tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27257778769619050812024-03-08T06:39:56.871-08:00Ramblings of a Psycho Red-headJust some thoughts from a ginger. :)navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-603923395548900322010-09-27T22:52:00.001-07:002010-09-27T22:52:56.070-07:00Thanks to Andrew for helping me get over writers block.Kristine Dyer<br />
September 27th, 2010<br />
Non-Fiction Piece<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We live a symphony, full of meter, rhyme, and melody. We rise to the blare of an alarm, stretch sleepily, get dressed, begin our day, come home, make dinner, eat, watch TV, go to bed. Rhythm.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Shibuya, Japan, home to the busiest crosswalk in world, has an innumerable number of people that walk across the street. The heart beat of Tokyo, this crosswalk has a melody full of flashing lights, the sound of beating hooves waiting, impatiently, pawing at the ground. Thousands heading to work, millions in awe of the busyness and still others, wandering lost. The lights giving systematic permission to those waiting to cross this famous place to continue the rhythm of their lives. As a little white man with a bowler hat appears on the sign, the metronome begins to signal the moments each of the thousands of people crossing have to become a part of a spiderweb of intersecting lives. Each moment we have touches the moments of others, and in Shibuya, millions of lives touch, for a beat. Never truly becoming entwined, but touching. And I found myself with my best friend, watching, together. Observing the chaotic bustle of caged humans rushing the moment they were given permission to, and lingering past their time, toying with danger.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sierra Forde was my foil. She was angry, caustic, ever spouting words referring to fecal matter. Sulking in the shadows she emitted frustration and bitterness. I was bubbly, naïve, attention-seeking, holier-than-thou and full of bright, optimistic colors. Ninth grade was good to no one. Ridgetop Junior High was a training ground for those who would become high school stereotypes. It brought forth to the world mean girls, jocks, goths and nerds. Not a single student was safe from having their world rocked and torn apart. I went as an “exotic” new student from Hawai'i and was soon adopted by Bridget Goodwin. The school soon knew me as her pet and her former best friend hated me. But I was drawn to Sierra. Her inexplicable hate intrigued me and that caused me to pursue her even more heartily. I burst into her life shocking her as I matched her caustic humor. And she burst into mine, shaking the very foundation of myself. I was never quite sure if we were becoming friends, or if her sarcasm was serious. I was caught in a riptide of her desire for love, and her fear of rejection. I was lonely, despite (or because of) Bridget's affections. I had no friends at church and invited Sierra in an attempt to curb my loneliness.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next year was a whirlwind of anger, happiness and depression. I never knew if she wanted me as a friend, and I wanted so desperately for her to accept Christ, because in her acceptance, maybe I would be able to find my redemption. We laughed about high school, fought about moral and ethical issues. I cried over her confusing love, and she cried because of her need for it. It was a blur of Seattle rain, which she loved and the clear sunshine that I craved. There were cherry blossoms, begging to be danced beneath; brown, red and orange leaves to be crushed beneath our feet, and light snow for which we prayed earnestly. A rush of meter at 180 beats per minute never leaving time for dramatic pause.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I began to see Sierra's shell slowly melt and her desire for an unconditional, consistent love lead her to Jesus Christ on January 24th, 2008. From that moment we were fast friends. We went to different schools Sophomore year, but church tied us together. We rode together every Thursday for the next two years. From my mother's cautious, gentle driving, to my father's abrupt, proactive driving, we had hundreds of conversations ranging from God's will in our lives, to goose poop. Those 15 minute car rides were the highlight of my week. I was able to spend time, with not only my parents, but with my best friend. It was during one of these car rides I told Sierra my family was being transferred to Japan the summer before my senior year.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the months before I moved, Sierra began to shut down. She felt abandoned and adopted preventative measures to stop me from rejecting and forgetting about her. I was so hurt, when I needed her the most she abandoned me. How many times had I been there to push past the wall of passive aggression she used to hide her pain? How many times had I told her I would be there for her? And when I was falling into the pit of depression she took “Fine” for an answer. She hadn't even taken the time to find out what day I was leaving. I was heart broken. All of the time I invested, all of the times I confided in her, all of the things we shared suddenly felt pointless. My mother had promised she would fly Sierra out to Japan for my graduation present. Sierra was wary of this, thousands of broken promises floated in front of her eyes. She didn't allow herself to accept this and told me it wouldn't work out. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Before I moved, Sierra and I talked. I finally screamed about my frustrations. I began to share the struggles I had been denying by supporting her. It felt like selfishness. It felt like denying the very essence of my being, I lived to help others, people weren't allowed to know about my struggles. I screamed about being unloved by her, and that she didn't love me well enough. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I saw her for two weeks on my last youth group trip with Silverdale Baptist. During that week, we cried. Sometimes it began with her. Sometimes it was me. Sometimes it was others crying for us. But we laughed, constantly. Often we laughed and then cried. Or cried and then laughed. I brought a full-sized Aero Bed air mattress to the trip with me. It was blue and double layered and had a felt top that enhanced the sweat from you body and made it impossible to roll over. I shared it with Sierra and our friend Lauren. Sierra slept in different positions every night, but mostly in the middle. I slept on the outside. But it felt safe. I knew how she hogged blankets, and that her feet were ticklish and if I touched them, she would kick me onto the floor. It was security.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>July 31st, 2009, my dog and I flew to Yokota, Japan and my path with Sierra diverged. I made the three hour car ride to my new home, on the wrong side of the vehicle. That year I made friends with my English teacher, my brothers, my mother and father and several guys from school. It was a maze of a year. I had to find my way around this strange country on a train and find my way around myself. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time. I hated the industry and how busy it was. But I loved the ocean and the flowers that highlighted the roads. I hated not speaking the language, but I loved finding ways to communicate with people. I hated feeling alone, but loved supporting people who felt the same way. I hated school, but loved what I learned from these people who lived a life in complete antithesis to mine. I survived, as I always had and I graduated with some new friends, who may yet become old friends.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My ever faithful mother bought Sierra plane tickets to Japan after graduation. And Sierra came, filled with hope. I was brimming over with so much happiness that my mouth overflowed with words and for several hours I couldn't stop talking. We went to my room and laughed. She laughed her hearty, majestic laugh and I snorted. Loudly. It was as if all the frustration I had endured that year was ripped apart by our laughter. We rolled around in my blankets and tackled each other with pillows. We ignored the struggles we had for just a moment, setting them to the side so for a brief second we could laugh as if the whole world was an acceptable place in which to live. We always had time to talk about struggles.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We spent the two weeks laughing more, expelling water from our eyes, basking in the sun by the beach, eating ramen and rice and taking trains all over the area. Three days before she left, we caught a 2:47pm train to Yokohama, transferred to Tokyo and ventured on towards Shibuya. Above this crosswalk is the busiest Starbucks in the world. We took an escalator up to the counters with stools overlooking the hustle and bustle of the cross walk. The lights flash and advertisements for chocolate sticks play on loop on a television screen. To the right is a restaurant with lights that meld into pink, blue, yellow and green. Below the sidewalk slowly fills up, as a clog in the kitchen sink. And slowly, the street lights turn yellow and flash red. Thousands of people run across, and as a flashing red hand appears, the stragglers run as fast as they can to avoid the cars rushing past. Diagonally, horizontally and vertically, thousands of people collide for but a moment. Each of their paths crossing, lives touching for a blink of time.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Here in this place, where millions of lives converge and intersect and fall apart, I sat with my best friend for three hours. Three hours with less than three hundred words spoken, but three thousand shared. The world below us looked so small. We could reach out our hands and pinch a running figure by the neck and pocket him, the world being none the wiser. We sat side by side, below us the world seeming so insignificant, yet massive and full of strength. We sat, both following a person as they crossed and melded into the crowd, choosing one person to follow and become a part of their lives for just a brief instant. We laughed as some walked as slowly as possible, while others ran back and forth, making the most of their moment. We watched some loose items of clothing and others get caught with traffic coming head on. As the clog drained, I picked a man standing by the entrance to a subway, waiting. Sierra pointed,<br />
“He hasn't moved for ten minutes.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We watched. Moderately tall, skinny, Asian, blue sweater, dark wash jeans, hair stylishly messy and blue Converse shoes. Was he waiting for a friend, a sibling perhaps? It was obvious that he was waiting for someone. But the look upon his face was too dismal for merely waiting. It could be nothing other than a girl.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He had been in love with her since the first time she walked into his office. The way she walked, gently padding her feet in an attempt to mute the click of her heels, her brash voice that always had some opinion to share, her short hair making a statement, all enraptured him. It had taken him 21 days and 3.7 hours to say a formal hello and introduce himself. Oh, her smile warmed him to the core. 53 days and 6.13 hours to strike up a full conversation about the new Prime Minister. By the 82nd day, and 4 conversations later, he resolved to ask her to dinner. She had off handedly mentioned that she loved restaurants. A week later, she had accepted.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He was beside himself. Two days before the date, he drove for three hours in a panic, to ask his sister to shop with him, he had nothing suitable to wear. She had laughed, but eventually relented. The day came, he had specially chosen an expensive restaurant overlooking the famous Shibuya crosswalk. He thought this would be a fabulous plan, so that they would not run out of topics to discuss.