"write about the depravity of the human condition"

The killed him on the table. Metal tables, dentist trays, even stethoscopes, things designed to save people's lives. All metal in hospitals is cold, it retains the cold, it is the cold. The coldness of death, perhaps. Blue lips, a loss of color in the cheeks. Even though the table he laid upon had a cushion, it was cold. They killed him on the table.

There was metal and plastic everywhere. Blades, tubes, wires, plugs, tongs, tweezers, tools, and needles. Electricity pulsed across the screen, and through the machine except for the line, long and lean. His chest lay open, a cavernous chest split apart and cracked. They went to work on him, fusing his organic flesh and blood and life with their metal and plastic and electricity. And then they killed him on the table.

Mind you, the machine is man made and so is the man, I know, made by a man and a woman to be natural, warm-blooded and alive. Was he made with faults, though? Are we humans flawed? Is it enough for us to be killed or kill ourseves? Nevermind our moral upsets and mistakes, although the soul and body are connected, and we do not have a soul, we are one soul with a body but I'll need a new pen for that image. Nevermind that the soul of the man they killed on the table was flawed by his own actions and that of Adam. His heart was flawed. It wasn't strong enough. And so they killed him on the table.

It doesn't seem fair that a man not only has to worry about the condition and the health of his soul, when we are all so soiled to begin with and it's not our fault. No, we have to worry about our bodies, bodies that are forms we live in but cannot always control, and we carry organs we cannot touch or maintain with a socket wrench or car wax or a piano tuner. The man they killed couldn't open his own chest and floss the plaque from his arteries or pick up a toothpick on his way out of a restaurant after eating a savory, saucy steak with dripping fat, and pick out the blockages like he wouldn't lettuce from his canines. It doesn't seem fair that this poor man should suffer coldly for that which he could not hardly help.

The killed him on the table.

long time no blog

The Wailin' Jennys - "Beautiful Dawn"


Take me to the breaking of a beautiful dawn
Take me to the place where we come from
Take me to the end so I can see the start
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me to the place where I don't feel so small
Take me where I don't need to stand so tall
Take me to the edge so I can fall apart
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me where love isn't up for sale
Take me where our hearts are not so frail
Take me where the fire still owns its spark
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Teach me how to see when I close my eyes
Teach me to forgive and to apologize
Show me how to love in the darkest dark
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me where the angels are close at hand
Take me where the ocean meets the sky and the land
Show me to the wisdom of the evening star
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

Take me to the place where I feel no shame
Take me where the courage doesn't need a name
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There's only one way to mend a broken heart

---

"Exodus"
» Bethany Dillon
Come, come fallen ones
Dance in the healing stream
He has faithfully kept you
Brought you out of captivity

Rejoice, rejoice with all your hearts
Sing Him a new song
That’s heard high on the windswept mountains
It will resound

Lead, Lord, with unfailing love
Those that You have ransomed
And we will sing out as we go on
Our God is faithful
Our God is faithful

Reflect, reflect on all your days
You weren’t so free then
Once you were all called slaves
But now, blessed children

Move, move your feet
Dance before the Lord
On to the Promised Land
On to your reward, sing

Lead, Lord, with unfailing love
Those that You have ransomed
And we will sing out as we go on
Our God is faithful
Our God is faithful

Our enemies are at the bottom of the sea, our enemies
Our enemies are at the bottom of the sea, our enemies

Lead, Lord, with unfailing love
Those that You have ransomed
And we will sing out as we go on
Our God is faithful
Lead, Lord, with unfailing love
Those that You have ransomed
And we will sing out as we go on
Our God is faithful
Our God is faithful
Our God is faithful (our God is faithful)
Our God is faithful

Lois Lane

As the countdown begins and the remaining seconds, days, weeks, moments left of summer tick by until I bid this beautiful state adieu, I am wrapping up jobs and commitments that have truly defined the time that I've been home. (Obviously, I didn't learn about how to cut down my run-on sentences.)

I battled my last deadline yesterday, turning in my article with a half-hour or so to spare, and took my official photograph for the column I'll continue throughout the school year. I never would have thought when I was pouting outside a graduation party in May about my boring summer (I had been home for a week) that I would be a published reporter by August. I never would have been able to imagine when I started my blog in February that I would have my own column with my own 12" to share my thoughts with Tri-Town readers. And part of me still thinks that no one actually reads my words every other Tuesday, but I think they do! I have to hope that they do...

We are so completely unaware of the changes that will occur in our lives when we wake up each day and greet the morning. And whether or not we greet that rising sun with a smile and an earnest handshake, or a frown and a slap in the face, we will learn, we will experience, we will change.

And sometimes things are so comfy-cozy, am I right? Sometimes, where we live currently is as wonderful as nustling into a warm blanket in front of a fire when it's snowing outside and your signficant other is whispering sweet nothings in your ear. (I love Christmas.) And we are driving down our life's highway, and we see this road sign and it tells us that "change" is coming our way in 100!, 70!, 30!, 0! miles and we screech on the breaks because, holy moly, we don't want to leave our paradise!

I think the biggest leap you can take is keeping your hope alive that when your foot steps on that accelerator again and you take the exit for "change," that you will enter into a more wonderful experience than before. And for me that would be a warm blanket to nustle into, a roaring fire, my signifcant other and Frank Sinatra crooning while I eat Godiva Rasberry Chocolate Truffle ice cream and don't gain a single holiday pound.

Put that on my Christmas list.

And you can just call me Lois Lane, what with all the reports I've been reporting, but don't you think that the real challenge in leaping to "change" is putting your foot on that accelerator? If I'm Miss Lane, where is my Superman? And I'm not falling from buildings, but I need some help putting the pedal to the metal. Jesus, my Superman (how cheesy can I get?), give me strength to have a lead foot!

The day just seems brighter, folks.
And I think it's because the mileage for "change" on my road signs are decreasing and decreasing, slowly but surely. I'll be heading back east, I'll turn my back on my sweet Rocky Mountain Paradise for a few months, and I'll greet the new New England days with open arms, a warm smile, and an earnest handshake.

The Chronicles of Marijuana

I mean.. Narnia... I mean.. crap!

No, I did not flub up the title. I meant to insert the word marijuana into the title box. And don't judge me because I did!

Once upon a time, last semester, I wrote a research essay on the effects of marijuana and why it should not be legalized to benefit our youthful generation, and those generations to come. And all of the words that were gathered together to make up this essay were ones that I thought purposeful because I've seen friends come and go, and where they've gone is a land filled with smoke and no sense of valuable life. And I've got the shakes just thinking about the people I love in life who run the risk of ruining their reality all for the sake of a good high.

And maybe I've got the shakes because I forgot to eat lunch, too.
I don't have the munchies today, it seems.

