Week Three: The Best Part

The word best friend is interesting.

If you look at it in a literal way, it implies that there is one friend that is better than the other friends-- the best of them all. If you think about it too much, it could almost have a negative connotation-- you have friends, but there's an underlying hierarchy. If you think of best friend in a more personal way, it can be a friend that you know the best. The friend that knows you the best. It implies closeness, confidentiality, trust, love.

But, I don't have a best friend.

I have a sister.

Sister is also an interesting word. It's complex. Everyone knows what a sister is, even if they don't have one. Some people hear the word and it resonates negatively within-- sisters and families can be a hard subject. For others, sister springs happy thoughts-- joy and love.

To me, my sister is my best friend-- but she's not.

To me, sister is a stronger word. It packs a bigger punch than best friend. Yes, she's my friend. But, no, she's not a friend-- she's my sister. She's someone closer to me than any friend could be. She's my only sister, and I her's. There's a bond deeper than just friend.

My sister and I have the ability to finish each other's sentences-- we're on the same wave-length. I can tell what she's thinking just by sharing a look. Our brothers tell us that we look like we hold entire conversations without even moving our lips. And its probably true. I can bare my soul to her, then be laughing about something stupid the next.

She hasn't only been there for every moment of my life, but she's experienced them with me. She's there through the storm and there to dance in the puddles.

Week Three: Enchanted

If there's one thing I could talk about forever, it would be books. I could spend hours, days, and months talking about my favorites, my disappointments, and the one that made me cry long after the final page was turned. For as long as I can remember, reading has always been a big part of my life, so it's only fitting that books are held in such high esteem in my eyes. I even work at a library, surrounded all day by novels, which pile onto my never ending reading list.

There are a lot of books that I love. My favorite series is Harry Potter; my favorite classic is The Count of Monte Cristo; my favorite mysteries are Nancy Drew. I love mythology and comics. But, there is one book that beats out the rest, hands down. It is my absolute favorite-- one that I could read a thousand times and never tire of. It's called Ella Enchanted.

I was introduced to Ella by my sister. We listened to the audio book together and it just stuck. I was utterly enchanted by the re-telling of fairy tales and the timeless story of a heroic and admirable girl. It's a book that teaches the power of good and of love. It's inspiring and heartfelt.

Ella isn't just my favorite book because of the story or how it's written, though. I love the way it makes me feel. It makes me feel timeless, it makes me fall in love. It takes me back to those many years ago when I first heard the story-- it reminds me of my old house and the old purple walls of my room, it reminds me of cassette tapes that you had to fast forward or rewind. It reminds me that even though a lot has changed in my life, my love for that story has never wavered. And that makes me feel safe. And happy.

Long ago, I memorized the first couple pages of my favorite book. And whenever I had a particularly bad day, I would close my eyes and recite, "That fool of a fairy Lucinda did not intend to lay a curse on me. She meant to bestow a gift..."

Week Three: The Cat Story

Right now, the most important thing in my life is the warm and furry bundle of cat in my lap. She's sitting so quietly, sound asleep, face buried in her own paws, the lightest of purrs rumbling through her body.

Honestly, Peanut spends most of her time in this asleep and sprawled-out state. Usually she camps out on a bed, in front of the fireplace, or in a pile of fresh-from-the-dryer towels. But, when she's on my lap, it's different. When she choose me to cuddle up with all is right with the world.

How I got my cat is a long story. Her grandmother was a stray neighborhood cat who had babies on my family's pool deck the spring before my senior year of high school. My mom and I fed them, despite my dad's protests. The babies became friendly and before we knew it, they were breaking into our house, pushing themselves under the screened door-wall and inside. Out of the six, only one stayed with us throughout the summer. We named her Sophie. She spent the days outside in the sun and the nights asleep at the foot of my bed. That winter, we learned that Sophie was pregnant.

In April, Sophie gave birth to six babies in our laundry room. That day is so clear in my mind because Sophie woke me up just before her water broke. Not knowing how long the birthing would take, my mom sent me to school. Fifteen minutes after getting there, I got a text from my sister announcing the arrival of the first kitten. Throughout the day, my friends and teachers asked for updates. I kept my phone close,
declaring proudly every time another kitten was born. I couldn't wait to get home that day and meet my new little bundles of fur.

By June, after the kittens were fully grown and litter-box trained, they were ready to find their own homes. We were going to keep Sophie, but my dad didn't want six others running around the house. Within weeks, four of them found homes with friends of our family. July came and went and two of them were still with us. They happened to be Peanut Butter and Indiana-- my favorite and my sister's favorite.

Needless to say, we didn't even try to find homes for them. They had been part of the family since the day they were born. I can't think of my life without them.