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But he sat, 27 minutes of agony. Why, oh why hadn't he gotten her number, he handed his to her, carefully handwritten on a card, and dashed away before she had a chance to share hers. He checked his phone for the 43rd time. Nothing. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We saw him pick up his phone and open it, looking at it with incredible disappointment. A wave of panic contorted his face. She must be at home, laughing at his foolishness. How could he face himself? Again he checked his phone. A look of excitement, but as he answered, frustration. Probably a friend checking on him. He turned to grab his bag and began to walk. The light turned red. He looked down avoiding all eye contact. We watched, with our hearts breaking for this poor man. He began the walk of shame when a small, woman with dark wash jeans, short hair and green Converse shoes bounded up to him. He turned around with eyes wide. She hugged him and they bounced away together across the street, their lives becoming part of a bigger picture.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sierra and I thought for a moment, how we intersected, carefully planned by some higher Being. And if it be just for a moment, than we would be blessed with our awe-inspiring lives and the blessings God had ordained for us. Together we turned to leave, taking our final walk across this crosswalk. As we walked into the station a moderately tall Japanese man with a girlfriend wearing green Converse bumped into us and waved.<br />
Rhythm.navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-30584827197881610012010-08-01T07:46:00.000-07:002010-08-01T07:46:44.899-07:00Stupid<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's really stupid. Incredibly stupid. It starts off with a friendship, and the intention was to end it with one, but I can't talk to you anymore. I just can't. You have no idea how many times I opened a text, and started a message. It's just said "hi". But I can't bring myself to send it. Because I don't want you to think connotatively about it. I don't want you back, and I'm sure you don't want me back. But I miss having someone to talk to. Do you know that no one is coming to the birthday party I'm not having? I miss having you as a friend. But I don't know what to say any more. Isn't that dumb? People work so hard to build relationships, but then you come to the realization that romance ruins everything, 'cause chances are... it won't work out. So you loose a friend and someone who cares about you. And things will never be the same, because you're constantly thinking about what it felt like to hug that person, or hold hands with them. And you wonder if what they said was actually a lie, or if it was the truth. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If it was a lie, then you feel used. But it hurts worse if it was the truth, but now it doesn't mean anything. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That I don't mean anything. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which leads back to the assertion that it's really stupid. And it's frustrating, because when you talk there are so many unsaid questions hanging in the air. Most of them begin with why.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why did you want to break up with me?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why wasn't I good enough?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why aren't you attracted to me?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Why am I not what you want?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And it might not have anything to do with me, but I think it all the time. I think about how it was bound to end, but why now? Why couldn't it have been something we couldn't reconcile? Why did it have to be that you weren't "into me"? What wasn't there to be into? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and I think about physical appearance, and though it may have nothing to do with it, I still wonder. Was I too short, too fat? Why didn't you think I was beautiful? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">WHY WHY WHY? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It's foolish really. It's dumb. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But it's there. And its what I feel. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I'll hint around, and hope someday, we can resolve these questions so I can have my friend back. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But realistically, we won't be friends again. Not in the same way,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">leading to the conclusion.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That love ruins everything.</span>navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-82568561342007138552010-07-31T05:52:00.001-07:002010-07-31T05:52:50.854-07:00Amazing quoteSome people need to hear this.<br />
<br />
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." -Marianne Williamsonnavy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-46062341393049107252010-07-27T07:32:00.000-07:002010-07-27T07:33:37.714-07:00Hurting?People, distance, things that change, <br />Everyday is something strange.