I come from a land filled with weed and hippies, tree-huggers and vegans. Where most spend their whole paycheck's at Whole Foods because everyone here knows that organic food will make you immortal much like the worship of crystals will. And a lot of people here only wear Birkenstocks, and I bet you anything that a lot of them did acid in the 60s. This land is called Boulder, Colorado. And I just don't know how I fit into all of this.

I've never been high, I really have no interest in being high (unless my travels take me to Amsterdam...just kidding...am I kidding?) , and I doubt that I ever will be higher than 35,000 feet whilst riding an airplane to and from Massachusetts or elsewehere in this big, fat world.

But where does that put me into relation to all of the people I know who regularly smoke or get baked from eating baked goods filled with their beloved Mary Jane? Will I forever be excluded? Does it even matter?

I believe it does matter. Because at the end of the day, we all have a need for human contact and relational love, and whether or not I am able to breach the gap between the drugged and the sober, and still connect with my friends and loved ones... I will push those boundaries, build that bridge to the other side where I can still BE with my people who I care so much about that I won't let marijuana come between us.

patty griffin

She sees him laying in the bed alone tonight
The only thing a touching him is a crack of light
Pieces of her hair are wrapped around and 'round his fingers
And he reaches for her side, for any sign of her that lingers

And she says you are not alone
Laying in the light
Put out the fire in your head
And lay with me tonight

One of them bullets went straight for the jugular vein
There were people running , a flash of light
Then everything changed
Nothing really matters in the end you know
All the worrys sever
Don't be afraid for me my friend, one day we all fall down forever




She says you are not alone
Laying in the light
Put out the fire in your head
And lay with me tonight

The wedding date was June just like any other bride
She loved him like no one before and it was good to be alive
But sometimes that can slip away as fast
As any fingers through your hands
So you let time forgive the past and go and make some other plans

You are not alone
Laying in the light
Put out the fire in your head
And lay with me tonight
You are not alone
Laying in the light
Put out the fire in your head
And lay with me tonight

Attempt at a column... take two...

I actually longed for my own business card today. I daydreamed about donning a fancy suit. It is safe to say that I have entered the era of life where I desire a career, and I am not even sure what it means.

My first exposure to the idea of a career was watching my father sign receipts in his office at a major brokerage firm when I was only a few years old. I didn’t understand the meaning of his signature nor the numbers running across the ticker tape on the bottom of his office stock-tracking television. Somehow, though, I was able to grasp the concept of what it meant to go to an office everyday, wear a suit and shake hands with a firm and steady grip. It was about identity.

As my father’s daughter, I traveled from city to city, grasping the hand of a financial powerhouse. Through airports, meetings and luncheons, I had a front row seat watching the leading man in my life, my dearest Dad, wrap the brokerage business around his little finger.

Described to me years later as a constant game of Russian Roulette where there was always at least one bullet, he went to work everyday in one of the most stressful and intense careers an individual can choose. He walked the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, ran numbers in his head faster than I could type them on my calculator, and kept the offices he managed in glistening condition. This was his career.

But what happens when that career disappears, when the show is over? What happens when your health fails, when the business you invested so much time in slips out of your firm and steady hand? Do you lose your identity, and what about a second chance?

Are careers dream-jobs or desks we are chained to? I would hope that I am entering a work force where I am not bound to just one. I’d rather dip my feet into many pools of choice and creativity, until one suits my fancy and I can take a swim until my fingers get all pruney.

Whether it’s trading stocks or typing words into a column, this young dreamer hopes that careers are more than just suits and paychecks. An identity should not rest on a resume or a diploma, but rather on the understanding that life is about rolling with the punches and the quality of it concerns picking yourself up when the bells rings.

If careers are like plays and the identity found in it like playing a part in a show, I’d have to say that when the curtains close on one career, shedding tears during the final bow is perfectly understandable. But for goodness sake, a career as a human being isn’t over. Gather your roses, sign a few autographs, and move on to the next stage in life.

Your fans are waiting.

column #1

I declared my own independence beneath the East Balcony of the Old State House in Boston, Massachusetts.

It was from that beautiful balcony that the people of Boston first heard their Declaration of Independence from Britain just a few days after it was signed in 1776, and I stumbled over it while on a tour of the city’s educational “Freedom Trail” 230 years later.

I was a fresh new college student 2,000 miles away from my Colorado home. Never had I embarked on such an extraordinary journey, and never had I gazed at such a monumental symbol of my impending freedom.

Growing up is a tough thing to do. As a young woman entering her twenties, I am currently on the edge of something large, a defining era in my life. I have entered the age of “discovering myself,” and I believe it is fair to say that this requires a fair amount of reflection. Who am I, where do I come from, who do I want to be?

Unfortunately, I find it difficult in this day and age to find pride in being young. I am always looking for an excuse to make myself out to be older than I actually am. Maybe this stems from the thought that with age comes knowledge, experience and wisdom. I keep thinking that the greatest jobs will come when I graduate from college, that the best opportunities in life will come as I age. This is the logic that most of my peers and myself hold, and it is a burden that we need to be rid of. No one should ever think that they couldn’t accomplish their goals, reach their destination, and achieve success because they are young.

And our Founding Fathers can testify to this statement.

The Founding Fathers of these United States of America were somewhat young when they took on the tricky task of declaring their independence from the world’s most powerful empire. When the Declaration of Independence was signed, John Adams was all of 40 years old, and Thomas Jefferson was 33. Benjamin Rush was only 30 when he put his pen (or quill, rather) to the page. None of these men and the countless number of other patriots had ever started a revolution before. They were not trained militiamen or practiced politicians. Quite simply, they were individuals with a cause, a goal, and a destination. They did not let their lack of experience or age bind them from seeking their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

This is what I will be thinking of as I watch the fireworks crack with color against the dark night sky, and spoon heaps of relish onto my chicken bratwurst at the family barbecue this July 4th.

My thoughts will be resting on the beautiful idea that I am a young, proud-to-be-an-American woman with the ability to achieve glorious things in this world. It is with this statement that I know I am on my way to answering the question: who do you want to be?

Who I want to be is an individual who lives her life testifying to the self-evident truths that all men, young or old, are created equal. That is what being an American means to me.


Happy Independence Day, sweet land of liberty.

it's all in japanese...

I am writing to you from a computer that has a default language setting of Japanese. It's a strange feeling, not being able to read commands, and yet still know how to navigate a page that has become such a familiar outlet of self-expression.

I am continually amazed at how perfect God's plan is being unfurled before me this summer. First with MontBell, then with the newspaper internship, and now relationships and acquaintances at work that are being shoved into the spotlight... I lose my breath when I realize how deeply God knows me. Through and through, I am a necessary part of this Earth and he hasn't ceased in showing me my value and his love for me.