Peanut always seems to know when I have a bad day.  She's my companion-- the one that will listen without judgment or opinion. She knows how to make life a little bit brighter-- and a little bit furrier.

Week Three: Complaints and Contemplations

Today, it took me an hour to drive home. I found out that there's a hole in one of my boots, so I had a snow-soaked sock for most of the day. I didn't have time to eat lunch. I woke up fifteen minutes after I was supposed to be at work. I have to do homework, still, and work for my internship. I'm tired, I'm cold, and it's still snowing.

This hasn't even been the worst day of my week. But, it's only Wednesday. 

Life, lately, has not been easy. I'm juggling four classes, two jobs, two internships, two school clubs, a magazine column, and I'm trying to help my sister plan her wedding. I thought last semester had been busy. All I seem to be doing is running from one place to the next, tripping over barriers and running into stop signs along the way. Right now, I want to scream, then curl up under a blanket and sleep until May.

With all that's going on, I've barely had any time to wrap my head around anything. I feel so scattered. I have that constant nagging feeling that I've forgotten to do something, but I can't ever figure out what. It's as if my mind is an internet browser with hundreds of tabs open and I can't figure out which one the music is coming from. I'm drowning in a sea of my own anxiety, sinking so deep into the blue that the sunlight is but a speck in the distance.

A lot of the time, I forget to look at the good. I forget that even though I've had a rough day or week or month that I'm still here, still trudging through the deep snow and wading through the sea's waters, preparing for what lies next.

There will be a tomorrow.

There will be a tomorrow meant for making mistakes.

There will be a tomorrow for long commutes, holey boots, and late wake-ups.

There will be a new tomorrow.

Today, I made it home safely. I got to change into dry socks. Dinner was ready when I stepped inside. I have the day off from work tomorrow. I get to sleep in. I get to learn at school and make money at work. I get to see the fresh snowfall cascading from the brilliant sky.

Writing as Self-Realization: Private Writing

Sometimes it seems as if the only time people write is when they are forced to write. Whether it's that paper for school or the looming email to your boss, writing can be tedious. It can be work. But, only if you make it that way.

"Writing as Self-Realization" covers the idea that, yes, writing in today's world can be the last thing on your to-do list, but, in fact, it can also open new doors to ideas. One can realize a different part of their selves and discover unity and coherence in life. There are many ways to achieve that through writing, but one, easy way is to focus on private writing.

Private writing is exactly how it sounds. It's not your Facebook status or text to your friends, its private-- for your eyes only. It's taking off the mask that one wears going through life and putting the raw emotion down on the page. Sometimes, by doing this, you can open up yourself to thoughts and ideas that are far beyond what you've seen before. The results of finding what is within ourselves can be surprising, defining, and comforting. But, to accomplish that, you have to first start writing.

The text states: "It is surprising what we may find within ourselves and about ourselves through the mere act of uninhibited writing. Not until we begin to write, often, do we know what we are going to say. Once started, however, once over those first strange inhibitions that impede the flow of thought, we are likely to find that we know more than we thought we did; that we do have an idea, after all; that words do come to mind, in spite of our fears that they would not. And sometimes to our utter amazement thoughts come to us in pleasing form-like Minerva, full-born on the crest of a wave." 

What that is trying to say is that writing privately and for self-realization doesn't have to be technical or precise or perfect. It can be flawed-- it can be you or whoever you want to be. You have to let the free thoughts flow from your mind to the page despite fears and anxieties. There doesn't have to be an ulterior purpose or goal-- thoughts for private writing can start with the tiniest grain of sand or start as the Roman goddess Minerva did-- fully formed and ready to fight.

From this, we learn. We become aware of the deeper self and the true beauty of what it means to sit down and write.

Goody Two Shoes: Shades of Blue and Gray

Life is not black and white. There is room to move and grow within the color spectrum. Life has blues and grays-- flexibility to not follow the rules and to make your own every once in a while. The article "Goody Two Shoes" covers the idea of shades of blue and gray in the writing sense. You do not have to follow the exact rules of writing, but challenge the rules to fit your writing needs.

I have always been told that if I want to be a good writer that I need to write every day. Even if you are busy, my professors would say, find time to put something onto paper. "Something" meant anything. It meant "just write." But I never agreed with that. My writing works on inspiration. It works on the flow of ideas and words coming together. Some days I wouldn't have that and struggling through sentences was enough to make me want to quit.

"Goody Two Shoes" brings up the point of not following that rule to write every day. It says, "Don't be dutiful." Don't follow the rules just to get a check in the box. Take a break if you need it. Step away from black and white and into shades of blue and gray.

Writing in the blues and grays means taking a risk without consequences and taking a different perspective. It can help access your feelings, emotions, and appreciation for the craft. As the author says, "Go into writing with your whole heart."