Today I Feel as Fragile as Character from a Virginia Woolf Novel

Today I spent scouring a house. I was atoning for something, trying to scrub away my uselessness and the reasons why I’m so ultimately flawed and non-essential. But I am still so lonely. I take shelter in my claustrophobic, unkempt room and pray that no one will invade its easy space and judge me. That’s why I cleaned today, maniacally wiping away every speck from everything for hours, like I never do. I was trying not to be discarded, trying to abrade myself into a safe, clean oblivion. I haven’t spoken to anyone today, except for the terrible, critical phone call that woke me up and started this whole thing, and the tiny angry words that I had sought to avoid, that drove me in here so that no trace of me would be left out there. If I disappear, they cannot take hold of me, cannot disapprove or reproach. Even if it is cold and terrible, alone and forgotten, I am safe in here; I can comprehend myself. No one will ever know me really, and no one will ever love me because I am not the kind of person that people are accustomed to loving. I am not glorious in any way, I am not assured or talented, my flaws are not commendable (I am inert and timid and too sensitive). The world has no place for me and so I must make do in being untouched and alone, with only my observations and longings for company. I will watch others dance through life, moving without the self-consciousness that so paralyzes me. I will feel as if, for a second, I could be one of them, productive and valuable, but ultimately I will fight myself to do anything and I will wish for sleep, where in dreams I am dynamic and free.

Farewell Teenagerhood

It’s that time of year again, time to reevaluate. This year has been rather quiet. Last birthday I peered out over the next year and hoped that something spectacular was waiting. Instead my life has slowly, patiently been gestating. There is a time for everything, and my 20th year was one for contemplation, wondering, unfolding. I’m learning, and the most important thing I’ve learned is acceptance. I might never be patient, but if I can be gentle and kind to myself I can find the courage to become.

So this year I’ll still wish for excitement and romance and happiness. I’ll hope that this will be the year, but I’ll also pray for the grace to do what it’ll take to make this year the year.

May I enjoy a whimsical, tender, vibrant, spontaneous, daring 21st year full of fulfilling projects, good friends, simple pleasures and adventures worth recounting to my future children.

Home Sickness

Nobody lives here anymore. This is what feels like sitting in my pristine room, taking in the boxes and the nervous feeling I get when I leave home for a long time. It's like acknowledging I belong elsewhere now and it leaves my heart as empty as the desk, the shelves, the bed. I'm here watching myself already gone, forgotten.

[insert clever quote here]

I love the act of writing, the way the pen loops across the page or the words appear on the screen. I love the way the world pulses when my eyes and words come together and render it remarkably alive.

I have this burning need to be a writer. They say you should choose an occupation that engages your skills and passions. If I were left to my own devices I would read, watch, think, discuss, investigate and record. Isn't that what writers do? But then there is this fear in me that stems from my love of both the world and the work that describes it: what if I am not skilled enough? What if I don't do its beauty justice? I know eventually hard work and error will polish me, experience wearing down the terror of my imperfection. And in the meanwhile I have my quirky observations and beloved words to gode me on.

"The good life is a process, not a state of being. It is a direction not a destination."

Wanting. Isn't life always wanting? But maybe the wanting is wise, always hurtling us towards a vision of ourselves that we could never hope to fathom. The wanting will always be there, urging us as we stumble towards the only happiness there ever is: the unexpected, the serendipitous, the accidental. Wanting hurts, but it's a growing pain and without it we would cease. As for my wants...I want vibrancy, tenderness, ache. I want my heart to brim with wonder, my eyes and fingers grateful for everything they touch. I want simple contentedness, like a dear song or a delicious book or a real laugh, as much as possible. I want to love and not worry or try too hard. I want to be able to hear my heart always, to stay in the beautiful present and never be scared; to be filled with the effortless music of the cosmos, its peace and chaos and energy and hope. I want to trust and never forget to trust, ever, because there is a golden light that never leaves us. I want to be an empty shell all replete with thou, someone whose actions are graceful and sure. I want to consecrate and celebrate, to dance and feel life, to be where I’m supposed to be and know it. I think I’m cluttering this longing with words that mean nothing, but my words are how I struggle to make sense, to build myself and my world, to feel real. I want to learn to write better, to translate and transcribe the poetry I experience every day, to make every fiber of your being sing with my joy and poignancy. Sometimes I’m stranded and can’t feel or express anything. Sometimes I feel dull, insignificant, inferior and isolated. Sometimes I betray myself and I don’t know what to do with the fear. Helplessness slays me, turns my soul into a cold, heavy, static thing that refuses to move, to live, to hope or grasp or try. I get tired and all I see is darkness and hardship and never-ending failure. But underneath it all I find something throbbing, humming with something essential: love, home, Tao, God. Maybe nothingness. Maybe everything.