Raw

This here, may be the most unedited, raw feelings I've ever been able to transcribe. I may write and type through tears and sniffles and runny mascara more often.

________________________________________________________________________________ 4-7-2013

Someone... please answer why it takes a Sunday night, stuck at a red light, head on the steering wheel and mascara all over the place to search deep enough for something worthy.

I find myself itching to get home to transcribe tears into all they mean and represent. Put the hurt on paper. This moment has nothing to do with present healing and everything to do with looking back when the seas are calm.

I’ve always believed that the best dancers are those who trick you with emotions when zero emotional attachment exists. Dancer communicate through passion, not necessarily present feelings. Saying that, it goes the same for writers. In my head, I beg and plead that the days allow me to find time and desire and raw passion to write. To write it all; the good and the bad— every emotion I feel throughout the day. I find the good throughout the day. I, for the better part of time, am optimistic and happy and excited about the future.

When things are good, I don’t need writing to survive. I think of it, in a way, I crave to preserve these feelings. To bottle them up for a raining day—I can watch from afar how things will eventually look up. I can sip on them while the sun dances its way into the day. I can slurp and gulp until the emptiness fades and rainbows and unicorns and reality set back in.

Unfortunately, it’s hard to write them when things are great. I always believed it was easy to write when the going got rough, It was something to lean on; something to rely on. A comping mechanism; an outlet and form of therapy that was much cheaper than medication.

The only thing harder than breaking from cloud nine to document the great, is trying to form words for pain felt on the inside.

Than those moments creep in. I’m scared, beyond scared.

Tonight, all I know is that red light experienced so much hurt and pain and a mess of mascara. The song that witnessed it all will always hold those emotions. Like, my mascara forgot where it belonged and I was wearing it all over my sleeves.

On paper, I am complete. I’m financially independent. I know what I want. I’m willing to work my ass off. I’m comfortable in my own skin. Physically and mentally and emotionally and spiritually.

Than those moments creep in.

I compare myself others. Where they are; what they’re doing, accomplishing, experiencing. I’m not them.

Goodness it hurts.

I believe God has it all planned out.

He is out there looking for me. He loves me already as deep and pure as I adore him. He’s praying for me as I am him. I beg and plead.

Sitting at a red light with my head on the steering wheel—begging God to bring me to him. There is so much life I have left. So many plans, planned. I want a hand laced into mine; one that never wants to let go. I have this picture in my head. One that has been and will continue to be altered but the end results, always the same.

There is so much love bottled. Inside. Kept away. Waiting for the moment to explode into someone else. To crash into the dreams and desires and hopes of another human being. To have it all. Create it all. Fall in love every day and every night. Over and over again-- like the first time, every time

Pink flowers down Caxambas Court

Sweet, sweet summertime.

Ridiculous amount of emotions and experiences must be documented from the last two weeks. With time, they will. Tonight, I'm in the here and now. Soaking in the warmth of my Shabby Chic bedding as if it were an overflowing bubble bath, enjoying heaping spoonfuls of double dark chocolate gelato and fresh memories of adventure.

Sunday nights are reserved for family dinners and giggles and wine and stories. Old friends and new friends are welcome with open arms. Tonight, three-year-old Avery and I walked hand-in-hand picking pink flowers down Caxambas Court. Consuming hearty helpings of pasta and shrimp and lobster, we ended the night with bowls of fruit piled high with whipped cream. My belly and heart are full at the thought of it all. Watching Avery enjoy a Florida summer sunset over fruit salad, she would mumble, night night strawberry, right before she would sink her teeth into the juicy seasonal fruit. Intelligent beyond her years, she identified every fruit. I had to giggle when I heard, night night cucumber. I thought, for sure cucumbers had no place in a fruit salad. Avery learned tonight that kiwis and cucumbers are extremely similar in appearance. I basked in the presence of this free-spirit. Oh did I enjoy this summer night.

The sun sank below the horizon line as cars and trucks and boat engines roared and we departed our separate ways. Refreshed and prepared to conquer the week ahead. Behind the wheel of my brother's silver two-door Honda, I drowned thoughts and worries in my sixteen-year-old self's summer playlist, breathing in cool, humid Florida air. Oh, did I feel full and blessed and free and whole.

Welcome back sweet, sweet summertime.

Shining light upon ordinary

How I long for inspiration. Someday, I'm borderline begging for it. The kind that awakens another side of my being. Forces an out of body experience. Instills empowerment and weightlessness, butterflies and spine chills. That "no one can stop me, I'm going to make it, you may not know my name but you will" kind of feeling.

Once in a blue moon, the universe surprises me. Shining light upon ordinary. Sparking questions amongst routine. Inviting itself into my heart and is graciously welcomed with open arms. I become more appreciative of these moments more and more when I'm longing and wishing and hoping for inspiration and it is nowhere to be found. I go to write and I have nothing. Fingers tapping and clicking, itching to write, only to find that they're still riding the last burst of inspiration's coattail.

I question if inspiration is attainable when desired. I've flirted with this idea through days of predictability. I trust that inspiration is all around us-- with the curiosity to explore it. Snuggling teary-eyed babies who miss their Momma. Candlelit showers on a Saturday morning. Fresh fruit smoothies at breakfast. Cracked windows on unseasonably chilly nights. Girlfriends belly laughing over glasses of white Zinfandel. Cool grass tickling bare feet that dangle just beyond a blankets edge.

