Today I sit in one of the hundreds of little coffee shops you can find in Phildaelphia. There is Hebrew music playing aloud and hebrew writing on the walls. I like it here. It reminds me of my days in Israel and how I wish I had more time in this Holy Land. I am sipping on what may be the best Vanilla Chai Latte I have ever tasted. Earlier today I explored "Old City", walking along the cobbled streets and admiring the many art galleries and far too expensive boutiques. As the name implies, this area was the first settled area of Philadelphia and therefore contains dozens of historical sites.
When I was little my parents would take my brother and I to "historical sites" where the highlight of my day became getting ice cream at the tourist stop. But now something has changed within me. No, ice cream still is and probably forever will be the highlight of any day for me. You see somewhere along the lines of maturity I have begun to enjoy and appreciate history. After a free tour of the first Philadelphia Fire House I sauntered over to the Betsy Ross House. For those of you unfamiliar with this historical woman, she sewed the first American Flag which was destroyed during the Revolutionary War. But did you know that she supported herself through upholstery work? Yep, just one of the many women who were able to financially provide for themselves when their husband, or lack of, could not. She married a man who died while imprisoned in England, then moved in with an elderly woman and began her work revamping old furniture. She married again years later and had two daughters. You can even visit her and her husbands grave for FREE! As I stood in front of the large stone memorial I imagined Betsy standing before me, a tiny woman with a cute bonnet and a bold heart made strong by grief and sorrow. I bet this Betsy could offer me great wisdom about living in a broken world along with many helpful sewing tips.
But in the end, no matter how much I admired this woman, I refused to pay $4 dollars to walk through her old quarters. Instead I imagined what I'm sure I would see based on the good ol' Bryant days of visiting such sites. A little rickety bed, a petite desk where she wrote many an impassioned letter, and a bathroom far too small for even a teeny human. I felt satisfied with my vicarious visit and left the old, vined building to continue it's romantic life, where many families can bring their restless little girls to admire it's ancient bricks.
And I still have to visit the Liberty Bell!!! Phew.
Here are some other things I have learned about Philly:
-Sleeve tattoos are really popular here.
-I have never seen so many pug dogs in one place in my life.
-You will be fined $300 dollars if you do not clean up your dog's poo.
-Finding parking is the most frustrating and traumatic experience.
-It's not cool to wear regular helmets while biking, only skater ones.
-Parallel parking is an art form
-Coffee is incredibly expensive
And last but not least, lock your car doors.
Love, La Loba
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Maggie Poo Poo
Let me tell you about my dog. Maggie is her name and Beaglins' her game. She was the runt of the group and because of this she is slightly smaller than the average Beagle. She is getting old now and has grey hair forming over what once was a sharp brown, black, and white face. Her ears are soft like velvet and I like to rub them in my hands like some sort of exotic material. When she was just a puppy I noticed that on the left side of her hind leg white fur outlines what seems to be a goose. And unfortunately, like many dogs, she likes to eat poo. Hence the nickname Maggie "Poo Poo". Hopefully she hasn't made the connection between what seems to be an endearing call of affection and the shameful undertone it implies.
Ever since I can remember I have always felt pulled towards these four legged creatures that seem to me so human. Every dog I meet seems to have some quirky dislike or fetish or uniqueness that makes it more Homo Sapien than bumbling beast. I suppose there must be some deep truth to that famous phrase "Man's best friend." Either dogs can truly feel emotion similar to that of a human or we are seriously offending all mankind. But what makes them truly unique creatures is that unlike humans they don't try to mask their personality or immediate reactions. If a bulldog is unhappy it has no problem letting you know. When a furry pup is excited to see you it is delighted to pee on your carpet in order to get his point across.