What started as a seemingly mediocre summer has turned into a phase or era of life that is overflowing with opportunities to learn and dream and grow. Here I thought I wanted so many things, I believed that my path in life was destined for a different, more acceptable course, but no. No, I find myself standing in the middle of my hometown, gazing out into the haze that forms a screen between the Rocky Mountains and my own self, and yet I sense that I have never seen so clearly where I truly belong.

Life is rocky, it changes and moves and there are falls you've never seen coming. And I can't outfit myself with enough self-help books or sturdy hiking boots or all the right foods and exercises. There is no formula to follow for a whole and full life. Isn't that bothersome at times when you have no where to turn, and your on course for a destination that might prove to have no result?

I feel so deeply, it's unbelievable. Everything in life matters, every facet of life has an impact on my mind, soul, body and spirit. I am intense, and some say (with words or actions) that I am hard to handle. I carry the running river of the world with me wherever I go. Memories of the past, dreams of the future, encounters with everyday bullies or extraordinary individuals. I recall the most minute details of times with the ones I love and grieve with mighty force over the ones I've lost.

I don't ask anyone to understand this. I simply hope for the best, hope that I will wake up each morning with perspective and an eagerness to not let the fallen nature of the world bring me down.

Or maybe I do ask. Maybe I ask with every breath I take. There is the chance that I beg, even plead, with my actions to be seen and understood as the person I was designed to be.

From Reno

There are times when I don't feel alive.

Get this. I'm driving down 93 along the mountains and the perfect blue of the sky in the west is making the storm clouds to the east look eerie. I'm nervous. I'm scared.

And I'm trying everything. I'm giving myself pep talks. There's no volume and I'm driving in silence. And I know that this is just a mindset, that this is just something I do to myself. Don't know why. All I know is, I need some perspective.

Life is just life. It's complicated. It's full of anxieties and miscommunications. And sometimes we want to move on, move along, move move move. I yearn for things to change, to change back or forward and always be different. Yet, when I think about how God has blessed me, I come to this solid understanding that I am breathing in air that is meant just for me. I am a piece of God's plan. An honest, true, necessary piece.

We will never know where our feet are headed. We will never fully understand why we walk this earth. We have fallen, we are unclean. How unsettling. The redemption lies in the only solid ground we have, an eternal God, a comforting Father, a magnficent Creator, a faithful Love, a wise Friend.

And so I've got my foot on the gas and the wind is in my hair and I'm a true course. It's scary but it's full. I'm nervous but I'm not alone. Oh, what an earth we live in. Oh, what a God whom we call our savior.

Oh, what peace I have in my heart.
Praise God.

Sweet, sweet love...

A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket. ~Charles Peguy

Dusk and Summer

Dashboard had it right. I am smiling like the world is mine.

The clouds look dusty this evening, like they are carrying the dirt off of old cowboys and stories of the Old West. I'm perched here above Niwot, and my view of the Front Range is one unlike any other. The golden sun is fading and falling behind the musty clouds.

And this is what I was made for: wide open spaces and the unending sky.

I am eager to put the first half of the last 12 months far behind me. I'll leave those days to the pages of the history books. And there were nights where I watched the fan circle round and round, and others where I shivered in a flannel comforter in chilly New England. Summers, Winters, Falls and Springs come and gone and now, here I sit, with nothing but the moment before me. There is no use in holding on to the memories that crumble my heart, no point in snooping for dirt that will only soil a nearly perfect storybook-like summer I've already been given.

It's Anne vs. Wild, and I'm building fires and scaling the tallest of trees.
And I'm covered by a blanket of darkness at 2 in the morning, whispering and wishing that time would stretch and wrap itself infinitely around me so that the night would never end.
This is for all those times that I the dial tone rang loudly in my ear, the phone shut off and I rolled over to face Ferrin Field alone.

I'm a reporter. Just call me Lois Lane.
I'm adventurous. Follow me into the wilderness.
I am who I am.

Praise God.

Long time since...

What is summer anyway? I don't necessarily need a definition from Webster. Maybe just a quick glance at my maps--Napa, Washington D.C, Greece, the World and so much more... Where to, Anne Taylor? My imagination is my taxi and summer is my driver. So maybe Summer has a foreign accent? Strange because I've been living this season for 20 years.

Maybe it's a season of goals, of tending to the land, of tending to the color of your skin. Staying alive via Salsa dancing and some cool Pico de Gallo. Going on holiday. Going for a run. Going home.

Time seems to pass by so quickly, and I have been brainstorming ways that I can preserve this holiday for as long as possible. Eliminate my addiction to productivity. Stop crossing off days on the calendar. I think I owe it to myself to let the days of June, July and August fly freely across the weeks of the calendar without having the chains of a line drawn sharply across the number. Squeak, a thick line of ink, bold and bloody. It screams out, "you're done! you're gone to the pages of history books!" I don't want my days to be so bound. I'd rather they dance all over my skin, bronzed or fair, either way.

And I doubt that I've begun to fade away (Anna), no. I am as vibrant as ever! That sweet smell of far-bloomed flowers wafting through the air, circling around me, spinning me to the setting sun, to the wide open spaces, to the open prairie and the scent of wine and barbecue. What a strange time in life, to break from incessant studies and bizarre adventures in college world to return home. I don't want to regain a sense of normality, of reality, of everyday ho-hum, hum-drum life. So much has changed, how would you ever expect this summer to be one of lounging and making my mother do my laundry, of sneaking alcohol into our bellies, fighting our age, sticking it to the man?

On the contrary, Niwot has become even more of a storybook to enjoy and to be fought. My insides groan and long for the taste of youth in my mouth. I am proud to be 19. My last year of being a teenager. I'll keep my last name for years and years. I won't ever marry till I've rid myself of the trashy addiction that is facebook. I'll see the sun from all angles, I'll feel it's warmth slide away from all corners of the earth, and I'll write about it all. I'll greet 20 with open arms, and 21 with thirst! What a laugh! 22, 23, 24, 25.. oh, who knows? Who wants to know?

This summer has such a theme. Don't let go of my youth, don't fade, don't tire... keep dreaming, keep sailing, keep my eyes wandering across the map in search of a new destination.

What a time to shine!

roomie love

I'm thinking some pictures taken on Photobooth are a necessity this evening for Amy's last night in Ferrin 115. It is a surreal experience to endure; time has rushed past us all and within the blink of an eye, it is May and we are going home. Are these months really over? Is freshman year really gone? What about all the people I had to meet and the places I had to go and the things I had to learn? Did I accomplish all of that?

Oh, maybe I did.

Where are Tricia and Davia when I need to debrief? I need to go up to the third floor and start yelling, "Tricia!" I need to discuss the impact of this year on my life almost as much as I did when a spring-loaded 'beaner split David Wolfe's eye open. I need. I want. Me me me. Needs, wants, desires.