<br />Now we move, far apart. <br />Not just in miles, but in our hearts. <br />Does the swallow carry love,<br />Across the moors that <br />blah blah blah <br /><br /><br />It's been said a million times, in thousands of blogs and poems-- Love sucks. <br />Relationships are synonymous with heartache. <br />So what is it that people want? <br />It seems a fundamental, we all want love. <br />So what makes it so hard to love others? <br /><br /> If love is something that everyone wants, if acceptance is something that everyone longs for, and affirmation is something everyone desires, what makes it so hard to give it out? Is it so difficult to hand out the thing that we desire the most? When you open yourself up to someone, and hope that they accept you-- all your flaws, quirks, hopes and dreams-- you leave yourself open to a world of rejection. You allow your deepest desires to be judged and lay them bare to be trampled on. So why is it, that people keep seeking love? Why can't we find it in ourselves the love we want from others? Because, it's easier to love yourself. It's easier to affirm your own choices, its easier to accept what you are, but asking others to accept you and love you is getting affirmation from the world. If the world can love you, then you have everything. But then we're back at the beginning, why can't we give everything to others? Is it so difficult to let little things go? The problem is that we love ourselves so much that we can't love others. It's a catch-22. Unless we are loved, we find it hard to love others because we don't love ourselves. Over and over. It's human nature to shy away from differences. We can't unconditionally love people who are different. Different speech, hygiene, hopes, morals, aspirations, interactions with the world. Different. And with rejection, hundreds of unwanted questions attack. <br />Was I not good enough?<br />Did I do something wrong?<br />Am I too clingy?<br />Did he even like me in the first place?<br />Was it all a lie?<br />And those these questions may have no logical basis, they keep itching at your mind like a bug bite. Because the basis of your identity has been rejected. <br />And maybe there are good reasons accompanying these rejections, nevertheless, heartache attacks leaving these pesky questions behind. <br />SO what do we do?<br /><br />Love. <br /><br /><br />Do the thing we despise the most at the moment. You hurt, so does everyone. No one is completely happy with themselves or with their relationships, so end the cycle. <br />Easier said than done. <br />But, <br />give someone some love. <br />People that see you loving want to love you back. If you see someone without a smile, give them yours. <br />Ask someone how they are, <br />How they really are. <br />And listen to the answer. <br />Tell someone they are beautiful.<br />Don't just say you love someone, tell them why.<br />If you can't love, how can you expect to get it back? <br />And someday, if you wait, someone is gonna find you<br />and sweep you off your feet, and want to love you. All of you, even the temper tantrums you throw when you loose at Monopoly. <br />and send you notes, just because they want you to think of them. Flowers because he wants you to smile.<br />Then its all worth it. <br /><br />So I propose a challenge, <br />Love someone different from you.<br />Not your best friend…that's too easy. <br />Love someone you don't agree with, <br />Send them an email listing things you like about them. <br />And maybe they'll pass it on. And that's all it takes.<br />This world needs a little love, on this we all agree,<br />They why won't this pattern, start with you and me. <br /><br />:)navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-12484816725601222402010-07-15T04:24:00.000-07:002010-07-15T18:11:42.802-07:00Breath.Every three years, like clockwork, my family was handed the orders dictating that we must relocate as my father could better serve his country in another location. And we moved while I watched enviously as my friends' fathers had their orders extended, giving them three more years of the life they had created. I have always hated that I've had to visit home, and that I could never have it. Home has been at the tip of my fingers for eighteen years, just out of my reach. After a while, I began to realize that family is the only home I'd ever have, wherever that may be. Going to college felt like I was loosing every little bit of home I had. I now had to define myself, not by my parents jobs or by the clothes they bought me or the church they decided to attend, but by myself. I've always had a fear of being alone, and just two days after my 18th birthday, I felt I would be. Each day leading up to my execution felt like something was being stripped from me. I felt my identity being taken from me. My life was being dramatically transformed, radically altered, until I barely recognized it. Who I was seemed a lie. All the self assured confidence that I possessed was swept away in a wave of doubt. I was no longer Kristine, I was a ball of clay, back at square one ready to be remade. Into what was the question. At the end of this, who would I be? Would I loose myself along the way? Where would I end up? There was a maze of roads in front of me, each within my grasp; I could choose my fate. What if I choose wrong, with so many options how would I know the right one? There were so many possibilities of the thing I feared more than any other, failure. So I prayed, often. I prayed and breathed. "Please let this be right." Breath. "Was this correct?" Breath. "What is your will?" Breath. And then held my breath while waiting for an answer.navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-45073862173828207712010-04-09T05:14:00.001-07:002010-04-09T05:14:38.840-07:00What's A titleWe are. <br />We are small. <br />We are that we are. <br />You and me. <br />Differently. <br />We are, faceless, <br />Souls longing to be. <br />We are lights, <br />In a never ending sea. <br />Passing by like <br />Fireflies, <br />But a moment, <br />For to see. <br />We are distance. <br />Floating in the wind, <br />Flurries in the snow, <br />Flying past the sun, <br />Going on and on. <br />We are, <br />Separate. <br />But together all the same, <br />Nothing but a name. <br />Looking for a change. <br />Trying NOT to change. <br />Looking for a home, <br />Looking for a place, <br />With someone we can face, <br />Someone we can show, <br />All the things we feel, <br />And the things we long to know. <br />To be all that we are. <br />and We are. <br />Usnavy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-45239544693601868822010-01-23T06:01:00.000-08:002010-01-24T03:23:33.902-08:00It's a step. And we move in a dance, a whirlwind. Emotions run high, then..nothing. Trust and betrayal. And hope, always hope. Guiding us, moving us forward. <br /><br />And we walk. Faster, further away from who we were. Closer to an obscure version of ourselves; who did we want to be? Each beat takes us further away from what we thought.