Maggie is, or has become, everything I do not want to be. Don't get me wrong, I love her more than a lifetime supply of free ice cream but sometimes I can't help but despise her behaviors. Let me explain. Maggie spends most of her day sleeping on our couch and if you happen to be taking up space then she has no problem walking all over you as if she were some kind of Chihuahua. Ok, so maybe this has more to do with her masters' incapability to train her than anything but even when it's a beautiful day outside and every other creature of the forest is frolicking about Maggie can only stand to be outside ten minutes at a time or else she self implodes. Everytime I let her outside I yell at her "Be FREE like a dog!" in hopes of reminding her of that dirty-dogginess I know lays deep in her core. And yet the most pitiful of all her pitifulness is revealed during a thunder storm. Simply mention the word "thunder" and Maggie flies under the nearest covering. Even with her master's arms around her and a blanket sheilding her eyes from the flashes of lightening nothing seems to bring any relief to her baseball sized brain. Her deep tremors cause her to breathe heavily as if she had just run dog-sled style carrying a lifetime supply of ice cream across the Prime Meridian. I feel so sad for her during these moments so I whisper comforting words in her velvet ear reminding her that the thunder can't hurt her and that it will soon be over. But this never seems to have the same effect as it did on me as a frightened child (although maybe it's because she's a dog and can't understand English) and soon she jumps off my lap and with head down runs, alas, under my parents' bed where we can never reach her under the black abyss of such a shelter. So we go on living our lives and eventually she crawls out, dust bunnies stuck to her nose, tired from the throes of seizure her body felt were necessary to survive such a natural disaster as a thunderstorm.
I'm not sure why I get so darn frustrated with her when she acts like this. Perhaps it's the merciless Beagle trainer within me rearing its ugly head. Perhaps it's my impatient self. Or perhaps it's because the pitiful creature I see in her is something I fear for myself. Sometimes I whisper a prayer like this: "Sweet Jesus, please do not let me become like this Beagle. Amen."
And yet in the end, she is the snuggliest, cutest ball of fur on this side of town. Sometimes when I cry she meanders over to lick my face knowing that not all is right and offers me what she can. So who am I to judge this sweet, smelly creature? Jesus, have mercy on my dog-judging heart.
Pictures of goose butt soon to be posted.
La Loba
PS I'm driving to Philadelphia tomorrow.
Ever since I can remember I have always felt pulled towards these four legged creatures that seem to me so human. Every dog I meet seems to have some quirky dislike or fetish or uniqueness that makes it more Homo Sapien than bumbling beast. I suppose there must be some deep truth to that famous phrase "Man's best friend." Either dogs can truly feel emotion similar to that of a human or we are seriously offending all mankind. But what makes them truly unique creatures is that unlike humans they don't try to mask their personality or immediate reactions. If a bulldog is unhappy it has no problem letting you know. When a furry pup is excited to see you it is delighted to pee on your carpet in order to get his point across.
Maggie is, or has become, everything I do not want to be. Don't get me wrong, I love her more than a lifetime supply of free ice cream but sometimes I can't help but despise her behaviors. Let me explain. Maggie spends most of her day sleeping on our couch and if you happen to be taking up space then she has no problem walking all over you as if she were some kind of Chihuahua. Ok, so maybe this has more to do with her masters' incapability to train her than anything but even when it's a beautiful day outside and every other creature of the forest is frolicking about Maggie can only stand to be outside ten minutes at a time or else she self implodes. Everytime I let her outside I yell at her "Be FREE like a dog!" in hopes of reminding her of that dirty-dogginess I know lays deep in her core. And yet the most pitiful of all her pitifulness is revealed during a thunder storm. Simply mention the word "thunder" and Maggie flies under the nearest covering. Even with her master's arms around her and a blanket sheilding her eyes from the flashes of lightening nothing seems to bring any relief to her baseball sized brain. Her deep tremors cause her to breathe heavily as if she had just run dog-sled style carrying a lifetime supply of ice cream across the Prime Meridian. I feel so sad for her during these moments so I whisper comforting words in her velvet ear reminding her that the thunder can't hurt her and that it will soon be over. But this never seems to have the same effect as it did on me as a frightened child (although maybe it's because she's a dog and can't understand English) and soon she jumps off my lap and with head down runs, alas, under my parents' bed where we can never reach her under the black abyss of such a shelter. So we go on living our lives and eventually she crawls out, dust bunnies stuck to her nose, tired from the throes of seizure her body felt were necessary to survive such a natural disaster as a thunderstorm.
I'm not sure why I get so darn frustrated with her when she acts like this. Perhaps it's the merciless Beagle trainer within me rearing its ugly head. Perhaps it's my impatient self. Or perhaps it's because the pitiful creature I see in her is something I fear for myself. Sometimes I whisper a prayer like this: "Sweet Jesus, please do not let me become like this Beagle. Amen."
