he chooses to stay. That tug of war with which I am all too familiar. What I don't understand is why he chooses Marlena? Her character seems so shallow to me. Other than her beauty and fragility, what does she have that enraptures Jacob so? Perhaps it's because he wants to rescue her, to be her savior. Again, a feeling I know all to well. In some ways I feel Rosie, the elephant, is a more complex character than Marlena. I feel that her love and understanding of Jacob is so much deeper and more real. They need each other, Jacob and Rosie, they look out for each other. Maybe I find Marlena shallow and irritating now that I've finished the book because I see my own Marlenas, the people I want to rescue. Jacob, I feel, deserves better. Then why is it so hard to say that I deserve better?

A Year of Reading Well

As with most of the world, when December begins its final countdown to the end of the year, I find myself reflecting on what has transpired over the past twelve months. This year, perhaps more than any other, has been a year of transition and new experiences. And I am glad it is over. Not one for making New Year's resolutions, generally because I have a fear of failure, so why make resolutions you won't be able to keep? I did find myself asking What have you learned this year? How will you live differently based on your experiences? Will you look at the world differently? Have your priorities changed at all? Here is what I came up with, not so much a list of resolutions as it is a framework by which I hope to live my life this year:

2011, a year of living well. A year of returning home and growing roots. A year of uncertainty and taking risks. A year of being alone and being okay. A year of getting to know myself. A year of reading well, of discovering the classics and revisiting old pages. A year of investing in friendships. Of saying yes to experience more than I say no. A year in writing, in self-exploration, in self-expression. A year in honesty.

Strangely enough what has me most excited is "a year of reading well." Those who know me at all, know that I almost always have a book in my hands or tucked in my bag. This year has been altogether dismal in terms of my literary explorations. Working on a film leaves little time to spend between the pages of a book. This year I wanted to begin living well by reading well. So far success! I know, I know. It's 9:00 p.m. on January 1st, so it's not like I've even given myself the opportunity to fail. But I have completed my first book of the year, Water for Elephants. I spent the whole day snuggled up on various couches and chairs around the house with my aunt's Kindle, diving into the post-stock market crash world of the traveling circus.

First of all, let me point out that this was my first encounter with the Kindle. Although it wasn't a negative experience, there is something to be said about the turning of a page. The soft, yet sometimes rough feel of the paper between my fingers, the smell of ink and pulp, the weight of a book in my hands. It's too much to give up for the sake of technology and a lighter book bag.

That being said, the story Water for Elephants, itself was just beautiful. I have to admit that part of why I chose this book was because I want to see the film based on this novel that will be released later this year, and I refused to see the movie without having first read the book. So much of my inner imaginings have been tainted by viewing the trailer to the film. Perhaps tainted is too strong a word, influenced may be better. The colors and even the song used in the trailer helped me form this beautiful world of big tents, gaudy costumes, gilded trains, and elaborate performance rings. The story begins at the end. There is a murder, and subsequently a mystery unfolds. How did it come to this? Why has he kept this secret for so long? The answers to these questions do not come until the last few pages. And they are not really the answers I was expecting. By this point I find myself totally immersed in the freakshow of the circus. Rooting for drunks, cheering on the adulterers, praying the antagonists will get theirs, and that love truly will prevail. I found myself doing all of this, yet at the same time asking when it became okay for us to champion the adulterer? Why am I hoping the most immoral characters will meet a truly gruesome end? I found myself intrigued by these characters, rising and falling with them as they fight for acceptance and fall in love. Swept away into a life I had never even dreamed about. It was the perfect, quiet way to begin this new year, the year of reading well.