The comfort of words.

I haven't blogged in quite some time. Ah, how many blog posts have I started out with such a similar sentence?

Blogging is strange to me. I feel vain when I type in this small box and then click the "Publish" button with the belief that someone will find my inner thoughts interesting.

Tonight though I write for myself. Words are my comfort. They're a warm blanket I can pull around my shoulders when I have no one to offer a hug. A friend gave me a strange look when I admitted that sometimes I leave books in my bed while I sleep. The sturdy rectangles are a constant presence that offer comfort. When you move as much as I do, you have to find wholeness without the constant of others. Words are just one small way I remind myself of who I am, one way I find comfort on lonely nights far away from loved ones.

The main reason I'm typing this entry is to feel my fingers on the keys, hear the clacking of keys. We find comfort where we can. 

Twenty-Three.

Today I am 23 and I look old.

That's somewhat of a lie because I still look 16 but to my eyes I look weary. Perhaps it's this city, the stress of the unknown.
22 was an eventful year. I moved to a cold city by a lake, fell in love, had my heart broken, earned my master's degree, moved to another cold city on an island, became a maid of honor, applied for over 70 jobs, questioned myself, made new friends and decided that life could be started all over again.

Oh my. What could 23 bring?

Star-Shaped Girl.

There’s a folder on my computer titled “blogs.” The majority of these Word documents have not been viewed by anyone other than myself. In fact, we’ll see if this specific “Document1” reaches the Internet.

There are some things that I believe are too personal to be typed out for all to see. Then again, some blogs don’t make the cut because I feel they might be viewed as repetitive. Such as the subject of “home.”

The “Wordle” to the right of these blog posts will show you that the word “home” is used often on the site. I’ve been homesick the last few days for a place that doesn’t exist. I love my parents, but their house is no longer my home. Dallas is not even home. The entire Southern region of the United States could be considered home but it has to encompass D.C. as well.

I told my room mate Jane today that the way to tell if I am homesick is if country music is pouring out of the cracks that surround my bedroom door. Today it was one song in particular, Miranda Lambert’s “The House That Built Me.” Well, there was no one house that built me. There is a combination of homes that interweave their way into my dreams until my older self is rambling the hallways of the house on the hill, the house without the front door, the house on Cedar. All the houses that my family has lived in are accompanied by a descriptor. You throw that one extra word in and my family members nod in understanding. No one else can understand.

Some people are made up largely of one home. I don’t understand these people, but a large part of me envies them. They have a bedroom in the house that their parents live in where they keep their childhood and teenage memories.

It’s not a house that I am homesick for or even a city. It’s an entire state, a certain type of people, the food that brings back memories and the weather. Ah, how I miss the weather. Rain, a good rainstorm would be perfect right now. Or the kind of night where you can walk outside without a jacket because the heat hangs in the air like a blanket encasing the stars.

Home can’t be wrapped up in one sentence. It’s the people I love. I don’t ache for a certain city limits or the confines of four walls but I still ache. Perhaps this widespread homesickness is the reason why I am on a constant search of a home for myself. I sleep on a rented bed and borrowed bedding. While I know home is not things, I surround myself with books; find them wedged in between the sheets, perched precariously on tables, hiding under the bed. Books remind me of who I am. The tortilla chips, salsa and country gravy sitting in my pantry remind me of who I am. The photos of friends and families hanging on my wall remind me of who I am.

Home is who you are. Home is remembering who you are and resting in that knowledge. Homesickness for me is the feeling of not quite fitting somewhere, a square peg in a round hole. Having a home is having the knowledge that there’s somewhere you belong. But when your bed is constantly changing and you don’t know where you’ll be sleeping in the next few months, your home becomes yourself.

Because though I miss Texas, I miss family, I miss the district, I miss friends, I know that when I go back to visit those places I find I don’t quite fit anymore. Perhaps my shape is constantly changing and soon I’ll be a star – unable to fit into any sort of manufactured spot. 

One day, I will have a home. 

It's that time of year again.