August, September, October, December, February, February, April, May... and I'm here. And sure, I missed some months, and it feels like there were two February's, but technically, my calendar was mainly used to count down the days until I saw my boyfriend. And there were so many days and nights when I didn't want to be here. And there were so many tears shed and sighs released and eyes rolled at the thought "Why am I here?"

I am here because I am called to be here. And I know what you're thinking, "Anne, what does that mean anyway? To be called to something or some place?" And I'm saying that up until 2 minutes ago, I was asking the same thing. And I am sure that 2 minutes from now I will be questioning it all over again. But as Sara Groves sings to me sweetly and my blank walls reflect the 9 months of my presence back to me, I can confidently say that God calling me to Gordon means that he has a complex and unique plan. It is fearfully and beautifully made. And being called to Gordon means that those long conversations last Spring, and the many letters, and the broken heart from Romania and the sickness when I was 11, and the Rocky Mountains and the voices of youth a thousand strong at summer conference and the knowledge of all those worship songs... the times out on the trampoline last summer and ending things at the swing set and all the slurs and sloppy situations I endured... the laughter and the grief and the misunderstandings that brought joyful clarity... all of that brought me to one moment where I sat in a chair at a Logan International Airport thinking to myself, "this is home."


Last night, Caitlin made me crawl into her new REI sleeping bag and try it out while she packed. And I needed a good cry so I let my eyes well up and talked about how stretched I feel between to homesweethomes. And then Cait, being the music muse she is, played some Elijah Wyman for me:
---
Stretched across this continent, I'm home.
Boston to Los Angeles, I'll roam.
I've fallen in love with each coast for a reason,
these reasons so rooted, I can't choose between them.
Pacific Coast, you're so open.
You ain't seen it's waters, you ain't seen the ocean
and I'm trying so hard, I can hardly keep up here.
And I'm breaking my back and it's barely enough for you.
Home is where the heart is and my heart I gave to you
wherever you will lead, oh, I will follow suit.
Home is where the heart is and my heart I gave to you.
We packed our bags in the summer of 1998.
And I swear each year that I returned, not a thing has changed.
Cause time stands away from me and I am always changing
Everything is just the same as except a few more lanes on the highway
Home is where the heart is and my heart I gave to you
Wherever you will lead, or I will follow suit
Home is where the heart is and my heart I gave to you.
Time stands away from me and I am always changing
TIme stands away from me and I am always changing
TIme stands away from me and I am always changing
Pacific Coast is so open, you ain't seen it's waters
you ain't seen the ocean.
---

And I'd like to read this song for what it is: me telling God that he has my heart and that home is where my heart is. Because stretched across this continent, I carry a sense of home with me as I fly above cities and prairies from one to the next, and it's true that I've fallen in love with the east and the west for a reason and these reasons are so rooted I can choose between them. And sometimes I feel as if no one understands those mountains I see every morning, their pink hue and the majesty of my soul when I stand in awe of them, and no one understands how I can feel so suffocated beneath these trees when I am used to the wide open prairie. But home is where the heart is and my heart is given to God. But I already told you that...

So here we go, Amy is packing her hair dryer and she comments, "Oh, I'm having a good hair night." I'm ready to pack up my fingers for the evening and slip between my flannel and hit the hay. I'm on the brink of something large, and I believe I'm prepared to face the day tomorrow and let go of the 2006-2007 school year.



Time stands away from me and I am always changing. But at least for tonight, Ferrin 115 is filled with love.

the sky is banging pans together

fear wears a cloak. it carries a dagger.
it's beady eyes sit awkwardly in its sunken face, and always are shifty.
fear makes other people nervous.
they don't want to get mugged.
when fear walks, he stalks.
he has a long stride with shaky knees.
his breath is ice cold.
fear binds others, but is himself bound in the heavy chains of guilt, greed
and a lack of knowledge.
fear takes captives.
they wither away, they never live.
fear, in his hooded cape, with his beady eyes and clammy hands--
he sucks out their souls.
all that is left is more fear.

borrowed quotes

"The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them."
Thomas Merton

"You don't have a Soul. You are a Soul. You have a body."
Clive Staples Lewis

big brown box

Packing always leaves a residue on my hands. They're filthy from going through all my dirt... I've always liked being clean.

But it's helping my soul. Clearing out this room, this room that has held so much laughter, confusion, grief and determination. Questions have bounced off all the walls, and endless dreams have drifted up from my sleeping head through the ceiling. Prayers given, prayers answered.

This last week and a half at Gordon is looming over my head. I am filled with angst. How do I find peace amidst all of my tasks and to-do lists? Is peace something worked for? Is it a gift?

I wish I could be given peace in a big box with a golden bow, but I have a feeling it is more like crossing a finish line after a marathon. Running through that red ribbon with my hands raised high.

The question I'm asking as I close boxes with strong, sticky tape is: where is my finish line to cross?

An Excerpt

Grey rubber erasers and green pencils with silver tops sit beside her. Both utensils smell strongly of graphite, and the pencil tips vary from perfectly pointed to dull and done. One sits between her fingers and palm; it presses against the plain white paper, gliding to and fro with quick, graceful motions. A few flicks upwards, two or three circular motions, some shading around the bottom and an image starts to unfold. Every now and then, she’ll sit back and give a judging look at her drawing. She’ll ask herself it it’s right, if it’s what she wants to replicate from her mind’s image. This immerging artist slaves over her craft, earnestly trying to perfect her technique and style.

All of this happens in a small studio with cold tile floors covered in fallen paint. It’s 1973 and Karen is a junior in college. Her long brown locks, straight as a board, are swept up backwards by a bandanna. Her feet are bare; she discarded her leather sandals by her worn book bag. And as this young woman scribbles and doodles her way to a finished display of her own imagination, Emmylou Harris sings from the radio. The song fits the place; the title “Boulder to Birmingham” sweeps around Karen’s ears as she works on the University of Colorado campus in Boulder, Colorado. It’s the only Emmylou song she’ll remember from her days as an art student. But she’s a fool for the female singer-songwriter; the folk songs of Miss Harris’ future will be Karen’s fuel for the creativity that guides her soul.

"weird"

The definition of weird is not something that I would have thought it to be.

adj. : suggesting something supernatural or uncanny.
informal: very strange, bizarre

Did you know that the adjective in Middle English meant to control someone's destiny...

Well, I don't know if me being bizarre, uncanny and very strange will allow me to control someone's destiny... but the day isn't over yet.