And yet in the end, she is the snuggliest, cutest ball of fur on this side of town. Sometimes when I cry she meanders over to lick my face knowing that not all is right and offers me what she can. So who am I to judge this sweet, smelly creature? Jesus, have mercy on my dog-judging heart.
Pictures of goose butt soon to be posted.
La Loba
PS I'm driving to Philadelphia tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
From the Horses Mouth
At a certain point this summer I realized I had to start recording the ridiculous things I was hearing so I began a small journal for doing just that. So here are the funniest things I heard this summer while working with rich teenage girls:
"I've met Nick Lache like ten times. My dad golfs with him."
Me: "Have any of you ever been to a third world country?"
Camper: "Yeah! We stayed at an awesome hotel in Costa Rica."
While sitting on a boulder in a lake: "Where are we getting our water from?"
Camper: "I love going to our lake with my family. We hike our mountain and then at the top we pick fresh blueberries."
Me: "You mean you hike the mountain where your lake house is?"
Camper: "No it's my mountain."
Me: "Oh so you call it your mountain because it's close to the lake."
Camper: "No we own the lake and the mountain."
Me: "Oh."
"If you close your eyes and imagine you're in a movie theater then these banana chips taste like popcorn."
Funny thing is they did.
While rubbing what was supposed to be Gold Bond on her feet: "This powder feels and smells funny."
Me: "Yep, that's because it's powdered hummus."
Me: "Guys, this plant smells like candy!"
Camper: "Really? ... Ew, Jenna you farted."
Me: Hours of laughter
Camper: "This apple chip looks like a cat butt."
Me: "Dang it. You're right."
Instructors: "We're taking showers outside this week!"
Camper(s): hysterical crying
Camper: "What are intestinal worms?"
Me: "Well, it's a parasite normally transmitted when we accidentally ingest traces of feces. They start as eggs and then when they get to our intestines they make home and can grow to be four inches long. Then you poop them out."
Camper: silence
Love,
la Loba
"I've met Nick Lache like ten times. My dad golfs with him."
Me: "Have any of you ever been to a third world country?"
Camper: "Yeah! We stayed at an awesome hotel in Costa Rica."
While sitting on a boulder in a lake: "Where are we getting our water from?"
Camper: "I love going to our lake with my family. We hike our mountain and then at the top we pick fresh blueberries."
Me: "You mean you hike the mountain where your lake house is?"
Camper: "No it's my mountain."
Me: "Oh so you call it your mountain because it's close to the lake."
Camper: "No we own the lake and the mountain."
Me: "Oh."
"If you close your eyes and imagine you're in a movie theater then these banana chips taste like popcorn."
Funny thing is they did.
While rubbing what was supposed to be Gold Bond on her feet: "This powder feels and smells funny."
Me: "Yep, that's because it's powdered hummus."
Me: "Guys, this plant smells like candy!"
Camper: "Really? ... Ew, Jenna you farted."
Me: Hours of laughter
Camper: "This apple chip looks like a cat butt."
Me: "Dang it. You're right."
Instructors: "We're taking showers outside this week!"
Camper(s): hysterical crying
Camper: "What are intestinal worms?"
Me: "Well, it's a parasite normally transmitted when we accidentally ingest traces of feces. They start as eggs and then when they get to our intestines they make home and can grow to be four inches long. Then you poop them out."
Camper: silence
Love,
la Loba
Friday, August 19, 2011
OWN
Last night, before bed, I watched a show on the Oprah Winfrey Network otherwise known as OWN. And if that was at all confusing for you, yes, Oprah Winfrey does indeed OWN a television network (pun intended). It was a show about recovering prostitutes and their efforts to return to society without returning to their old ways. It was completely fascinating, heart breaking, and even hope-giving.
As I may have hinted in my last blog, I'm not the happiest "camper "right now (I'm sorry, I can't control myself when it comes to puns). What most post-college graduates experience after their senior year was slightly postponed for me but that I am feeling with full force now. You know, it's that familiar what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life kinda feel. Some may call it directionless staggering, aimless wandering, wayward stumbling, aberrant ambling, or vagrant trotting, not to beat it on the head or anything (and yes, I did use dictionary.com for that, it has a phenomenal thesaurus feature). And yet with all her power and wisdom, Oprah Winfrey can offer me little resolution in this quarter-life crisis.