My friends keep looking at me in amazement and saying things like “I wish I could pack up and move like you do!” They seem in awe of my fearlessness and ability to place as many possessions as possible into boxes and suitcases to move to a new city. Fearless, yeah, that’s me.

And all I want to say, all I want to scream, is “You can! Yes, you can!”

I’ve been laying in bed for the past 10 minutes staring at my duvet cover that’s piled atop me. There’s a trail of blue flowers that seems to stretch endlessly as it crawls over a hill made by the down comforter. The flowers directly in front of me are the only thing in focus, sans contacts or glasses the rest of the world is fuzzy. And the morning light that pushes its way through my curtains makes my rectangle box of a room surreal. I don’t know what kind of flower it is, perhaps a daisy, but then again it doesn’t really look like a daisy.

And when I think of daisies, I always think of “You’ve Got Mail” and how they are Kathleen Kelly’s favorite flower because they seem so friendly. And how I wish someone would show up at my door when I’m sick with a handful of white, friendly flowers. And then I think how life is not like “You’ve Got Mail” at all.

What I’m trying to say with all this rambling is, life is unexpected.

At least, I think that’s what I’m trying to say.

The truth is, right now life seems rather empty. And all I want to do is close my eyes, close out the never-ending trail of blue flowers and go back to sleep. But I can’t. I have to get out of bed, pack up those boxes and go to the grocery store. For all those people who seem to think I’m adventurous for moving so often, you should know that I spend most of my life in fear.

I am so scared and unsure of what the future holds and the mountain of loan bills I see when I close my eyes make me want to stay in this bed even longer. But I decided a long time ago (and by long time ago I mean a few months) that I wouldn’t let fear determine my life. This means that yes, you too can chase your dreams no matter how wild or crazy they seem to others around you. This means you can take a chance as well, forget all the “reasoning” that holds you back.

The best way to conquer fear is to jump directly in. Face forward, belly flop.

So I’ll climb out of bed in about another 20 minutes or so.

the fearless.

I haven’t blogged in quite a bit. I could waste time updating you on life and why there’s been a lack of words – but I choose to move on.

I have an article to write but all I want to do is jump on my bed while listening to music loudly, mark the days off my calendar as I countdown to the weekend I visit Nashville and read my book about aliens.

Today, today I feel eight. And it feels great.

But I have to write straight lines of words detailing what I’ve learned in the past month or so. Ah, but how can you write about a subject when it feels impossible to learn it all? I feel like I’ve only skimmed the informational top.

The street I take to Cicero has taught me to be aggressive. I used to be a cautious driver, afraid of being sideswiped or rear-ended. I’d suspiciously eye those around me with a hand poised to honk when needed.

But this street, you have to drive like a mad man on this street because everyone around you lost their minds years ago. Homeless men stand in the middle of lanes begging for spare change, pedestrians dodge in and out of traffic like strays and cars wander into the other lane in an attempt to bypass a stopped bus.

I don’t have time to be afraid on this street. Fear would cause me more harm than good, instead I join willingly in the weaving, suddenly stopping without my heart catching in my throat.

If only I could overcome fear this easily in my day-to-day life. What am I scared of? What am I not scared of would be a better question. But I’ve lately realized I’m not alone in this constant state of fear. We’re all afraid of rejection, loneliness, abandonment or failure. Fear makes us hesitate. Fear stops me in my tracks. I doubt myself. It makes my life much more difficult than it should be.

I am so tired of being afraid.

Which is why tonight I am eight.

Because only an eight year old can write a thousand words about a subject that she cannot even begin to understand. Only an eight year old has the audacity to imagine changing the world through her words. This 22 year old is contemplating giving up the idea of a future doing what she loves and settling for something safe. The eight year old shakes her head in confusion with disappointment in her eyes. She believes that the best feeling comes from riding a swing so high your feet touch the sky. She knows that dreams are meant to be dreamt and believes your heart can’t be permanently broken.

I’m an eight year old. A man shook my hand and thanked me for writing a story I’ve yet to begin. A teenager told me she feels she doesn’t belong. A woman fed me and introduced me to her family. Only an eight year old can provide a voice to such beautiful people who are usually ignored.

