I recognize and apologize that I've been so MIA. I'm not sure if anyone really missed me but here I am. I'm back. I'm still alive. To be honest, it hasn't just been my blog, it's been all of social media that I've been pretty absent from, and even a good chunk of my actual social life.
I started graduate school in January and am still working full time, so needless to say I've been busy being a grown-up and haven't had as much time to spare for fun stuff like blogging. Or hiking. And since I live next to beautiful mountains now, hiking usually wins out against sitting inside typing away, which I'm doing plenty of for school already.
But this morning I'm chilling in my pajamas and slippers, sipping coffee and munching scrambled eggs. It's a good morning for blogging.
ANYWAY.
In Sunday school a few days ago we talked about The Fall. In case you're not familiar, the Fall is the part of the Bible where God created the world and then the humans ate the forbidden fruit and ruined it for everything and now we live in a rotten universe because of it. You'll hear all about it in Genesis 3.
So for someone who grew up in church, I'm familiar with the Fall and I'm no stranger to the pain and suffering of the world. Nobody is. We've all suffered, simply because we're all part of the post-Fall universe.
But what I hadn't thought about as much was how so many people react to the Fall: they pretend like it's not real, or at least they try to. They make blanket forts in their rooms and take their little dolls and create their own tiny universe that the "bad" stuff can't get into.
I was surprised when my mind went to the home magazines I'd seen recently. (At work during rec therapy I need to watch the patients but can't really get anything else done at that time so I often sit and skim the magazines they have available.) Some of the magazines are more for the laywoman, with DIYs and decorating tips. Some of them are far more upscale, with thicker pages displaying photos of elaborate living rooms and classy-looking dining rooms and mansion-cabins on a mountainside and the occasional ad for a six karat diamond necklace.
To be completely honest, I love looking at those thick-paged upscale home magazines. Even the writing in them is more luxurious. Reading them, I can be transported into a fantasy world of wealth and glamor and perfection. If I lived in a home like that, nothing could touch me.
But when I step back and think about the people that live in those homes, and how many hours they cleaned (or hired someone to clean) that kitchen until it was spotless, or took great care to arrange the vase of fresh flowers and that little pile of books on the marble coffee table, all because they knew the photographer was coming tomorrow, I have to face the truth that even these beautiful homes probably look lived-in most of the time.
And then I think about how these homeowners got their five minutes of fame for being in a fancy magazine and maybe they feel a little self-congratulatory about how well they played off their glamorous dollhouse under the blanket fort, as if their world is perfect and protected.
Of course, it's not just with homes that people do this. Middle-class people who don't have that kind of money have to fake it in other ways, by portraying a perfect social life or a perfect family or a perfect job or you name it.
One thing I've noticed, though, from working with people in the lower class, including some homeless people, is that none of them are under any illusions that their world is or could be perfect. They are forced to face the fact that they are poor, struggling, and hurting. Some of them may imagine a more perfect world if they had more money, but many of them are wise enough to scoff at that ideology. They know what the Fall looks like first-hand and they know that it touches everybody.
I guess I'm okay with what church people call "pushing back the effects of the Fall," i.e. doing good and showing kindness to make this world a little better and a little brighter. We can't undo the evil that we've all been plagued with, but we're promised total redemption through Jesus someday, so I don't think a little temporary redemption through our feeble efforts is in vain.
What I'm not okay with is selfish pretending. I'm not trying to call out the rich folks of course. I myself am often tempted to believe that if only I had [blank], everything would be better and I wouldn't have to worry anymore.
It helps that I am faced every day through my work with the brutal truth of suffering. But where is the balance between total despair and covering my eyes and ears screaming LA LA LA EVERYTHING IS PERFECT!
Where is the in-between that fully recognizes the Fall but realistically asks, what can we do to help?
I'm searching for that place.
God bless.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
The Dream
Her florescent cubicle
Illuminates the dark circles
Under her eyes and she feels
Her blood pulsing slowly
And steadily through
Her limbs.
She rests her chin
On the palm of her hand,
Fingers curled in,
And blinks methodically
As she turns her gaze
To the blue sky
Out the window
Which has sparse clouds
Drifting through
That blue nothingness.
After work, she drives
In her sedan
To the junkyard and finds
An old van
With beige curtains,
An old man
With beige clothes
Who has a history
Of mechanics and he offers
To help her
Get it up and ready
For the road.