Although I still have no answers, I did have an amazing dream last night. I dreamt I was an in-home caretaker for a prostitution recovery center. I lived, slept and ate with dozens of women fighting the greatest fight of their lives; to believe that they are more valuable than what their bodies can offer. This seemed to take place in an old, southern rickety house, complete with peeling paint, somewhere in Harrisonburg, Virginia. One morning, at the crack of dawn, one of the women decided to leave. She packed her bags quietly and slipped out the door. She didn't want to fight anymore. I woke to see the screen door creaking shut and rushed to the porch as I watched her get in a car with three men and drive away. I quickly realized the other women had joined me and we mourned our friends choice of path. The women looked at me, the only white woman still in her early twenties, and asked me what would happen to our friend and what we were to do. I did the only think I ever know to do so I prayed. The first thing the Spirit told me was that we, the recovery center, were not the epicenter of all internal change but that in fact it is the Spirit of God and only the Spirit of God that can redeem. The second thing I heard was that His Body, the rest of the church, is out there and will take care of her if she chooses to return to Him again. And the third and most powerful thing I heard was simply to have faith. That all things work for His glory and all we can do is be patient and trust this.
I wish I could say that was the end of the dream but there was something else about me cleaning up poop and a tremendously dirty kitchen in there too. But I digress. I think God is trying to hint at something. Or else Oprah Winfrey now has control over all of our dreams. FAITH. It seems to often come back to this little bugger of a spiritual fruit. When you find no satisfaction in your career, when your daughter goes into a rehab center, when your wife wants a divorce, or when you are $60,000 dollars in debt at age 22, even then we are asked to have faith. And when all seems stagnant and there are no hopeful ripples in the pool of my future, I guess, well, I just have to have faith that God is greater.
La Loba
As I may have hinted in my last blog, I'm not the happiest "camper "right now (I'm sorry, I can't control myself when it comes to puns). What most post-college graduates experience after their senior year was slightly postponed for me but that I am feeling with full force now. You know, it's that familiar what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life kinda feel. Some may call it directionless staggering, aimless wandering, wayward stumbling, aberrant ambling, or vagrant trotting, not to beat it on the head or anything (and yes, I did use dictionary.com for that, it has a phenomenal thesaurus feature). And yet with all her power and wisdom, Oprah Winfrey can offer me little resolution in this quarter-life crisis.
Although I still have no answers, I did have an amazing dream last night. I dreamt I was an in-home caretaker for a prostitution recovery center. I lived, slept and ate with dozens of women fighting the greatest fight of their lives; to believe that they are more valuable than what their bodies can offer. This seemed to take place in an old, southern rickety house, complete with peeling paint, somewhere in Harrisonburg, Virginia. One morning, at the crack of dawn, one of the women decided to leave. She packed her bags quietly and slipped out the door. She didn't want to fight anymore. I woke to see the screen door creaking shut and rushed to the porch as I watched her get in a car with three men and drive away. I quickly realized the other women had joined me and we mourned our friends choice of path. The women looked at me, the only white woman still in her early twenties, and asked me what would happen to our friend and what we were to do. I did the only think I ever know to do so I prayed. The first thing the Spirit told me was that we, the recovery center, were not the epicenter of all internal change but that in fact it is the Spirit of God and only the Spirit of God that can redeem. The second thing I heard was that His Body, the rest of the church, is out there and will take care of her if she chooses to return to Him again. And the third and most powerful thing I heard was simply to have faith. That all things work for His glory and all we can do is be patient and trust this.
I wish I could say that was the end of the dream but there was something else about me cleaning up poop and a tremendously dirty kitchen in there too. But I digress. I think God is trying to hint at something. Or else Oprah Winfrey now has control over all of our dreams. FAITH. It seems to often come back to this little bugger of a spiritual fruit. When you find no satisfaction in your career, when your daughter goes into a rehab center, when your wife wants a divorce, or when you are $60,000 dollars in debt at age 22, even then we are asked to have faith. And when all seems stagnant and there are no hopeful ripples in the pool of my future, I guess, well, I just have to have faith that God is greater.