I think we all need to channel our eight-year-old selves more often. Fear often holds us back. Sure, eight year olds don’t have to worry about bills, employment or debt to the government. But remember what you were worried about when you were eight? Boys. I was mainly concerned about boys. Unfortunately, I’m still slightly concerned about boys. But I don’t worry so much anymore about math, winning at freeze tag or impressing the older kids. Our fears look so much smaller when we realize the world won’t end.

This article won’t write itself. Sure, I may not be the best person to compose it, but I sure am not going to be too scared to at least try.

(Photo credit)

mess.

My life is a hot mess.

Papers, books, magazines, bills, week old newspapers, an entire past forest litters my living room. Interspersed between all of the fallen trees are half empty cups, snacks and hair ties.

My bed is an assortment as well. I shove over the interview notes for today’s story, my laptop, rejected outfits to pull my grandmother’s quilt over me for a quick nap.

The sun is still peeking through my tightly closed shades but I can ignore it for the present.

I am sick.

Again.

This seems to be the year for sickness. No family members anywhere near.

My body has finally rejected the late nights, worrisome hours and long days at the newsroom and has quit. Or perhaps it’s only gone on strike asking for additional vacation days and better working conditions.

 

Fine.

But I’m not cleaning my apartment.

Right now, five and a half hours away, there are two women settling into a hotel room for the night. My mother and grandmother are on their way here. Just knowing that they are less than a day’s drive away already makes me feel better. Healthier. Like my old self.

Mom McClane (as we’ll call her here) is the woman who calls me and demands I eat. She demands vacations, rest and relaxation for this tired body of mine. Let’s just call her the union rep.

And apparently, she’s had enough.

It was that or the panicked call I put in late Monday afternoon – so very tired of another doctor’s visit and more tests to run.

My life is a hot mess.

My apartment is only a bit cleaner. At least, there are only two dishes in the sink and I threw out those bad grapes.

Sometimes we need our bodies to shut down. Demand a day off to remember what the sunshine feels like, how pages of books feel between the fingers and why again we live.

I love the newsroom.

But I love life better.

tuesday.

I’m supposed to be editing a video that I’m filing tomorrow.

Instead, I’m sitting here, the silence broken by an occasional car passing outside my open window and the sound of Ben Rector’s “When she comes around.”
Not a bad Tuesday night.

The apartment is clean, the carpet an empty canvas waiting for the shoes, papers and books that will slowly begin to accumulate on it’s surface through the week.
A flame bounces in the corner, passing the smell of vanilla.
It’s cold outside, but in my little apartment it’s the perfect temperature for a blanket to snuggle with.

Now that I’ve gone all Steinbeck on you and described in detail my location, I can tell you – I have no idea what to write.

All I know is, it’s Tuesday. There are certain songs I cannot stop playing, the current soundtrack to my life. The Metra train is like a relaxing Six Flags ride to downtown that makes me feel as if I’m Eva Marie Saint waiting for my Cary Grant. Chicago is my own personal Lego city in the spring, stacks and stacks of buildings.

Others are being adorned with a ring on a finger, beginning a new career, exploring a new home, making life decisions or even buying a puppy.

My life consists of immigration issues, what to make for dinner and the unsuccessful battle with the ever piling dishes in my kitchen sink.

I don’t have much to say tonight.
Except that for tonight, of all nights, it is beautiful.
Perhaps it’s just this song.
Maybe it’s the weather getting warmer.

Although my life may seem like an endless cycle of story after story after story, it’s also a time for learning. For learning about what’s actually important in life (it’s not getting good grades or work), that you can get along with anyone if you just try and that previous heartbreak shouldn’t hold you back from the present.

Medill attempts to teach me inside a newsroom how to be a better journalist. But the truth is that a good journalist needs an open mind, listening ear and a bit of empathy for the fellow man. And that’s about all you need to be a good human as well.

And when all else fails, listen to these songs: “When she comes around,” Ben Rector; “Tell her this,” Del Amitri; “Can’t take my eyes off of you,” Lauryn Hill; “Hank,” Ben Rector; “Voices,” Matt Wertz