<br /> <br />There's laughter. But the laughter brings tears. Peace. Taken from us. Moving ceaselessly we change. Ever molding into some being unbeknowest to us. <br /><br />Suffocation. Struggling with every ounce to fight. Being sucked into the waves. Do you know me? Do you know you? We've nothing to prove, still we fight. <br /><br />Acceptance. Warmth floods my soul. Free from self conciousness. Me. You. Them. Us. Together. We laughed, ran, teased, shared, lost, fought, sighed. Gone. <br /><br />Rejection. Every flaw times ten. Too short, too fat. Too rude, too loud, too quiet, too wrong, too right, too bad, too good, too odd, too normal. Too me. <br /><br />An idea. Growing, pulsing, taking life. Maybe? No. Uncertainty. Do you? Do I?when? How? Could you? I could. Hope, resignation. Anxiety. Am I good enough for him? Please <br /><br />Longing. Lonely, waiting for light. Trusting it may come. Pushing. Pulling. Ebb and flow. Closer, further. Must you go? <br /><br />Wounds open. Where are you? Why not me? What is she, everything I couldn't be. Disillusioned. Leaking emotions. Fix it. Come back, fill my emptiness. But still you stay. <br /><br />He. Everything. Constant, He fills me. Soveriegn. Never good enough, yet He loves me. You are. I, weak, lowly. His? Full. Complete, only He fills me. <br />Broken so I could be whole. <br /><br />Harmony. navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-33851190384567960642009-09-25T01:02:00.000-07:002009-09-25T01:15:08.209-07:00SilenceHow to describe the sight of the sparkling blue ocean that enthralls <br />me?<br />The ever restless waves bubbling and leaping joyfully catching the <br />sun rays. The waves playfully teasing the toes of the sandy beach. It <br />glitters as if there are diamonds glinting just under the surface. I <br />feel the wind gently caress my hair, and the sun softly kiss my skin, <br />warming the depths of my being. I want to become unrestricted. I long to <br />gracefully leap atop the fence that bars me from this divine water. I long to leap upon it and stand, gazing at my target in the water. I nervously wiggle my toes and bend in the wind like a weeping willow. I push long and hard and dive into the water like a otter, ever so gracefully. <br />I want to dance with the waves, moving my legs within the cocoon of the <br />water.Feel the swirling liquid encase my arms and run through my fingers and toes. I duck underwater and my hair floats around me, fire in water. For I will ever possess an antithetical nature. <br />I long to feel weightless, all my flaws hidden beneath this diamond surface. I want to remain under the surface gently moving to the rhythm of the ceaseless waves, weightless in this peaceful quiet. In this silent world I long to remain carefree and blissfully innocent. I wish so desperately to find a hidden world of sea creatures that beg me to stay so that they can teach me the secrets of this crystal blue world. But against my will my lungs will beg for mercy and once again I'll have to surface to the cacophony of the world in which I reside. Perhaps I'll linger, dipping into the world I can only visit for but a moment. And eventually I'll walk upon shore. Dismally longing for that which I cannot reach. Breathlessly cold and dripping with the last drops of the diamond waves which now make my body uncomfortable. And I'll become aware of my flaws and hide beneath a towel. I'll drive away ever searching for the glimmering blue water peaking o'er the horizon.<br />Longing for a permanent piece of this sanctum, ever hoping for the weightless bliss I was apart of. <br /><br />And the ocean ceaselessly beckons me, calling me, singing to me, with a rhythm I cannot resist.navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-67542095623644484872009-07-29T13:58:00.001-07:002009-07-29T14:46:06.358-07:00GreyThe worst color is grey. Honestly, what other color can evoke such melancholy feelings. I can be surrounded by loved ones and plenty of occupations to keep me busy, but still I find myself in my own world feeling melancholy and lonely. No matter what excuses I give myself to be happy, I find ways to regret the past and dismally look into the future. My whole soul heaves of weariness and no matter what consolation I receive, I feel alone. Because I know that things will never be what they used to be. And though this may be a tragedy, I know deep down, it's a good thing. I know logically, these changes make me stronger. I know logically, I'll come out a better person. Logic doesn't make me hurt any less. Sometimes I need a good cry, sometimes I can't squeeze out a tear. Sometimes I cry to God, sometimes it feels he isn't near. Some days, I look for understanding. On others, I feel as though no one understands. Maybe I'm just a teenager, maybe I'm crazy. At any rate, I love the rain, but loathe the grey. I love traveling, I hate leaving. I feel as though my heart is scattered across the world. Part of me in Georgia, part in Connecticut. Part of me longs for the carefree days in Hawai'i surrounded by the protecting ocean. A greater part still longs for the trees and cozy feeling of home in Washington. I long for Japan, with its unexplored frontier with my brothers and my parents warm embrace. Yet still another longs for Wyoming, with it's open plains, and tall mountains and powerful wind and...home. Perhaps on these grey days I long for home. But if home is where the heart is I'm torn in a million different directions. And thus I sit on these grey days wondering about the hole I feel, exacerbated by the drizzly situation outside, hoping that I can find peace on some patch of land somewhere in the wide world, without the aching longing that fills me at this moment.navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-92045324609013350812009-07-28T10:01:00.000-07:002009-07-28T10:02:25.978-07:00TimeCalandar days, Ticking away,<br />Stealing moments, memories: all mine.<br />Time how inconsistantly do you dwell.