La Loba
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
www.avoider.com
Dear World Wide Web,
Have you ever heard of the "avoiding pattern"? According to dictionary.com, 'to avoid' means "to keep away from; keep clear off; shun or to prevent from happening." And when a person begins to display this characteristic on an everyday basis, well, then psychology slaps a large sticker with red letters across your forhead that reads AVOIDER. Every one of the students I worked with struggled with this label at one point or another, whether that took the form of writing letters to family instead of working on their trap sets, or blatantly crumpling their parents' letters in front of the group, or even choosing to talk only about youtube videos instead of the deep pain they have experienced. And as I sit here at my dinner room table, at my house in Fredericksburg I am tempted to make my own sticker to slap on my own forehead.
It is 3:34 AM and I am here to declare that I am an AVOIDER.
Yes, world! It is true. I have avoided sharing with my closest friends and beloved family that I have come home from New York not only a full week early but that I have already been here for two days. I have avoided sharing with you that I quit my job on the spot, while in the field after experiencing what I like to call "emotional distress". It is difficult to summarize what drove me to ask to leave so suddenly other than my favorite psychological term of them all: anxiety. I can honestly say this seven letter word has haunted me since a small child, has brought me to tears more times than I can count, and even to moments of insanity. But it is not anxiety itself which has caused me to delay such important news to those who I love and care for most, it is the shame that comes hand in hand with anxiety that brings me to avoidance. You see, no one wants to admit weakness, let alone what seems to feel like mental illness' complete victory over my life and future. To put it simply, I left the beauty of the Adirondacks because I felt like I was going crazy. So here I am like a puppy that just got caught chewing on their master's shoe, tail between their legs and a pitiful look on their face.
There are so many experiences to process yet, so many dreams and people to still say goodbye to and so many emotions I need to allow myself to feel after a summer spent fighting them. And maybe avoidance gives us time to get in a place where we can mentally face these things without crumpling into a ball. To be able to feel grief at a maximum capacity that allows for healing. And be able to face straight on the shattering of certain dreams.
It is 4:00 in the morning now. And I will probably choose to wear this sticker for a few more days at least while I rest my body and mind, play with my cat, and allow my mom to bring me chocolate cake with a glass of milk. And I will try to rest assured that His strength is made visible in my weakness.
Love, La Loba
Have you ever heard of the "avoiding pattern"? According to dictionary.com, 'to avoid' means "to keep away from; keep clear off; shun or to prevent from happening." And when a person begins to display this characteristic on an everyday basis, well, then psychology slaps a large sticker with red letters across your forhead that reads AVOIDER. Every one of the students I worked with struggled with this label at one point or another, whether that took the form of writing letters to family instead of working on their trap sets, or blatantly crumpling their parents' letters in front of the group, or even choosing to talk only about youtube videos instead of the deep pain they have experienced. And as I sit here at my dinner room table, at my house in Fredericksburg I am tempted to make my own sticker to slap on my own forehead.
It is 3:34 AM and I am here to declare that I am an AVOIDER.
Yes, world! It is true. I have avoided sharing with my closest friends and beloved family that I have come home from New York not only a full week early but that I have already been here for two days. I have avoided sharing with you that I quit my job on the spot, while in the field after experiencing what I like to call "emotional distress". It is difficult to summarize what drove me to ask to leave so suddenly other than my favorite psychological term of them all: anxiety. I can honestly say this seven letter word has haunted me since a small child, has brought me to tears more times than I can count, and even to moments of insanity. But it is not anxiety itself which has caused me to delay such important news to those who I love and care for most, it is the shame that comes hand in hand with anxiety that brings me to avoidance. You see, no one wants to admit weakness, let alone what seems to feel like mental illness' complete victory over my life and future. To put it simply, I left the beauty of the Adirondacks because I felt like I was going crazy. So here I am like a puppy that just got caught chewing on their master's shoe, tail between their legs and a pitiful look on their face.
There are so many experiences to process yet, so many dreams and people to still say goodbye to and so many emotions I need to allow myself to feel after a summer spent fighting them. And maybe avoidance gives us time to get in a place where we can mentally face these things without crumpling into a ball. To be able to feel grief at a maximum capacity that allows for healing. And be able to face straight on the shattering of certain dreams.