For two months,
While her van reaches
Its new prime,
She collects stones and bones
And a friend with dreads
Who recently became homeless
With a duffel bag full
Of the oddest things:
A cassette player, a Bible,
A tennis ball, an unopened
Package of incense,
Three keys, a jar full
Of what she says are frog eyes,
A smoky fedora, five smelly tie-dye socks,
And a blue ukulele
That rattles inside.
She and her friend set off.
They go west, due west.
With the stones and bones
She makes rings and earrings,
Five dollars apiece.
They sleep in beds
In the van
And camp off the grid
Cooking over fires
They make in random fields
Laughing and reading poetry,
And when the stars came out,
They'd sing,
She with her husky alto,
The friend with her sweet soprano,
And the rattled ukulele notes
Drifting up toward
A dark heaven.
They travelled like this
And found secret treasures
In the land:
Waterfalls, canyons,
Bluffs, foxes,
Caves and creeks.
Every Sunday they left
The van on foot
And found a hike
With no trail or a tree
To climb
Or a little oasis to jump
Into with no clothes.
On a roadside in the rockies,
They found a small brown dog
With big brown eyes,
A collar with no tags,
And a ribcage that showed
Some of the nature
Of his life's struggle.
They named him Summit
For his power and obscurity
And he followed at their heels
And licked their faces
And she loved him
And he loved her.
Dying clothes with plants
Harvested off the grid
And eating salads of the same,
Meeting strangers on the run,
And seeing hundreds of sagging
Old buildings in small towns,
Was just beginning to become
A little hum-drum
When they were at a gas station
That smelled like cow poop
And cigar smoke
And she happened to look up
To see sitting on the curb
A man
Eating a sandwich and drinking
A bottled iced tea
With khaki pants with holes
In the knees and a brown
Bushy beard
And a tan nose
And mayonnaise in his mustache
And a blue bike on his right
And a large green backpack
On his left.
She watched as he pulled
A book out of the top
Of his large green backpack
And start reading, amazingly,
The Little Prince.
She walked up and asked him
What part he was at.
"How to tame a wild fox,"
He looked up at her
And grinned,
Licking the mayonnaise
Off his mustache.
"Where are you going?"
She asked.
"Everywhere I can,
Seeing as many things
And meeting as many people
As I can
On this big beautiful continent."
"Join us for a stretch"
She invited,
And he did.
And she
And the friend
And the dog
And the man
Ate meals cooked over fires
And sang songs under stars
And went exploring on Sundays
For a few weeks.
He said,
"It's been nice riding along
But my bike misses the road
And I miss the wind."
And she turned her face away
When a tear rolled down her cheek
When she said goodbye.
Three months later
The friend told her
About being accepted
Into the peace corps
And she'd be leaving for Morocco
In a few short weeks.
She dealt with the losses
By taking Summit
And changing directions
From west to north
And driving past mountain lakes
And driving through gray
Summer rains
And singing songs
A cappella from inside
The van and Summit
Just looked at her with his
Big brown eyes.
And on Sundays she usually
Climbed a tree
Or hung her feet off a rock
Or hiked through the rain
Getting wet and muddy
And rarely seeing
Another human face.
Finding temporary refuge
In a small town in Alaska
With mostly natives
And a few whites
She bought jade for her trade.
There she went hunting
For salmonberries and chanterelle,
Dandelion and chickweed,
When she spotted a broad back
And brown hair
Hunched over
Sitting on a rock
Which had a blue bike
Leaning against it.
Summit barked and ran
In that direction
And the man with the brown beard
And tan nose
Turned away from his book
Toward her
And beamed.
Their travels didn't last much longer;
Neither did their loneliness.
He build a small home out of cedar
In a forest of spruce
Next to a mossy creek
Where Summit could roam
And he carried her over the threshhold
And for fifty more years
He played his guitar
And they went out under the stars
And sang in harmony
Her in her husky alto,
Him with his sweet baritone,
Laughing and reading poetry.
After all this,
She blinked again
and turned her eyes
With dark circles underneath
Away from the window
And back to the florescent cubicle
To make another buck.
God bless.
Illuminates the dark circles
Under her eyes and she feels
Her blood pulsing slowly
And steadily through
Her limbs.
She rests her chin
On the palm of her hand,
Fingers curled in,
And blinks methodically
As she turns her gaze
To the blue sky
Out the window
Which has sparse clouds
Drifting through
That blue nothingness.
After work, she drives
In her sedan
To the junkyard and finds
An old van
With beige curtains,
An old man
With beige clothes
Who has a history
Of mechanics and he offers
To help her
Get it up and ready
For the road.