<br />Robbing my life quickly away<br />When I despise you, how you linger. <br />When I long for you, you wither away.<br />When more I do desire, you steal from my gaze,<br />Now when I'm stolen, from here forced to part,<br />Barely do I blink and away you steal.<br />How I loathe you, <br />Your contrary nature. <br />But against me you shall not prevail,<br />My heart will never move, <br />You will never wear it apart.<br />With those I love, it shall always stay,<br />With or with out you, dear Time,<br />My love does remain.navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-13174960007922866962009-06-24T16:31:00.000-07:002009-06-24T16:33:25.235-07:00Swings Chapter OneFrom the hand of Kristine Dyer<br />&<br />The collective memories of the aforementioned and Jordan Mitchell<br /><br />]<br /><br /><br />Chapter One: The Battles Rage<br /> We were Bonnie and Clyde, Mortie and Furdie, partners-in-crime, mortal enemies. He was my best friend, and became another brother. Our story is not one of intense morals, beauty or sadness. It is simply the in and out of life, we grew up. We learned that life was a series of memories. And perhaps these memories have been blown out slightly, but there is more truth than fiction. We had but a passing together and as is typical with the ebb and flow of life; reality reached into our sphere of safety and tore us apart. We had a few years of complete closeness, but as I moved away, and grew and changed, we grew apart and all I had to cling to was the memory of those few years. <br /> I was twelve when I met him. Even now I chuckle and a smile breaks across my face when I think of our first meeting. I moved to Hawai’i with my family, my 9th move, and I was certain we were to be living in huts on the beach, with little modern necessities. As it turned out, we didn’t but the military housing they put us in might as well have been a hut. A “historical monument” these decrepit buildings had survived World War Two and apparently deserved the honor of remaining in the neighborhood. Needless to say, we were slightly disappointed with our small, falling apart, housing 15 minutes from anything important, except a small park which would be the center of my life for a few years. <br /> The park was down the street about a hundred yards, equipped with two slides, some gymnastic bars, and a swing set. I have so many memories on that swing set. That dirty, rusty park was the central hub of my memories in Hawai’i. I had lived there for almost a year, with no friends; I walked to the park almost every day and swung by myself, or with my brothers, but mostly with myself. On that fateful day, my brothers and I had decided to take a walk to the park down the street; homeschooled loners like us could do that anytime we wanted, and to my distress and my brothers delight all the young kids in our neighborhood, Camp Stover, we being driven mercilessly by a teenage boy. Busy as ever, these children were being mastered by this boy sitting regally in the highest peak of the playground atop the slide. Upon his head was a makeshift crown, under him was a makeshift throne and in his hand he held a scepter of sorts. From this point he commanded his “army” of cheerful children. While viewing this strange scene, I observed that the boy was decidedly handsome, he sported a tousled coif and a face rounded still by baby fat. He was rather tall and slightly plump, but it suited him well. Having little to no contact with boys my age for several years, I was quite intrigued and slightly aghast at the child-like hierarchy he had established. I proceeded to take my usual place on the swings while making judgments of this quirky character. Was it normal for a teenage boy to be dictating little children and creating a monarchy of his own? Did boys often play games this way? He was commanding, firm, resolute, confidant, as if he had been commanding armies of children for quite some time. As I would come to find out, this boy was not normal, he exuded weird, odd, quirky and bizarre. He was everything I wanted to be, but was too scared of becoming. In short, this Monarch was not, in any sense of the word, normal. <br /> Before I knew it, my brothers had joined the “monarchy” and sported deeply mischievous looks across their countenance. The Monarch, drunk with superiority, had taken no notice of a small rebellion stirring among his subjects. My brothers, known for their troublemaking abilities, were taunting the children with the sweet temptation of freedom and liberty. Some were finding this offer irresistible, though strangely some were loyal to this cruel master. Slowly as the economy of his empire slowed, the Monarch realized something was amiss. As he inspected his subjects my brothers loudly defied His Majesty and spoke out against the injustice of the whole operation and listed their demands for freedom. The indignant ruler told them to leave before they ruined his empire. Happily my brothers shrieked “NO!” and gathered weapons for their rebellion. Enraged, the Monarch began stocking his empire with sticks as swords and berries as ammunition. <br /> Thus the infamous Camp Stover wars began. It was to be the first of many epic battles that would lead to trouble, broken bonds, wounds, scolding and an overall feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. Still I remained on the swings observing this scene, and a feeling that something grand was beginning washed over me. As the excitement of the battle rose to its climax, the cries for assistance became louder and more desperate. I was forced to choose, the Monarch or my rebellious brothers? I was no longer given leave to sit complacently on the swings and speculate upon the sidelines of the battles rage. Thus I was equipped by the rebels and the adrenaline of war pounded through my veins as I unleashed my battle cry. I was wild with the desire to overcome. As I fought, I noticed that my brother would periodically declare a truce with the Monarch and as they would near a handshake, my dear brother would pounce upon the back of the