It is 4:00 in the morning now. And I will probably choose to wear this sticker for a few more days at least while I rest my body and mind, play with my cat, and allow my mom to bring me chocolate cake with a glass of milk. And I will try to rest assured that His strength is made visible in my weakness.
Love, La Loba
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The end of the beginning
Dear Friends,
Found out today that Ben & Jerry's has a new ice cream flavor called "Red Velvet Cake". It's delish.
So tomorrow I head back into the ADK for my last shift of work. I will doing a double shift which means I will be in the field for 16 days in a row instead of 8 (I will officially return on August 18th)! I'm not sure how they got me to agree to this but if anything, it is going to be an excellent challenge to my emotional, physical, and psychological stamina. I am trying hard to keep a positive mindset about it all because honestly that will make or break my next two weeks. I know for definite that I will be spending if not one, then both weeks with Group E (hooray!) which I am so excited about. I hope to use this time to fine tune my bow drilling skills, practice staying in the here and now, and to allow for this to be an opportunity for deeper self-awareness.
Please pray for me! Pray that I will continue to hold a positive outlook on the rest of my time here. Pray that I will be able to focus mentally on the girls' growth instead of being consumed by thoughts of myself. Pray that I will have patience and compassion for them!!! And pray that I will be sensitive to the movement of the Spirit, his reasoning for my continued presence here, and what he is trying to teach me. If you are planning on sending me any mail after August 12th I would ask you to send it to my parents home where I will be traveling to next (9517 Charlesfield Dr. Fredericksburg, VA 22407)
Love, La Loba
PS I have a jar of Nutella AND a bar of chocolate.
Found out today that Ben & Jerry's has a new ice cream flavor called "Red Velvet Cake". It's delish.
So tomorrow I head back into the ADK for my last shift of work. I will doing a double shift which means I will be in the field for 16 days in a row instead of 8 (I will officially return on August 18th)! I'm not sure how they got me to agree to this but if anything, it is going to be an excellent challenge to my emotional, physical, and psychological stamina. I am trying hard to keep a positive mindset about it all because honestly that will make or break my next two weeks. I know for definite that I will be spending if not one, then both weeks with Group E (hooray!) which I am so excited about. I hope to use this time to fine tune my bow drilling skills, practice staying in the here and now, and to allow for this to be an opportunity for deeper self-awareness.
Please pray for me! Pray that I will continue to hold a positive outlook on the rest of my time here. Pray that I will be able to focus mentally on the girls' growth instead of being consumed by thoughts of myself. Pray that I will have patience and compassion for them!!! And pray that I will be sensitive to the movement of the Spirit, his reasoning for my continued presence here, and what he is trying to teach me. If you are planning on sending me any mail after August 12th I would ask you to send it to my parents home where I will be traveling to next (9517 Charlesfield Dr. Fredericksburg, VA 22407)
Love, La Loba
PS I have a jar of Nutella AND a bar of chocolate.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Never have I ever...
I used to play this game in high school called 'Never have I ever'. Everyone holds out ten fingers and takes a turn saying something they have never done, ex. "Never have I ever been to Europe". If someone in the group has been to Europe they take a finger away. The point is to be the last one with fingers remaining. Although it often turned crude, I have now come to value these silly games that allow us to safely open up to one another in ways we wouldn't necessarily do.
In fact, I think there are many things about each one of us that we wish to share with others and wait for the opportunity to do so, which sometimes never comes. So we carry them within ourselves waiting for someone to ask us questions. And if that doesn't happen? Then, in some odd way, we lose out in the intimate growth created by vulnerability and we disrespect others by not believing they are capable of active listening and emotional awareness. This soon becomes a subconscious habit and I have found myself hiding behind this protective barrier of remaining a "mystery" to many people here in Saranac (and even some back home). We are basically saying "Here's how our relationship is going to be. I'm going to be the one to ask the questions and in doing so I get to control the depth of this friendship, ok? And if you start to ask me questions that reveals too much then I'm out." It's a cheap way of making ourselves feel better because if no one knows our weaknesses, sees our foolish mistakes or knows we are actually broken wrecks, then we don't have to reminded of these things either. I would even go as far as to call this cowardly.