For two months,
While her van reaches
Its new prime,
She collects stones and bones
And a friend with dreads
Who recently became homeless
With a duffel bag full
Of the oddest things:
A cassette player, a Bible,
A tennis ball, an unopened
Package of incense,
Three keys, a jar full
Of what she says are frog eyes,
A smoky fedora, five smelly tie-dye socks,
And a blue ukulele
That rattles inside.
She and her friend set off.
They go west, due west.
With the stones and bones
She makes rings and earrings,
Five dollars apiece.
They sleep in beds
In the van
And camp off the grid
Cooking over fires
They make in random fields
Laughing and reading poetry,
And when the stars came out,
They'd sing,
She with her husky alto,
The friend with her sweet soprano,
And the rattled ukulele notes
Drifting up toward
A dark heaven.
They travelled like this
And found secret treasures
In the land:
Waterfalls, canyons,
Bluffs, foxes,
Caves and creeks.
Every Sunday they left
The van on foot
And found a hike
With no trail or a tree
To climb
Or a little oasis to jump
Into with no clothes.
On a roadside in the rockies,
They found a small brown dog
With big brown eyes,
A collar with no tags,
And a ribcage that showed
Some of the nature
Of his life's struggle.
They named him Summit
For his power and obscurity
And he followed at their heels
And licked their faces
And she loved him
And he loved her.
Dying clothes with plants
Harvested off the grid
And eating salads of the same,
Meeting strangers on the run,
And seeing hundreds of sagging
Old buildings in small towns,
Was just beginning to become
A little hum-drum
When they were at a gas station
That smelled like cow poop
And cigar smoke
And she happened to look up
To see sitting on the curb
A man
Eating a sandwich and drinking
A bottled iced tea
With khaki pants with holes
In the knees and a brown
Bushy beard
And a tan nose
And mayonnaise in his mustache
And a blue bike on his right
And a large green backpack
On his left.
She watched as he pulled
A book out of the top
Of his large green backpack
And start reading, amazingly,
The Little Prince.
She walked up and asked him
What part he was at.
"How to tame a wild fox,"
He looked up at her
And grinned,
Licking the mayonnaise
Off his mustache.
"Where are you going?"
She asked.
"Everywhere I can,
Seeing as many things
And meeting as many people
As I can
On this big beautiful continent."
"Join us for a stretch"
She invited,
And he did.
And she
And the friend
And the dog
And the man
Ate meals cooked over fires
And sang songs under stars
And went exploring on Sundays
For a few weeks.
He said,
"It's been nice riding along
But my bike misses the road
And I miss the wind."
And she turned her face away
When a tear rolled down her cheek
When she said goodbye.
Three months later
The friend told her
About being accepted
Into the peace corps
And she'd be leaving for Morocco
In a few short weeks.
She dealt with the losses
By taking Summit
And changing directions
From west to north
And driving past mountain lakes
And driving through gray
Summer rains
And singing songs
A cappella from inside
The van and Summit
Just looked at her with his
Big brown eyes.
And on Sundays she usually
Climbed a tree
Or hung her feet off a rock
Or hiked through the rain
Getting wet and muddy
And rarely seeing
Another human face.
Finding temporary refuge
In a small town in Alaska
With mostly natives
And a few whites
She bought jade for her trade.
There she went hunting
For salmonberries and chanterelle,
Dandelion and chickweed,
When she spotted a broad back
And brown hair
Hunched over
Sitting on a rock
Which had a blue bike
Leaning against it.
Summit barked and ran
In that direction
And the man with the brown beard
And tan nose
Turned away from his book
Toward her
And beamed.
Their travels didn't last much longer;
Neither did their loneliness.
He build a small home out of cedar
In a forest of spruce
Next to a mossy creek
Where Summit could roam
And he carried her over the threshhold
And for fifty more years
He played his guitar
And they went out under the stars
And sang in harmony
Her in her husky alto,
Him with his sweet baritone,
Laughing and reading poetry.
After all this,
She blinked again
and turned her eyes
With dark circles underneath
Away from the window
And back to the florescent cubicle
To make another buck.
God bless.
Thursday, May 19, 2016
To be still with you
In solitude,
In quiet stillness,
I long for a companion:
you.
To sit in socks
Across the room
With separate books
And occasional glances.
A cup of tea,
My feet in your lap,
Wordless,
Content.
This is my eveningdream.
But then you're here
And the quiver in my heart,
The tingle up my spine
Compel me, rather, to leap
Into your arms.
In joy of you, I play.
I tickle, I joke.