This all came about as I walked back from the shower this morning. I'm slip, slip sliding back to my room in my shower shoes and my wet hair is sticking this way and that and I run into Chloe, my across-the-hall neighbor. Today is her one year anniversary with her boyfriend, so as I open the door to my room, I begin to wish her a happy anniversary. Midsentence, however, I remember my napping roommate. I get out "Happy Anniv--" at a normal volume, and then switch to whispering "--ersary!" and she says "Oh thank you!" at a normal volume, straight into the open door, towards sleeping roommate's ears. I try my best to interrupt her with "My roommate is sleeping!" in a stressed, whispered voice, and she catches on saying "Whoops!" in a whisper, as she walks to her room. Now that I properly corrected my napping-roommate ediquette and informed Chloe of Amy's current state, I continued on into my room and shut the door. It is only as I close the door, however, that I realize that as I spoke to Chloe, my eyes were glancing downwards towards the floor. I had my head tilted towards my room to suggest Amy's presence, and my voice was lowered to indicate the necessity of being quiet, but instead of making eye contact with the person I was conversing with, my eyes were instead pointed toward some random stretch of carpet.

I scream in my own head, What?! Am I crazy?! I must have looked like some contorted, bizarre, very strange individual in a towel with wet hair whisperig crazily about my napping roommate... I'M WEIRD.

I immediately decided this was worth blogging. I pulled out my chair to sit down at my computer, and had to dodge the 5 pairs of shoes sitting around my desk in order to take my place in front of the screen without stumbling. Shoes everywhere, wet hair, crazy looks, sleeping roommates, a towel, a scared across-the-hall neighbor and a living definition of weird.

It's just another day in the life of Anne Taylor.

Spring Fever

I would like a scientist to explain to me the process of how and when the grass will turn lush green. I had it explained to me yesterday morning that the trees won't bud until it is above freezing at night, but it's April and shouldn't it be warming up? 45 degree weather in the middle of this month just doesn't suit me.

The weather here is completely foreign to me. I am convinced that New England is very confused about it's weather patterns.

Maybe I daydream too much about sun dresses, bronze skin, bare feet and cowboy hats. Maybe dancing in the sand and a sunset after 7pm is too much to ask of Masschusetts.

Meh.

anna begins to change her mind

I've always wanted to have a soundtrack to my life. Do you know what I mean? There are those moments in life where the power of life would put you over the edge if the theme music would kick in at just the right moment. You're walking along the beach and you'd love to hear a soft acoustic guitar strum your heart strings. You're standing on top of a mountain and the trumpet's mighty call would be perfection. You're driving along an American highway with the windows down and a good folk song, with a twang and a fiddle, would bring the world back.

anna begins. round here. holiday in spain. mr. jones. miami. up all night.

We're talking over dinner and we come to the conclusion that life is best when it is simple. We realize that simplicity is a beautiful gift. We chomp down on parmesan encrusted french fries and wrap our lips around scallops. We hold hands in front of the waiter. He orders for me. And life can't get any better than year 19. Or so it seems.

Until it's 1am and someone decides that Counting Crows is a necessity.

I can't describe to you what living two different lives is like. I'm sure some of you have an idea. It's similar to time travel. And the stress in my shoulders is from being hit with one of those cartoon anvils. When the flight back to Boston approaches, I get flattened into the ground out of nowhere. I'm sad. I'm sentimental. I ask so many questions.

But I'm starting to think that if simplicity is a gift, and if sometimes God blesses us with those storybook moments in lofts with one light and Counting Crows, then the race is worth running. That reinflating my body after throwing the anvil out of the Anne-shaped hole in the ground has to be done. I go about living. I go about dreaming. I go on seeking the moments in life where joy is no longer just a muscle movement on my face but the very blood that courses through my veins.

"Come on baby. Let's go shut it down in New Orleans..."

responsibility

As I go to sleep, I pair my jammies with my boyfriend's socks. He knows I stole them. The extra room around my toes reminds me that when we play footsie, his bigger feet represent a male strength of heart that is a part of why I'm attracted to him. I'm taller than my most of the women in my family. I'm like a little mouse in his arms.

What girl wouldn't want to find herself in tears from laughing so hard at a frighteningly scary face a handsome boy makes just to keep her giggling? What girl wouldn't want a dozen roses sent two thousand miles through the mail a day early so as not to miss Valentine's Day?

I'm simply Anna.

Proverbs 31:25-27, 29-30

"25 She is clothed with strength and dignity;
she can laugh at the days to come.

26 She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue.

27 She watches over the affairs of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness...

29 ... "Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all."

30 Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised."

---
1 Corinthians 11:11-12

"11 In the Lord, however, woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman. 12 For as woman came from man, so also man is born of woman. But everything comes from God."

the bass

This morning I set out on an exciting endeavor: hooking up my subwoofer. The glistening white sub and pair of speakers has been sitting beneath my bed for the entirety of this past school year. There have been attempts at unleashing its audio power, but no successes to date.

It was approximately 10 a.m. and I had an hour left before work. With newly dried hair and an outfit already picked out, I shuffled around my closet...ahem, room looking for something to do. I tap, tap, tapped the volume key on my beloved companion, Mr. MacBook Pro, and sighed when the highest level was insufficient for my listening enjoyment...

Then, as you might imagine, the light was switched on! The amazing subwoofer! The cute little speakers! Epiphany!

Hence, my satisfied ears as I sit here scribbling some words to you.



The countdown has begun. I have one week till I am back on Colorado soil. It has been a short two and a half weeks since I last left, and I must admit, I am a bit bummed about my quick return. Easter Break came too soon, for in a few short weeks, I'll be drowing in exams and preparation for finals, and my mind will be dreaming of the Colorado sunshine that is such a jewel to me. Frankly, I'm shocked at my feelings towards Gordon. Only a few weeks ago, I WAS transferring. There was no questioning for me; I had all but moved into a random DU dorm room and claimed it as my own. I was set on leaving Massachusetts.

God works in mysterious ways, though, for as I stepped out of Jenks Library today onto the smooshed, brown quad, I couldn't help but laugh at how much I feel at home. What changed? Well, the answer is found in one simple word: Maine. Maine changed everything my friends. In actuality, Maine was merely a destination for me and some newly-found friends from the Gordon Rock Gym. We were climbing one Tuesday in February and the question was asked in my general direction: do you want to go to Maine?

Me: Maine? Where in Maine?
Holly: L.L. Bean
Me: When?
Holly: Tomorrow
Me: Oh, I have class till 9pm. (This was said with a sad tone)
Holly: Yeah, I can't go till about 10pm. L.L. Bean is open 24 hours.
(Me thinking: An all night adventure to a state I've never been before, to a store whose catalog I religously get in the mail upon moving to New England, with friends that make me laugh harder than I ever have since moving all the way here?... Hell yes!)
Me: Sure!

The road trip was a blast, as you can imagine. But what the real significant change took place in my heart. I had finally found a family. It was not just the common interests or the jokes we make about slack-lining mishaps, it's the encouragement given. The mentality I stumbled upon is only of encouragement and positive conversation. I've never enjoyed learning more. I have immersed myself in a simple, healthy lifestyle that only breeds confidence. So, maybe it was the rock gym that changed everything. Or the people I've come to know and hold so dear to my heart. But in actuality, it was the God upon who I call above all else, my friend, my confidant, the lover of my soul who knows all my deepest secrets and is devoted to me just the same.