Monarch and begin beating him repeatedly about the head. The Monarch desperate for the return of order and peace to his kingdom would desperately and foolishly believe my brothers truce and eventually received many bumps upon his head. The children were becoming equally violent and a piercing shriek sliced its way through the battle. All went still. A young boy christened Michael lay upon the ground sobbing. His father emerged from a nearby home and threatened us older children with unmentionable things. Our war ended as quietly as it began. Sheepishly the ruler had walked across the now abandoned field between the park and swings and declared my brothers and I worthy opponents of his Empire. With that handshake, our journey began. <br />…<br /> After that day, we were inseparable. I learned the Monarchs name to be Jordan Anthony Mitchell. He’d only been in the neighborhood for two weeks and had more friends than I had made in a year. Being the… er…gentleman that he was, he introduced me to his “friends”. That’s when the trouble began.<br /> We had been on the swings singing our favorite songs. True we were odd, but it suited us just fine. During the chorus of “Come Sail Away” by Styx, Jordan’s friends came to us. Having already been introduced to these “friends” and having already made a not-so-friendly judgment of these “friends” I turned to make a lame excuse to go home and hit the dust but Jordan would have none of that and begged me to stay. I decided I could endure the turmoil for his sake and with that the harassment began. We walked over to where the group was sitting on the bench across from the park. Someone had brought candy. O, that weak spirited Jordan. I had learned of his insatiable desire for anything sugar filled and a wave of fear came over me as a catch to his obtaining this sugar became evident. They pulled Jordan out of earshot and proceeded what seemed to be a bargain of some sort. Triumphantly he returned to the bench with no more than 8 Sour Patch Kids. Immediately upon his return his “friends” shouted “Do it! Ask her! Remember the deal.” I was confused and rather irritated as Jordan proceeded to tell me the plan. <br /> In exchange for his beloved candy, Jordan was required to ask a certain friend of his “out”. One can only guess who that certain friend happened to be. I knew the instant Jordan said, “Kristine,” and took a long, deep breath. What was I supposed to do? I’d never been asked “out” before; much less had a boy even like me. Slowly, following Jordan’s example, I inhaled and said “Maybe.” But oh no, that was not nearly sufficient enough for Jordan’s friends. Chorus’ of “You have to say yes, maybe isn’t an option, CHICKEN!” swirled around me and I felt claustrophobic. They chided me and teased. So what was a poor naive red-headed girl to do? <br />“Fine”<br />...<br /> Thus, my entirely un-epic romance with Jordan began. I went home that night with butterflies in my stomach. I was torn between my conscience and those very lovely butterflies. As I lay thinking about my future, as pre-teen girls often do, Jordan simply would not fit as a romantic figure. But no matter, we had time right?<br />As the following days unfolded it became increasingly transparent that something was amiss between Jordan and his “friends”. Increasingly, I had been confronted about the fact that I was an item with Jordan. People would inquire and laugh manically as I confirmed their suspicions. Blissfully unaware of the upcoming conflict, Jordan and I sat upon our usual swings. Lately we had taken to just sitting and talking. We teased each other and shared our wonderfully random thoughts. That particular day, a fellow named R.J. proceeded to inquire why we didn’t act like we were “going out”. We ceased our daily tradition of referring to the unattractive state of each other’s countenance to address this foolish question. We told him that we simply enjoyed chiding each other.<br /> Jordan and I both possessed and interesting sense of humor, our sarcastically sardonic natures meshed well, though we tended to shock the average passerby and we were generally avoided. This suited us quite nicely. During the first couple of weeks with Jordan I found in myself a brave quality. I had stopping caring what his friends thought of me. What did it matter anyway? I realized with Jordan’s help, that someone other than family could appreciate me for simply being myself. He never judged my over dramatic thoughts, or my quirky statements. He never once laughed at me as I stared up at a tree and wished aloud to be a dryad. In his own way, Jordan encouraged my nostalgic, mythical nature. In me, he injected a desire to look beyond the dreary surface of life and to see the faeries in the sparking magic of the dew. With him I could be as mature or as childlike as the day suited me. Never once did Jordan make fun of the long hidden, fanciful ideas in my head and he encouraged these thoughts and it wasn’t long before I found myself jumping out of bed in morning excited for the next adventure. The long hours of idle playtime full of magic allowed Jordan and I to wreak havoc on our small neighborhood in our own way and we were left to our own devices. For this reason the next episode in the Camp Stover Wars began. <br /> Days after Jordan and I had been “together” the little children of the fallen empire we banding together to declare war. Jordan, my brothers and I took immediate action. We proceeded to build our Headquarters behind the abandoned house down the street from mine. We gathered berries and sticks, and proceeded to plan the battle. Amidst the fervor of battle preparations a thought struck me. As Jordan and I exchanged glances over my brothers’ heads I realized that boyfriends and girlfriends were supposed to kiss. How stupid of me! I decided to remedy the situation immediately. I moved closer to Jordan… and closer… my heart began to race…my palms began to sweat… I closed my eyes… I leaned close… and …fireworks. But not the typical kind, bright lights floated in front of my eyes. Yes, definitely not the fireworks