You grin at my youthfulness.
And our laughter is anything
But quiet
Or still.
Thank you
For the wildness
You awaken in me.
God bless.
In quiet stillness,
I long for a companion:
you.
To sit in socks
Across the room
With separate books
And occasional glances.
A cup of tea,
My feet in your lap,
Wordless,
Content.
This is my eveningdream.
But then you're here
And the quiver in my heart,
The tingle up my spine
Compel me, rather, to leap
Into your arms.
In joy of you, I play.
I tickle, I joke.
You grin at my youthfulness.
And our laughter is anything
But quiet
Or still.
Thank you
For the wildness
You awaken in me.
God bless.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
"Solo" Backpacking
I did my first "solo" backpacking trip this week. I put "solo" in quotations because I was a solo human, but I did have a partner: Lexi's 8-month-old golden doodle puppy, Juneau.
From there, the trail steepened and narrowed and I started to feel my body's inadequacy. I had to pause to catch my breath a few times on some of the uphills and Juneau would always turn back and look at me like, Why are we stopping?
However, I was rewarded multiple times with stunning views.
Because our location was, as it turns out, pretty desert-like in climate, there were lots of cacti hanging around, one dead piece of which Juneau stepped on. He paused to pull it out of his foot with his teeth and then started walking again, limping. I sat down and tried to get him to sit next to me or on my lap so that I could pull out the remaining spikes. After pulling one out, he would have no more. A few minutes later, we started walking again and he stopped limping so I figured, oh well. That was, thankfully, the only injury either of us suffered.
The trail widened and leveled out again and the sun was getting low. However, none of the creeks promised on my map had made themselves known; in fact, everything I saw that looked like a creek bed was dry as a bone. For being so early in the summer, I was surprised that there would be so little water. I didn't have enough to last me two nights or really even one, as I had been counting on being able to find some in the alleged creeks in the area.
The low sun made me nervous about having enough time to set up camp, so when I got to a fork in the trail, I climbed a hill in between the "tongs" of the fork, hoping to look down and spot some water. The trees blocked my view, but there was a wonderful camping spot up on that hill so I decided to just park it for the night and then figure out what to do the next day.
My body was ill-prepared for the hiking and weight-bearing required for backpacking, but I have all the skills and knowledge necessary, so I was pretty pleased with myself that I was able to set up camp and cook dinner over a fire with no issues. Juneau was wonderfully well-behaved and occupied himself with a jawbone he found.
The sun was down and I had run out of things to do to keep busy. I lamented being "alone" and having no one to talk to. Contemplating this, I decided that I didn't really care for solo backpacking. It gives me a nice sense of autonomy and self-accomplishment, but I am too much of an extravert and need someone to talk to (who talks back). I settled down next to the fire with my bum in the dirt and started reading "Jacob have I loved."
When it was about 9 or 9:30 it was too dark for me to continue reading even with the light from the fire so I went to bed. I saved a little bit of water for both of us to drink in the morning, but I was almost out. I brought my ENO hammock instead of a tent and tried out the new 15-grade sleeping bag Evan got me for Christmas.
Meanwhile, Juneau was attached with a long cord and harness to one of the trees my ENO was strapped to. Lexi had prophesied that he probably wouldn't sleep much nor even want to lie down on the ground because of his aversion to being dirty. She was right about him not sleeping. I had trouble sleeping simply because I was in a hammock and unable to sleep on my belly, but Juneau was busy playing watchdog all through the night.
I frequently heard him growling and even barking, sometimes from right under my hammock, at things I could or couldn't hear. I was terrified of a mountain lion smelling our food and coming into camp. With mountain lions, you're supposed to make yourself look big and talk to it in a low, firm voice. If Juneau saw one, I was sure he'd foil my attempts to ward it off by barking and possibly attacking, which would result in both of our deaths, so I was a little freaked out. I never saw or heard any humans or animals larger than a bird the entire time, though.
I had heated some rocks around the fire so when it came time to go to bed, I put them under my hammock to keep me warm. It worked pretty well for a couple hours. Here's a video on using hot rocks if you're interested.
At some point, shivering in my sleeping bag, I peeked out and realized it was morning. I sat up and saw this:
Juneau had gotten tangled around a cactus bush and, lacking the logic to get himself untangled, he nevertheless used problem-solving skills and Houdini-ed his way out of his harness. Turning to look for him, I saw him in the near distance looking at me stock-still with his head cocked. I called him and he ran over as fast as he could and proceeded jumping on my hammock and biting me.