Who would have ever thought that I would make the North Shore of Boston my home? I am just a western girl, who gazed upon the foothills of the Rocky Mountains everyday of her life, who lived a mile high in the sky and said goodnight to fire-blazed sunsets... And yet, I look out at the tall pine's swaying in the strong winds that blow the smell of salt in from the Atlantic, and hear the crusty, nasal accents of the Puritanical New England-er's, I realize this was all made for me. I fit like a lost puzzle piece here. I might be quirky around the edges, but I'm the brightly colored piece you peg for a fit right away.

So, this is what you call life.



"Just live." -Caitlin

a few lines

The Soldier, by Rupert Brook.

If I should die, think only this of me;
That there's some corner of a foriegn field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given,
Her sights and sounds; dreams hapy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


---


On Having Said Something Cruel, by Daniel Anderson

Imagine Helen on the sun-bright bow
As she was spirited away
Through filaments of rainbow in the spray,
Through lacy counterpanes of foam.
She might have guessed the thrill could never last,
Or that her suitor would not always be
A dashing, doting, love-struck boy.

But who among those mortals could foresee
The bloody decade lost at Troy,
Their swift ship lunging headlong home,
The sea behind them in their sunlit wake
A gold and copper scattering of coins,
Extravagantly spent like so much love
Or all the bastard sons of Priam's loins?

"I hear a rhythm call me, the echo of a grand design..."

Waves of brown strands, flitting and floating... Could this wind be any stronger today? It's chilly, and my arms are covered in goosebumps. I'll give them a good rub up and down to get the blood moving, and then I'll walk on. I find myself here so often, so completely in awe of the power of God, so completely in awe of the grandeur of the ocean. The beach curves in its crescent shape with an enticing beauty. "Walk along my shores," it whispers casually.

With each step, as my heel presses itself into the sand, I'm walking further and further away. I've never known the intimacy of an ocean; I've never known the love of the tides and the salty breezes. The fog that plops down over Cape Ann. The new definition of cold. The prayer between brothers and sisters. The selflessness. The friendships.

This is not a secret message to decode. I don't have the keys to the truth.

O God, open me up to your heart!

"What a relief it is to know that I'm slave to Christ. Of all the masters I have known, I'm compelled to live this life free for you. I'm on the other side of something, I'm on the other side of something. I have a new hope, it blows away the small hopes I knew before. And at the end of the day I am yours. I am compelled. You've written on my very soul where no man can legislate the law of your love that has taken hold with your holiness and grace. There's no mistake...I am drawn and driven, I am compelled. You have written it, I am compelled. You live in me, and I can’t help myself..." Sara Groves, Compelled


When will I stop living for the feeling, and start reaching for the reality?

are you saying money doesn't grow on trees?

My sister and I laugh a lot. We laugh the most when we make up our own jokes. And this is such a joke:

"WHAT?! Money doesn't grow on trees?!"

I am sure that most of you wouldn't understand this joke. You probably need to be there, you probably need to know the lady whose spending habits we were casually commenting on. I would bet, though, that you know one person who has stumbled into their unbelievable wealth, whether it be through their father's oil investments or an inheritance from a random great aunt who favored them above all others. These individuals we speak of are greatly unaware of how hard it is to make a buck in this cold world.

And it is after discussing this phenomena that my sister and I joked about what would happen if they were told money didn't grow on trees. Hence, the reply of shock and surprise.

"WHAT?!"

Chuckle, chuckle. Giggle. Laugh.

Alright readers, collect yourselves. Back to reading...

I'm a college student. I am broke. However, I grew up in a household that is very settled and financially secure. Of course it is a blessing that my father's hard work allows me to live a very free life. In a twisted way, though, this has been somewhat of a burden to me. Now that I am living on my own as a college-attending young adult, I am beginning to understand how hard it is to make money. Quite honestly, I have little to no discipline when it comes to money and its tricky management. I get my paycheck, I spend it.

Some would argue that young people are exactly that: young. There is so much under the sun that they have yet to accomplish, so many lands to explore and adventures to take. This is the time to attempt traveling around Europe on less than $5 a day, am I right? I suppose this is true; my friends and I would all be likely to agree that we feel like we have the world at our feet. But the truth is that the day is just around the corner when we will be working everyday for the rest of our lives, and I believe it's fair to say that this is very daunting. Scary, even.

There are so many questions that I am asking when it comes to money and how in this world will I ever be able to keep myself afloat. A to-do list is in the works. Start building credit. Check. Send out resumes. Check. Acquire excellent references. Check. Invest. Check. Have discipline when shopping at your favorite store. Check. Work hard. Check.

Wow, I think I'm going to have to go play frisbee with my friends and stay up till 3 a.m. video chatting with my boyfriend to rid myself of these scary adult truths. I'm just a college bum. I'm easy breezy.

Hangingaround

"yeah...!"


My room has always sat a little bit above the rest of the world. Overlooking the St. Vrain Valley from the top of the tallest hill in Niwot, I can see thousands of city lights burning for miles. The clouds stretch arms in their gray way down from the north over my house, and they're so close I can almost touch them.

I reach my finger out. Poof, poof...

I've been hangingaround this town for way too long.

This spot that I'm sitting in feels like the epicenter for exciting times. There is a brew boiling within me (a little bit of this, a little bit of that) and stir, stir, stir until it's just the right thickness. John Denver says it best in Poems, Prayers and Promises

"I've been lately thinking about my life's time. All the things that I've done, and how it's been. And I can't help believing in my own mind I know I'm going to hate to see it end. I've seen a lot of sunshine, slept out in the rain. Spent a night or two all on my own... I've had myself some friends. Spent a time or two in my own home. I have to say it now, it's been a good life all in all. It's really fine to have a chance to hang around Lie there by the fire and watch the evening tire, with all my friends... Talk of poems, prayers, and promises and things that we believe in. How to sweet it is to love someone, how right it is to care. How long it's been since yesterday and what about tomorrow, what about our dreams, and all the memories we share? The days they pass so quickly now, the nights are seldom long. The time around me whispers when it's cold. The changes somehow frighten me, still I have to smile. It turns me on to think of growing old. For though the life's been good to me, there's still so much to do. So many things my mind has never known. I'd like to raise a family, I'd like to sail away. Dance across a mountain on the moon. I have to say it now, it's been a good life all in all..."

Night is so dark.

The past week has been the best ever, and yes, I believe it to be worthy of VH1. Colorado sunshine, the warm air, the night breeze. The Rocky Mountains shillouetted along Highway 93 as I drive late at night. Laughter, naps, movies, dinners, and lazy Niwot evenings.

