I'm working on it

I know, I know. I'm pretty inconsistent with this blogging thing. There's not much I can do about it, though, except promise I'll try harder. And we shan't stress about it anymore today.

Typically I'm a horribly inconsistent person when it comes to doing the things I want to do. It's such a significant issue in my life that my little tagline over there includes it: I have too many hobbies. Singing, painting, guitar-ing, drawing, writing, ukulele-ing, 4-hing, acting, sound designing, journaling...and now I am having all sorts of grand ideas, like I want to master the arts of calligraphy and arm knitting and photography. Everything sounds super fun in theory, though I eventually inevitably find myself depressed about how I'm not keeping up with all of it. I want to be the best at everything I do, and even the black and white fact that there is only so much time in my life to do these things isn't an acceptable excuse for imperfection.

I'm working on it.

... And there's the vicious cycle; now I'm trying to perfect being imperfect. You see, it is a problem.

But seriously, I'm getting better. The trick, I've discovered, is to take the failures as they come for what they are, and simply...realize this is the way it is - obsessing over it will quite simply make the problem worse. I just need to move on and leave the past where it belongs. Keep going. It will be okay, just keep going.

On to other topics, school is going fabulously well this semester! I mean, it's only been a few weeks, but for the first time in highschool I feel confident that I will actually complete every subject I intend to finish by the end of the school year. And I'm having fun. I love (most of) all 8 or 9 subjects I'm going through, and productivity is one of the sweetest feelings I've yet to come into contact with.

I'm making some money finally! God has opened up doors for me to do childcare for different church functions. I am incredibly grateful - for one, I have been needing to find a way to earn a little money before my time opens up and I'm able to get a "real" job in the summer, and this is an absolute perfect fit for me. For another, I'm constantly surrounded by adorable babies, and in an odd way it's giving me a more positive outlook on life. It is so interesting to observe babies and toddlers: I truly believe they are the purest form of humanity...the untainted, unfiltered stuff. You get to see the bubbling over with joy, the fascination, the innate sinfulness, the reactions to discomfort... And then, they're cute. That's always a plus.

I've been writing more poetry. In British Literature, actually, I finally learned about feet and meter and all of that fun technical poem stuff. I think it's typical nowadays with modern poetry to throw these "restrictive rules" aside because they block the freedom of creativity. I found out I think it's great though - it presents a sort of new challenge, and gives more reason to be proud of the finished product. And let's face it, I'm a rule-follower. Rules give me a sense of security, I guess. When left to my own devices, I get so confused that I end up creating a new set of restrictions. So anyhow, with all of that being said, I learned how to write a sonnet. Sonnets are hard to write. But after months of trial and error, my first full one has emerged, with iambic pentameter and all that. I am not sure if it is any good or makes sense, but for now I am simply proud of the fact that it's finished. Ironically enough, it is essentially a poem about writer's block. Enjoy.

Empty mess

The vacant, hollow stack of shelves do stare
Indefinite silently vacant wait
And wait for words that do not come o'er there
Or care to make appearance as of late
I sort through piles of words to organize
In shuffling I can't find where to start
So mounds of letters fall before my eyes
Then sweep away to form no thing of art
To maybe decorate this barren wood
Has ever proved so ugly my mistake
What words I find don't sit quite like they should
And I can't display things for their own sake, but
Perhaps an empty page communicates
Unfathomable mess the mind creates

Well, that is all I wish to say for now. This entry felt very different, but then again I never set a standard for how I want each of my blog posts. No rules. Here I go once again wanting to have the security of a cookie-cutter life...and I suppose that's not a bad thing in all situations to stick to a standard, but I do want this blog to be one place with true freedom of possibilities. And you, dear reader, only come along if you wish. Thank you for taking time even to read this post, and I sincerely hope for whoever you are that your today is lovely. Until next time!

Perspective

Perspective can lie to you sometimes. Well, it does that a lot, actually. Especially when you're this small. Everything seems so big and up-close and...real. I was once even smaller, and the things that were then so mesmerizing, only turned disappointing as I grew. Almost like watching a magician's trick: so breath-taking, confusing, and delightful all at once. Slowly I inched up to the stage where I was able to observe closer. This man wasn't doing anything special at all. The trick was just that - a trick, an illusion. Why did I think it deserved my attention in the first place? My perspective: the position from where I viewed and judged what crosses my path - it fooled me. Again.

What scares me the most, though, is that as I said before, I am so small. I feel like I'm seeing things finally clearly, but I know that's definitely not right. The path before me is long and winding still. I have much more to walk than what little I have covered. Infinitely more there is to learn, to change, to trip over...

But do I expect someday to know everything? Is there some age when my experiences start to guide my life into perfection? Well, no. I guess that's not a thing.

I'm a control freak, maybe. I want perfection, and I want to master and achieve it on my own, because I can't will myself to trust anyone. Being unable to accomplish this feat, I am terrified. My lens is constantly shifting, and though the world is coming slightly more into focus, I don't even have a decent grip on what "in focus" is supposed to look like. It's miserable. I want to curl up in a ball and cry.

It's all slipping through my hands, and I don't know what to think or believe about anything. But hey, could this be a good thing? Wading through the blurry confusion, amidst frustration and fear, I am reminded of the only One who isn't held back by human shortcoming. I have Him to help and guide me for crying out loud, and the control freak inside me has to realize that His way is ridiculously more peaceful, joyful, and rewarding than those countless times I thought I saw a flower and it turned out to be a pebble.

What an excruciating process it is learning to acknowledge my inferiority, to let go and be okay with Jesus' lead. But you know, there is peace. And there is reward. For though we are as good as blind, the greatest Hope is in front of us: it's just a matter of grabbing hold, and while the fear and anxiety still lingers, and occasionally you'll imagine something pretty in the opposite direction, every once in a while He will give you a glimpse of the whole story. And it is beautiful.

Who are you?

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

(image via the depths of Pinterest)

Nobody...I am nobody. Scanning through Emily Dickinson's poems, these words cut my heart as beautiful poems typically have the power to do. I committed the piece to memory, only to recite it in my head whenever...fitting. It's pretty ridiculous, don't you think? A few simple words put together in a less-than-logical way, and somehow it just makes sense to its readers. Poetry brings up those hidden - and often times horribly vague - pressing feelings, and brings clarity to them, as well as the comfort of knowing you're not alone in your insanity. 

Most of us have been nobodies before, right? Would it be a venture to guess that most of us are nobodies by our own judgement? For years I have struggled with (unconsciously) looking at the world and its inhabitants as if I'm on standing the outside looking in. It's as if I have the whole world fooled into thinking that I'm a person like them, but alas, I know the truth: I'm a mess. I'm barely figuring out how to act like other people. I can't possibly be one of them.

Over time I fear I've trained myself to take pride in my supposed outsider-ness - this is really just as easy as turning it into an insecurity. It feels as though I'm watching everyone turn into the same thing as everyone else - like they're all identical robots, and I'm glad I can't fit in. I get the impression that this same pride was at the root of Dickinson's following stanza which details the dreariness of somebody-ness. How public, like a frog to tell your name the livelong day to an admiring bog! I couldn't agree more with her.

However... The more I open up about this sensation, the more I'm discovering how not-so-special I am. Indeed, even merely the popularity of this poem reveals something about humanity. Do you think Dickinson would have been surprised? A lot of us are faking it. A lot of us are afraid of the shame that might come along with making known our struggles: they'd banish us, after all.

If you're a nobody, go tell someone. Take comfort and be humbled by the number of us out there. Let's tell the world who we are until there are too many to banish - maybe someday we will bring about a true definition of what it is to be somebody.