When I was able to keep Juneau off of me long enough to get out of my sleeping bag and put on my shoes, I gave him breakfast and we finished the little bit of water we had left. I had decided that without any water and no guarantee that there would be water further up the trail, the safest and smartest thing to do would simply be to head home. We packed up and were on the trail by about 6:45 a.m., going a different way than how we had come in.
Juneau and me at the trailhead
The trailhead
I was planning to be gone for two nights but only ended up staying for one. I was hiking in a location I'd never been to before and I wasn't sure what the landscape would be like, although I did know that the weather would be warmer and sunnier than where I live. I guess I should have done more research.
Getting some sun felt amazing. As you can see, the trail is pretty wide-open and there wasn't a lot of shade. A jumble of trails near the trailhead made navigating difficult for me at first (as I am not great with directions and when backpacking with other people I am usually not the one in charge of the map). When I couldn't find one of the main trails I was looking for, I had to find an alternative route.
Happy hiker
However, I was rewarded multiple times with stunning views.
Looking back on the hill I had just hiked up
I am smitten by the snow-capped rockies in the distance.
Glad I'm only at 7-8,000 feet in elevation! No 14ers for me (yet).
The snow glows in the sunshine.
Just thought this was a neat-looking hill
The trail widened and leveled out again and the sun was getting low. However, none of the creeks promised on my map had made themselves known; in fact, everything I saw that looked like a creek bed was dry as a bone. For being so early in the summer, I was surprised that there would be so little water. I didn't have enough to last me two nights or really even one, as I had been counting on being able to find some in the alleged creeks in the area.
The low sun made me nervous about having enough time to set up camp, so when I got to a fork in the trail, I climbed a hill in between the "tongs" of the fork, hoping to look down and spot some water. The trees blocked my view, but there was a wonderful camping spot up on that hill so I decided to just park it for the night and then figure out what to do the next day.
My body was ill-prepared for the hiking and weight-bearing required for backpacking, but I have all the skills and knowledge necessary, so I was pretty pleased with myself that I was able to set up camp and cook dinner over a fire with no issues. Juneau was wonderfully well-behaved and occupied himself with a jawbone he found.
It was pretty brittle and made a nasty crunching sound when he chewed it.
The sun was down and I had run out of things to do to keep busy. I lamented being "alone" and having no one to talk to. Contemplating this, I decided that I didn't really care for solo backpacking. It gives me a nice sense of autonomy and self-accomplishment, but I am too much of an extravert and need someone to talk to (who talks back). I settled down next to the fire with my bum in the dirt and started reading "Jacob have I loved."
When it was about 9 or 9:30 it was too dark for me to continue reading even with the light from the fire so I went to bed. I saved a little bit of water for both of us to drink in the morning, but I was almost out. I brought my ENO hammock instead of a tent and tried out the new 15-grade sleeping bag Evan got me for Christmas.
Meanwhile, Juneau was attached with a long cord and harness to one of the trees my ENO was strapped to. Lexi had prophesied that he probably wouldn't sleep much nor even want to lie down on the ground because of his aversion to being dirty. She was right about him not sleeping. I had trouble sleeping simply because I was in a hammock and unable to sleep on my belly, but Juneau was busy playing watchdog all through the night.
I frequently heard him growling and even barking, sometimes from right under my hammock, at things I could or couldn't hear. I was terrified of a mountain lion smelling our food and coming into camp. With mountain lions, you're supposed to make yourself look big and talk to it in a low, firm voice. If Juneau saw one, I was sure he'd foil my attempts to ward it off by barking and possibly attacking, which would result in both of our deaths, so I was a little freaked out. I never saw or heard any humans or animals larger than a bird the entire time, though.
I had heated some rocks around the fire so when it came time to go to bed, I put them under my hammock to keep me warm. It worked pretty well for a couple hours. Here's a video on using hot rocks if you're interested.
At some point, shivering in my sleeping bag, I peeked out and realized it was morning. I sat up and saw this:
When I was able to keep Juneau off of me long enough to get out of my sleeping bag and put on my shoes, I gave him breakfast and we finished the little bit of water we had left. I had decided that without any water and no guarantee that there would be water further up the trail, the safest and smartest thing to do would simply be to head home. We packed up and were on the trail by about 6:45 a.m., going a different way than how we had come in.
The view from my campsite at sunrise.
Camera batteries died so this was taken with my phone.