I've never felt more blessed to be 19. There are so many things ahead of me, and yet so many things to be thankful for in my past. Like Johnny D said, it's crazy to think about how long it's been since yesterday and what about tomorrow, what about our dreams, and all the memories we share? The days pass so quickly now, but I'd have to say it's been a good life.

I have to fly on a jetplane tonight back to Boston which feels so much like home. This whole year has been a balancing act between this jewel of a home I find in Colorado and thrilling Boston. I'm finally finding a bit of peace. As I leave for 2 more months, I know I am on the brink of something large, that I am bound to an adventure. But as I stare out my open window, perched atop this hill on the open prairie, I know I'm just a "teenage dirtbag," just a college bum, just a young woman who has been hangingaround this town for way to long.

my country

I daydream more than anyone else I know.

Current daydream:

Miles and miles of blue, with cotton white clouds majestically hanging here and there. The wind blows, it sweeps, it sails right through my hair. Long and curly (neither of which is true in reality), my locks just hang against my plaid button-up without care. I'm wearing classic denim and classic boots, and both are covered in mud. I can't forget the cowboy hat, and the bandanna hanging out of my pocket casually. I am straight out of a cliche Western, modern-day, struggling ranch movie... I've got style.

My horse is quiet. She or he... Let's make this decision together. If the horse is a male, he's noble and calm, but has a violent streak in him. If I ride him in this daydream, I'm extremely skilled and most likely have a rebellious attitude. But if the horse was a female, she would be strong and serene, with speed like no other. I don't need to be dangerous or wild; I only need a sense of freedom. I think that is our answer: the horses is female, and her name is Penelope like Odyseuss' wife.

Because I'm a girl of the West who knows her Greek literature.

And that magnificent animal will gallop across the open prairie with life and a ferocity only felt when the sun rises with grandeur over the mountainscape. You can't help but gasp at it's beauty, how any creature could be so unified with the earth in its step. And somehow, despite a lack of equestrian knowledge, I am sitting on its back. I'm right there with it, racing the wind, challenging the breeze with a smile on my face.


I'd like to think that this dream is welling up from within me because I am from Colorado. And even though I was raised in suburbia and the only pair of cowboy boots I owned were pink at age 4, and that I can count on one hand how many times I've been on a horse's back, I am still from the West.

Sometimes I feel like my surroundings can't contain me, whether that be Massachusetts, glistening Cape Ann, school, dorm, room or maybe even my own skin, this spirit just pushes and tugs to be let out.

My spirit wants to be the girl with the wind in her hair. The spirit of a sweet girl.

recovery

"...the world could be fixed of its prblems if every child understood the necessity of their existence." -dwight d. eisenhower



"But his answer was: "My grace is all you need, for my power is greatest when you are weak." I am most happy, then, to be proud of my weaknesses, in order to feel the protection of Christ's power over me. I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and difficulties for Christ's sake. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

camels and needles

Matthew 19:24

I'll say it again--it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!

It's fair to say that it is impossible to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Have you ever tried to relace a shoe? Have you ever tried to sew a button back on with unruly string? Even thread, which is easily controllable and, not to forget, small is a bit of a pain to try to get through that tiny, sharp instrument. Imagine a big, fat beast of an animal with a name like "camel." It smells, it's dirty, it slobbers all over you. I don't even think all of the butter in the world could make that thing slippery enough to weasel through a needle's eye.

But what about a wealthy man?

This has been troubling to me, lately. I've realized that my life is consumed by electronics. It is difficult for me to read, to sit and have the discipline to finish what I start. Sure, a great fiction novel that grabs you and won't let you go is an easy read, but some of the best literature takes time and commitment to fully enjoy. It's slow moving, some of the words are tough, and in need of some fermenting. Maybe I have ADD like the rest of my generation. Is that why I can't finish Pride and Prejudice? Is that why I can't seem to get myself to sit down and read God's Word?

I desire God and long for a relationship with Him. I am not willing to believe what I do blindly. I have a deep craving to make it my own faith. Maybe this calls for change in my life, for some scrutiny and criticism. Simplicity. Solitude. Peace and meditation.

Pride is a difficult enemy to battle.

Pen Pals

Dear captivated readers,

When I was in the 5th or 6th grade, my favorite book was entitled, "P.S. Longer Letter Later." In the book, two best friends were separated when one of their families was forced to move to a different city. Having sworn to be BFF's (Best Friends Forever for all you older folks), they decided to become earnest pen pals. The book is filled with silly letters that any pre-teen girl would swoon over--boys, makeup, school, the cheerleading team and the latest fashions were all included. I must confess, I longed for a pen pal that I could write to. I'd stare at my stationary and would feel the deep hole of what was missing in my life: correspondence.



Of course, I probably would have given up after a few, choosing my N*Sync obsession and soccer tournaments over the feeling of being chained to a desk, hunched over a letter, trying to think of things to say.

But to be truthful, I walk down to the mailroom everyday and gaze into the clear plastic window of my metal-faced mail box and wish that it would instantly overflow with letters from different friends and family members, countries from the farthest sides of the world with beautiful stamps and big, black ink marking the price of postage. Like "I Dream of Jeannie," I slap my arms together and blink a few times to see if that will make them appear. Knowing my genie powers are somewhat out of practice and rusty, I'll craft a few notes to friends and lick the envelopes shut with speed. Clink, slip, clink--in they go, into the outgoing mail bin, and as I turn my back I cross my fingers and hope that in a few days, I'll see a reply.

Oh poor, poor me.

Sometimes I want to pitch my phone and my computer straight into the trash can, and this is why: because back in the days of snail mail, when it was one of the only ways to stay in communication with an individual, one would sit and carefully craft words and sentences with genuine meaning. The finished product is a jewel, a gem.

When I think about why I want to become a writer, I think of letters. Letters are a great way to start writing when writer's block is attacking your brain at full force. I'll think of someone I care about (Apree, Biddle, Jas, Momma) and then I'll pull out a blank sheet of good ol' college-ruled, and away I'll go. Each word is chosen carefully. The meaning has a purpose.

I'll sign off now, and leave you to it.

Love,
Anne

P.S. When you write, don't forget to put my full name above my school on the address.

Mascara

In this picture, I have mascara and eyeliner marks around my eyes. I don't really mind, it was taken late at night after a busy Christmas day gathering with family and a lot of food. I had reason to be weary.

Amy and I had an interesting conversation this afternoon while we took part in the daily routine most women share: putting on our makeup. I told her that there are times when I feel completely disguting when I don't have eyeshadow and eyeliner on. I look in the mirror, and the thought crosses my mind: I am incomplete and I didn't take care today to make myself look nice. I am convinced people will notice that I don't look my best.

Suddenly, a lightbulb went on. I think that I look "my best" when I paint it with dried up colors with a brush and various instruments for application I keep in a small black bag that I never lose possession of. But I am truly me when I don't have makeup on. Makeup is truly just that--being made up.

