new blog, crazys!

i'm movin on.

blogger is running a bit slow and refusing to update my pictures,so i'm back to wordpress.

plus, there's some new art up!

http://www.lifewiththecrazys.wordpress.com

obsessed

#teamluke is making my life so much better already.

Sean Hayes - When We Fall In from cleanwhitelines on Vimeo.

Happy Birthday DAD!

Today is my father's birthday. Let's all celebrate by:

-waking up before the sun

-reading the paper cover to cover and then replacing it in the exact same position it was before we picked it up.

-taking a mid-afternoon nap.

-building fires for our families

-cooking crock-pot meals

-reading lots of books with emergent titles

-teaching crowds of high schoolers about jesus

-getting lots of tattoos on our awkward forearms

-growing our hair out forever

-loving baseball, hockey, football, and auburn.

-wearing jeans that are a little too big

-doing P90X.

-loving our alone time

-blogging.

Mandarins

Lately, everyone I know is obsessed with baby oranges. I like mandarins, but i know people who love tangerines. We don't hate each other.

But could you all please look at HOW TINY this mandarin is. Its a baby.

Snowpocalypse 2010

This is my second week day at home. Our little city seems to be going through an identity crisis. Some years in the metroplex I have worn shorts on Valentine's Day. Some years its only a light jacket. But this year, this fateful year, is the year of the snowpocalypse. This year, the bipolar god of texas weather has brought us ten fluffy inches of snow. Ten fluffy inches of clean, white, self-reflective snow.

For the first time in months, I've had some time to just sit. I did some much-needed work, and spent quality time with a few friends, but now I am enjoying my time in thought. I sit in my chair and gaze across the white, smooth snow. Its pretty, and fixed and clean. It reminds me of childhood and forgiveness. Looking at the snow, I wish I was a kid again. I wish I had the desire to run out into the snow and build a fort, or an igloo, or a snowman. I wish I was incredibly excited about the snow and the fun it could bring me.

Once it snowed when I was in elementary school. It may have snowed more than once during my childhood, but this is the time I remember. I was in third or fourth grade and old enough to go to the park with some friends. My sister and I had walked around the corner to the little park by my house and were in the heat snow fortress building. There were other kids there, who I could not remember if I tried, and they too were building a fort to hide behind. Despite the fake Texas ice/snow, we were going to have a snowball fight: pain or not. One of those kids said something mean to me and I hit him in the face with a snowball. I don't remember what he said, but I remember feeling hurt, and I remember reacting.

So the snow reminds me of forgiveness. The snow reminds me of that time I hurt that boy only because he hurt me. The snow reminds me of the voice I heard-and still hear in my head- that day. The sound of my mother telling me to, "go say you're sorry," normally directing me toward my sister. The snow makes me think that maybe I need to be more like that little girl I used to be. The little girl who felt heartbroken about hurting someone else. The little girl who admitted she was wrong and asked for forgiveness.

As I've grown up, I've stopped saying that I am sorry. I've stopped listening to my mother's voice inside my head. Instead I tell myself that I am in the right. That I know what is best. That even though I may have been proven wrong, I will hold my ground. That my selfishness is really self-confidence. That my truthfulness is more legitimate than other people's emotions. But really, I should say that I am sorry more. I should apologize. I should be more like that snow: clean and forgiving of all of the dead horrid grass beneath it.

Thank you snowpocalypse, for being so forgiving.

Bruised

When I woke up Sunday morning I found small round bruises on the tops of my shins. They were small, and round and red. It seemed as if someone had just poked me really hard repeatedly until they broke the delicate tissue underneath my outer layer.  My bruises are formed as half of a semi-circle; the bottom of a smiley face.  I amusedly poked at them upon their discovery. I was enchanted by these mystery circles. I was drawn to them: intrigued.
I cannot remember the last time I had a bruise.  I remember being covered in them as a child, because I always have been incredibly uncoordinated. In every childhood photo, I can make out the dark purple splotches on the insides of my knees.  I would fall off curbs or bikes or stairs. I would bump into tables or walls and have proof to show for it. Yet despite their everlasting nature, the reason I think I remember them is because I showed them off. I was proud of my darkened circles. They made me feel strong and grown up and alive.
As I stood in the shower this morning and looked down at my darkening, broken skin, I felt sad. I no longer have that pride in my falls. I no longer reminisce over the difficult trials I have gone through to gain my bruises. Instead, I mourn over them. They remind me of hard times and difficult tears and heart ache. They remind me that growing up isn't really all that fun and that being eighteen isn't all it's cracked up to be. My bruises are that vivid image of brokenness. They show that I have failed or messed up or fallen.
I do not like to fall. I like to live life happily with no trials. I like to pretend- naively- that I am perfectly capable of growing without the hard. I like to think that bruises are for the weak; for those who can't hold themselves up. But I cannot hold myself up. I am sinful and wretched and broken. I am bruised.  I cannot control the future or the present or even right now. I am not the boss and I am not gleaming, and tan and prefect. These small semi-circle shaped bruises remind me of that.
So today I am keenly aware of my small bruises: of my faults and falters. I know that in a week or so they will have disappeared and I wont even remember them. I know that when I get bruised again-and i will- I will look back and be unable to remember the last time my skin was purple. But in this moment, on this day, I know who I am. I know that I am selfish and impatient. I know that I lie and say mean things and do not love. I know that I can be flaky and inconsiderate and broken.  I am grateful for that reminder.
Even though its purple.

The easy way out...

Being miserable is easy. Despite what miserable people tell me -well complain to me- I refuse to believe that being miserable is a difficult task. I have a few friends who seem to always be miserable. The world, truly, is out to get them. The universe forces them to be poor time managers, or to fail their test, or for their boyfriend to break up with them. They are always in some form of depression.

In eighth grade I made my first miserable friend. She was, and is, incredibly beautiful. She had thick long red hair and currently has a feather tattooed on the inside of her right arm. She had a stigma I had never been around. She was edgy and dark and she cried ALL THE TIME. She was one of the most miserable people I had ever met. Naturally, in my state of middle school funk, I was immediately drawn to her. I wanted that appeal she seemed to so naturally possess. I wanted to be dark and mysterious and deep. But as I got to know that girl, I learned that she really was broken. That behind her dark eyeliner and stained fingernails was a hard life.

By the end of our eighth grade year, she had moved on from her dark stage. She wore white for the first time in April and I swear I didn't even recognize her. She had moved on, her miserable stage was over. She quit Kurt Cobain for Tom Petty. She was a completely different person. This is not to say that all people who spend their Friday nights smoking and listening to Kurt Cobain in their room are miserable terrible people. It is simply to say that being miserable, for my friend at least, was simply a persona she had allowed herself to fall into.

When I went to coffee with her a few months ago, she told me she was miserable because it was natural. It was convienent for her to wallow in self-pity; to complain all of the time. Now, in no way am I suggesting that we all need to be happy all the time. Happiness is an emotion that oftentimes cannot be controlled. Yet, I still believe there is a joy to be found in living. That even on your most miserable, rotten, Frances Farmer days, there is a mindset that can be found to keep you from complaining constantly.

My father has this phrase: "Happy, shiny people solving problems". I hate that phrase. I hate it because it forces me to work. I hate it because when he says it to you and your angry beyond belief and sick of being wherever it is that you are, it could be the only phrase to push you over the edge. But the reality buried beneath that phrase says that happiness takes work. We cannot continue to blame our problems on our unhappiness, but instead need to take an active role in searching for it. Happiness is not going to just fall down from the sky and give us whatever we want, but instead we need to be willing to find happiness in the things and the places and the people we already have.

Anyone can be miserable.