Inspiration. We're unknowingly drowning in it.  Societal embedded blinders keep us from enjoying the beauty. Suffice our hunger to bask in the sun of inspiration. The beauty in the ordinary, beauty in routine, beauty in the predictable. I'm starving for it more often than not. All I have to do is seek and I will find. Beauty is all around us.

Opened my eyes

Recently tumbling in my newest obsession, I came across this.  By accident really. My attention was initially focused on reading this. Becky's stories about her precious blonde beauty E have been added to the list of 'things I read daily.' It centers around her and her husband and her little bundle of adorableness. Her writing is honest and humorous and educational for first time moms. I'm not, nor am I anywhere close to being a first time mom but none-the-less, I find comfort in her words. I dream of being my future husbands best friend. I can't wait to be a wife. To take a new name. To have a cold ring occupy my left hand. I want to build a home together. When the day comes that I hold my own creation in my arms, I want to remember the days I read about the lives of others and longed to be in their shoes. I want to remember just how badly I wanted it all. I want to make sure I appreciate that day more than I ever imagined my heart could appreciate. I want to bring that new part of us to a home that my best friend and I made a reality. I want to watch the fluttering eyes of my little miracle in the dimness of the hallway light, while brushed up against the other half of my creation. I want my heart to burst with gratitude when I open my eyes each morning. I am eager for the 'butterfly kisses' fluttering in my tummy while I draw in my final breaths of the day.

I want to look back at this day-- and this day and this day-- and reflect on how far I've come. The sacrifices, struggles, tears and the heartache but more importantly, I want to taste the happiness, the excitement, feel the warm hugs and the pure, genuine love of my family and the family I have yet to meet.  I want to remember every moment that leads me to that night. I want to live every, single moment until that very night.

I get it. I sound just like every twenty something-year-old sorority girl who fantasizes over the day her daddy walks her down the isle at the wedding of her dreams. No. It's not like that. That's not where I'm going with this.

Normal day, normal reads. I was here when Becky posted this about little Nella's breathtaking birth story. Being the 'mommy blog junkie' that I am, it was like a little elf jumped on my index finger and forced me to click that link without even consulting my brain. Wherever that little outside force is, I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my being.

I'd suggest to anyone who asks (and even to those who don't) to visit the blog of this lovely lady who may, or may not have opened my eyes to life. Not a new life, not a better life or even a different life, just life. I vow to soak in every sunny day and to splurge on fresh flowers for my bedroom. Toss my plans into the wind and just drive. Swim in the gulf; in my clothes if I don't have a swimsuit. Be a better friend & celebrate others big moments and tiny occasions alike. Strive to walk closer to the Lord and lessen the 'stranger gap' between acquaintances. Deeply and sincerely love each individual for who & what they are, not what I want them to be.

I hate being cliche, I  simply won't do it. I am different. I'm not like every other girl. I'm just not. I have to learn to be vulnerable & this is where I dump my feels and spill my guts. There are times my fingers insist on typing things my heart feels but my head is too stubborn to admit. It's the fear of being cliche. I live in the same small little beach town as Kelle & Lainey & Nella. We share the same white, sandy beaches, drive the same roads and sit in traffic with the same wrinkly snowbirdies & there is more of a chance than not, that's all we'll ever share. It may not be in the plans for us to ever cross path. That's ok. Here we go. My fingers and heart are ganging up on my head and forcing me to admit this. These three amazing, genuine, loving women have opened my eyes to the world. To life. I don't even know them but they have changed me. They have each changed me for the better.

& I will leave it at that...for now.

A heart big enough to change the world

With all the things that have been going on the past few days, has just reinforced why I have chosen to embark on this journey. As many reflect back on the life and times of a good friend, who has left us all too soon, it has made me reevaluate my own life and I have been forced to see the truth in our mindset & behaviors. At this point in our lives, I feel we honestly believe we are truly invincible. By we, I mean those I associate with. We're young and educated and come from great families and wonderful support systems and are, by all means necessary, bound to change the world. Tragedies don't happen to people like us. Right? Wrong. Statistics and tragedies do not discriminate and they certainly do not warn. They come in all shapes and size, every day of every week, taking loved ones far too soon.


In this recent crisis, I believe that her heart was, in fact, big enough to change the world. But, has she done that already? The sequence of events that took place that dreadful Friday were published one time-- & that was when I really searched for the truth. Somehow the reality was covered up by the outpour of love for such a wonderful woman, which is, no doubt, undeniable. Regardless, that is just another opportunity for her to change the world. By letting us all, who think we're invincible, know that we are not. That accidents happen. That regardless of how many times we text & drive or play with our hair or fix our make-up, and arrive to our destination safely, it's still a risk we all take. All of this goes specifically for myself, but I know I'm not alone. My Panhellanic Pal was, without question, unforgettably one-of-a-kind, who certainly had a heart big enough to change the world of those she loved. Though she is no longer with here, I can only wish that she remain a life lessons in the day-to-day life of every single person she's touched.


She brought people together when they needed it most. She showed us how to laugh a little bit louder. She's whole-heartedly warned every fraternity woman and man to hold our brothers & sisters a little bit tighter & a little bit longer. Taught us all to love each other a whole lot more. Again, I can only hope, she has proven that we are not invincible-- that nothing is worth risking your golden years for.