On our way out, we passed a tiny flowing creek and I was able to get some water for the rest of the hike. It was so tiny that I could see both where it started and ended from one spot. My mind had been made up about going home so I didn't consider getting water from it and then turning around and camping somewhere, nor did I consider camping by the creek as it was so tiny and only about 8:00 in the morning when we found it. I don't know what I would have done all day just sitting there. Napped, I guess. Juneau was too thirsty to wait for me to filter water for him and he drank heartily directly from the stream. He seems to be suffering no ill effects.
I reached my car at about 9:20 and was home by around 11. I'm disappointed by the pseudo-failure of my trip, but I learned from the experience. My body was pretty sore the next day (yesterday), so I'm also glad I didn't push my body to do more than I was really prepared to do. Still, I hope I can go out again soon, next time with a (human) friend.
God bless.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Ten-years-ago Me
I had what might be considered an out-of-body experience today in which I saw myself from my 13-year-old self's perspective.
I was driving, with the warm sun shining in on my arms and face and the mountains in full view on my right, a cool song I'd never heard before playing on the radio. From my current perspective, it was a slightly above-average experience, however the fact that I was driving to the shop to pay $130 on a car repair for a problem that had no drivability symptoms neutralized the moment significantly.
Suddenly, I wondered what ten-years-ago me would think if she could see me in that moment, and realized I was the epitome of coolness. I looked cool: I was wearing cute shoes, dark skinny jeans, aviators, and my favorite teal tank top. My red hair was braided down the back and my double-pierced ears were decorated. I was in my very own car, driving parallel to snow-capped mountains, jamming out. And I was doing cool things: being an adult getting car repairs, spending adult-sized money, working, going to grad school. My 13-year-old self was dazzled. She was thrilled that over the next ten years she would become so awesome. She couldn't wait for that one moment in the car to come.
I think people tend to get really down because they compare themselves so unrealistically to others' "ideal" lives. We look at all the cool people and we're jealous of their coolness. We look at our future and despair with the fear that it won't all turn out like we hope. We daydream about the things we want to do but don't have the time or money or even motivation for and conclude that our life is useless and stupid.
But I think looking at yourself from an outside perspective can help. What would ten-years-ago you think of you? What have you accomplished that you never thought you would? What are you doing right now, in this moment in your life, that would impress someone younger and less experienced? Something as simple as working a full-time job is noteworthy. Something as normal as renting your own apartment and furnishing it yourself can seem incredibly grown-up and cool to someone who hasn't left mom and dad's yet.
Your life isn't perfect, obviously, but neither is the person's next to you. Be optimistic: if ten-years ago you is impressed by present you, think how cool present you would find ten-years-from-now you. I like where I am now, a lot, but I'm excited to meet 33-year-old Maryann. She is probably super awesome.
God bless.
I was driving, with the warm sun shining in on my arms and face and the mountains in full view on my right, a cool song I'd never heard before playing on the radio. From my current perspective, it was a slightly above-average experience, however the fact that I was driving to the shop to pay $130 on a car repair for a problem that had no drivability symptoms neutralized the moment significantly.
Suddenly, I wondered what ten-years-ago me would think if she could see me in that moment, and realized I was the epitome of coolness. I looked cool: I was wearing cute shoes, dark skinny jeans, aviators, and my favorite teal tank top. My red hair was braided down the back and my double-pierced ears were decorated. I was in my very own car, driving parallel to snow-capped mountains, jamming out. And I was doing cool things: being an adult getting car repairs, spending adult-sized money, working, going to grad school. My 13-year-old self was dazzled. She was thrilled that over the next ten years she would become so awesome. She couldn't wait for that one moment in the car to come.
I think people tend to get really down because they compare themselves so unrealistically to others' "ideal" lives. We look at all the cool people and we're jealous of their coolness. We look at our future and despair with the fear that it won't all turn out like we hope. We daydream about the things we want to do but don't have the time or money or even motivation for and conclude that our life is useless and stupid.
But I think looking at yourself from an outside perspective can help. What would ten-years-ago you think of you? What have you accomplished that you never thought you would? What are you doing right now, in this moment in your life, that would impress someone younger and less experienced? Something as simple as working a full-time job is noteworthy. Something as normal as renting your own apartment and furnishing it yourself can seem incredibly grown-up and cool to someone who hasn't left mom and dad's yet.
Your life isn't perfect, obviously, but neither is the person's next to you. Be optimistic: if ten-years ago you is impressed by present you, think how cool present you would find ten-years-from-now you. I like where I am now, a lot, but I'm excited to meet 33-year-old Maryann. She is probably super awesome.
God bless.
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