So here are some things you may not know about me:
I can eat ice cream for any meal, any day. I am picky about pens and salad dressing. My choice of tea is directly related to what type of mood I'm in. In college, I was jealous of a girl named Liana because she was so kind and joyful all the time. Mexican food makes me gassy, although I'm pretty sure this is true of any human being. I wish I had smaller feet. I LOVE aquariums. I used to play mermaid as a child in my bathtub and still wish I could be one (my name? Aqua. My fin color? Sparkly purple. My hair color? Bright teal. Holla) I am horrible at trivia, can complete thirteen back-to-back-in-water somersaults with one breath, and am terrified of never finding a fulfilling career. And today I am feeling a bit lonely.
Phew.
Here is something I am a bit embarrassed to share, yet has everything to do with my most recent decision to move to Philadelphia. I want. to be. a dancer. Yes, I know this is something only people in the movies pursue (or if you're Joanna Rose) but I can't stop thinking about it! When I'm in a grocery store with particularly smooth floors a crazy thing comes over me where I can't control myself and I have to, literally have to, spin down the aisle. Sometimes I dance when I am angry or excited. You see, I'm not interested in being a professional dancer at all, I'm interested in exploring personal expression through movement of the body. I think it is a powerful tool that is not taken advantage of as it should. And I am going to stop doubting my physical and creative capabilities and just do it, as Nike would say. Maybe it won't last, maybe it's a silly passion that will serve no purpose to the betterment of our society, and maybe, just maybe, I can glorify God in it somehow.
So what about you, dear friend? Are you holding back from sharing yourself with others? And if so, why? I pray for the boldness and courage for all of us to believe we are valuable enough to be a gift to someone.
Love, La Loba
In fact, I think there are many things about each one of us that we wish to share with others and wait for the opportunity to do so, which sometimes never comes. So we carry them within ourselves waiting for someone to ask us questions. And if that doesn't happen? Then, in some odd way, we lose out in the intimate growth created by vulnerability and we disrespect others by not believing they are capable of active listening and emotional awareness. This soon becomes a subconscious habit and I have found myself hiding behind this protective barrier of remaining a "mystery" to many people here in Saranac (and even some back home). We are basically saying "Here's how our relationship is going to be. I'm going to be the one to ask the questions and in doing so I get to control the depth of this friendship, ok? And if you start to ask me questions that reveals too much then I'm out." It's a cheap way of making ourselves feel better because if no one knows our weaknesses, sees our foolish mistakes or knows we are actually broken wrecks, then we don't have to reminded of these things either. I would even go as far as to call this cowardly.
So here are some things you may not know about me:
I can eat ice cream for any meal, any day. I am picky about pens and salad dressing. My choice of tea is directly related to what type of mood I'm in. In college, I was jealous of a girl named Liana because she was so kind and joyful all the time. Mexican food makes me gassy, although I'm pretty sure this is true of any human being. I wish I had smaller feet. I LOVE aquariums. I used to play mermaid as a child in my bathtub and still wish I could be one (my name? Aqua. My fin color? Sparkly purple. My hair color? Bright teal. Holla) I am horrible at trivia, can complete thirteen back-to-back-in-water somersaults with one breath, and am terrified of never finding a fulfilling career. And today I am feeling a bit lonely.
Phew.
Here is something I am a bit embarrassed to share, yet has everything to do with my most recent decision to move to Philadelphia. I want. to be. a dancer. Yes, I know this is something only people in the movies pursue (or if you're Joanna Rose) but I can't stop thinking about it! When I'm in a grocery store with particularly smooth floors a crazy thing comes over me where I can't control myself and I have to, literally have to, spin down the aisle. Sometimes I dance when I am angry or excited. You see, I'm not interested in being a professional dancer at all, I'm interested in exploring personal expression through movement of the body. I think it is a powerful tool that is not taken advantage of as it should. And I am going to stop doubting my physical and creative capabilities and just do it, as Nike would say. Maybe it won't last, maybe it's a silly passion that will serve no purpose to the betterment of our society, and maybe, just maybe, I can glorify God in it somehow.
So what about you, dear friend? Are you holding back from sharing yourself with others? And if so, why? I pray for the boldness and courage for all of us to believe we are valuable enough to be a gift to someone.
Love, La Loba
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