You might be saying to yourself, "wow, Anne sure is a smart one," and you roll your eyes. "She's just now getting this?"

Stay with me, stay with me.

The summer after my freshman year in high school, a friend from church introduced me to a band called S.O.K and their song "Made Perfect." A brief clip of lyrics for you:

The girl you see in the mirror isn't who I see. When I look at you, I see reflections of me. You don't like your face, so you paint over my masterpiece. You hide your face, so you hide my face, and fail to believe that I made you the way you would be most beautiful. I planned you way before universe was born. When you try to change yourself, it only makes me cry. I dont' know why you try to make better what I've made perfect.

Now, this may seem a little "poppy" and "bubblegum" but remember, I was 15. And I didn't ever NOT like my face, that wasn't the case. It was just a milemarker, a rite of passage for me as a young American girl to learn how to wear makeup and sport it daily. I was excited, of course. But this song does still strike a chord with me, years later when I no longer have a taste for boybands and the like.

The fact that Amy and I wake up every morning and apply our makeup in a routine we have fashioned to fit our particular style is just an example of how we have become warped by our culture. We both confided that we think we look better when we wear makeup, that we feel gross when we don't. I know I worry about the image I am wearing when I don't take time to present myself nicely. And don't get me wrong, I don't think makeup is bad and this is not a call for us women to throw away our Bobbi Brown's and CoverGirl's and burn our bras. I will wake up tomorrow and put mascara on my eyelashes, and I'll most likely remind myself that I am almost out and to buy more.

Isn't it strange, though, that we are almost subconsciously ashamed of our clean faces, the ones we were born with?

I look in the mirror at my thick eyebrows and lengthy eyelashes, at the zit on my cheek (thanks to a dirty cell phone keypad) and my chapped lips and hopefully, I can be more aware that I am looking at the natural me that God created. It isn't just a canvas to paint over to improve. I am healthy, and lucky. Blessed, to be honest.

My roommate and I are geniuses.

going about my business

I've been thinking a lot about road trips lately. Sometimes I have memories that I immortalize, put on a pedestal and set a halo above. One of those is a road trip.

It was early evening in late July. The sky was a deeply perfect blue, and as the sun set, the darkening hue became more and more majestic. We were driving through Utah, and were halfway to our destination: Santa Barbara, California. I'm sitting in the passenger seat, talking casually to my sister and reading Harry Potter on and off to my mom who was driving. We stop chatting for a second and notice the rock formations and red-stone canyons we're driving through. They're breathtaking. Against that blue color, the glowing red rock was something out of my Freedom-of-the-West/Want-to-be-a-lonesome-Colorado-Cowgirl dreams... It made me wish I had a guitar to pull out and start plucking away at, with a country twang and a forlorn song to croon around a campfire.

A lot happened on that roadtrip. Relational breakthroughs were made, dreams were discovered, bad hair cuts were bought. In an attempt be somewhat discreet about my family and our dynamics, I'll keep it short. My parents have two daughters, me and Katie Rose. I'm the loud drama queen who can be straight as an arrow because of my ability to drown in guilt and remorse. My sister, though, is quiet and serene who has chosen to be the complete opposite of me, no matter what. I liked salad, she didn't. I liked pizza, she didn't. I hated orange, she loved it. I was an Abercrombie girl, she was sporty and refused to wear makeup. When I hit my teenage years, I have to confess, the bully rights given to an older sister got a little out of hand. I don't blame her for not really liking me, in all honesty. But on this roadtrip, common bonds were formed. We both decided we liked long car rides. We discovered that we had similar tastes in music, and the fashion trends that she was starting to adore were some that I had already dipped my feet into.

Roadtrips can bring so much life and learning.

I'd like to start in a far away city, some place out here on the east coast. Maybe Boston, or D.C. I'll leave a metropolitan city and make my way back home to Colorado, passing through Hickville's and Po-dunk towns alike. Some will be exhaustingly boring, some will change my life. Folk music, jazz, and a little bit of classic rock is a necessity. A cowboy hat and big black sunglasses are a must. Just imagine all those stops at gas stations to load up on Red Bull for the late night drives, and the rainstorms you'll encouter that will make you wish you never left. But when I open the garage upon arrival at my destination, and I'm throwing away the trash I've accumulated over the miles, I think I'll feel a tad more full, more whole, and a bit brighter.

It is my favorite luxury right now, my dearest dream to think about as I doze off into sleep at night.

Damnit, where are my keys?

long black limousine...

On a recent trip down memory lane, I revisited my old slow dancing days. The driver of this journey was a good friend of mine, Kevin, who is Asian and amazing. He scribbled on and on in his blog about the different songs, the revised technique as he gained bigger and better levels of cool, and how this has taken him to a sense of self he wouldn't have otherwise gained. The philosophy of slow-dancing by Kevin H-to-the-When.

Do you ever find yourself a little lost in someone else's words?
Well, after reading, it was like I woke up in a bar in a completely different city very, very confused. I'm not saying Kevin's words are like a drug (although, he and a few others would argue that they most certainly are), but the memory was a clear enough picture for me to be transported back in time.

Out here in Boston, I find myself often thinking about the amount of miles crossed from Colorado to college. Miles of land, miles of experience -- miles of laughter, grief, confusion, understanding, love and loss. And somewhere on that journey, there was a little bit of slow dancing with Kevin himself. And with all of that said, don't think that I am just a sentimental fool locked in this closet of a dorm room, mosey-ing through old photographs and listening to Patty Griffin.

Oh, someone pass me a Kleenex.
I can assure you, there isn't too much of that.

All of that is said, though, so that I can say this: that all of those awkward middle school dances, high school proms, and everything in between have brought us to this point in our lives. Whether that be Berkely, Colorado State, Missouri or Boston,
my greatest fear is that, in effort to exchange the
teenage,
pimply,
smelly,
awkward self
for a newer, shinier college-attending adult YOU,

we will lose the character that has been built inside us by the friends we have lost and gained, the times we went ice-blocking at one in the morning, where we broke curfew and our parents grounded us, when we had our first kiss, our first love, and our very first slow dance.

An interesting picture: maybe no one ever told the pirates of old that, in fact, the treasure they seeked so earnestly laid within them all along. They walked and paced, they faced death and danger, all while following a map with a big black X on it so they could unlock a chest filled with gold and jewels. The turn the key, they open the chest -- and within their own chest, their heart shines and radiates with a glow that no one could ever take away -- so that even if there is no gold or jewels, they still have within them a sense of self that is more valuable than any amount of riches they could acquire.



To wrap this up, after graduation, I embarked on a journey with a map in hand. Most of us did. But it doesn't matter where we wander, and what we come to in the end. If we can remember that all we seek lies within us, and if we can hold onto that, well... we'll gain more than any of us could ever imagine.