described in my novels nor the ones I had heard extolled about. In fact, my nose began to hurt profusely. I opened my eyes to a stunned Jordan with a bloody nose. <br />Jordan bellowed, “What in the world were you doing woman?! You’ve stopped production!” <br />I sputtered, “I dunno, it just … happened.” Jordan resumed his work, glaring at me all the while and muttering about the delay in preparations. Again, I stood back and surveyed the situation. I was absolutely positive that was not how it was supposed to happen in the movies or in real life. In any case, a strange sense of relief washed over me. Why? Well that was beyond me. <br /> After organizing the equipment Jordan began to chide my misplaced kiss. Though I was beyond embarrassed and was entering a state of mortification, I noticed an advantage to my position and as Jordan’s harassment became more intense I simply pushed him down the steep slope behind him. I’ve always admired his quick wit and as he fell the not-so-long hill he screamed “AS YOU WISH!” At this quote from my favorite movie, I softened slightly but not so much as to let him off the hook. I shouted down the hill, “Don’t expect me to jump after you.” I threw some of our demolition berries after him and stalked off to my house. Stupid boy. <br /> To my knowledge the battle went well and went quickly. By the next day it was over and I had regained my composure. Once again, I sat on our swings. Slowly I propelled myself backwards and rocked back and forth in a complacent motion. Jordan generally favored a more erratic movement and twisted and turned and changed speeds to his leisure. I assumed he had for some reason or another gotten into trouble with his poor mother and so I was waiting for her to send him to me to deal with as she had often done when he exasperated her. I spotted in the distance his “friends” coming towards me. It was too late for me to back away, I remained in my swing. They advanced towards me with malicious looks. One crony stepped forward, <br />“Did you hear about Jordan?”<br />Calmly I responded “I am his girlfriend if that’s what you mean.”<br />“No, no about the dare.”<br />“The what?” My cool was slowly dripping from my voice.<br />“Maybe he should tell you about it, “ The crony laughed, “You should know though, he’s not entirely straight.”<br />Now irritated I spoke icily, “What on earth are you talking about.”<br />The gang shuffled away with a quick, “Wait and see.” <br />An ominous feeling lay thick in the air, perhaps it was my nerves, or perhaps my over dramatic sense of mood, but I felt a chill in the air. As I sat, Jordan emerged triumphantly and jubilantly spoke of his victory over his “evil step mother” (who was actually his biological mother, but step mothers made for better stories.) She had confined him to his place of residence until he had completed the long demanding list of required tasks. He then pleaded insanity and was finally released after infuriating her to a breaking point. Jordan, thrilled at his brilliant plan of action, failed to notice my disinterest in his latest triumph. <br />“What’s your issue?” Jordan inquired not-so-gently as he sat next to me. <br />“Tell me about the dare Jordan.”<br />All joy drained out of Jordan’s face. “What do you know?” <br />“Only what you’re going to tell me.” <br />“Do you want to know? Kristine, ignorance is bliss.” <br />I was scared, I had ideas in my head and I didn’t want my only friend to disappear. What I heard I was not ready to deal with at twelve. I had lived in an ivory castle and was sheltered in my books and my family. I grew up that day. It was not a gradual integration to adult matter; it was a plunge into the murky waters of adulthood where black and white issues begin to blur. <br />I spoke slowly and cautiously, hoping for the “right” answer to my next question, <br />“Jordan, are you gay?” Out of my mouth flew that “dirty” word and I shuttered waiting for his reply. <br />“No,” he said even more slowly, “not exactly, I’m bi.” <br />My heart stopped, I knew what the Bible had to say about homosexuality and I did not agree with the practice. I was somehow fully aware of the hatred and anger towards people like Jordan. But I was confused, I knew Jordan. I knew he was fun and albeit slightly psycho, I had grown very attached to his unorthodox nature. In that instant, I realized that I couldn’t ever hate Jordan, I didn’t know how people could. He was crazy, but he was ever looking to make others smile and to bring a different viewpoint to light. I realized, I didn’t have to hate Jordan but I didn’t have to agree with him condone his choice. I realized the key to happiness and to being a loving person is that I could hate the sin, but I could still love the sinner. <br />“Jordan, what did they make you do?” I said softly,<br />“The guys, Nick, Paul, R.J. and Dominique were sleeping over and we started playing Truth or Dare. And you know me, I’m too crazy for truth and Kristine, I just decided to try truth, and they asked if I was gay. I didn’t lie; they’re my friends, I didn’t think it would bother them, so I said yes. But I didn’t want any more questions so I picked dare the next time around. The dared me to do something terrible, and I told them no and to go but they wouldn’t.” Jordan started to cry, “So I did what they asked. I did it…” <br />“Jordan what did you do?” <br />“You DON’T want to know.” <br />“Yes, please tell me.” <br />“Remember dear, ignorance is bliss.” <br />“Jordan, just tell me.” <br />His face became emotionless and blank. His eternally bright blue eyes dulled as he obviously went to a dark place in his mind as he thought about the horror he had been coerced to. Big, fat tears rolled down his face and he whispered to me the crime. I gasped, scarcely believing what had been admitted. Who could have imagined something so despicable? My hatred towards these people overwhelmed me. Those evil, rotten, disturbed people! <br />“But,” I now whispered, “why didn’t you just say no, and walk away?” <br />“They wouldn’t go! I asked and demanded. Of course I tried Kristine! I AM NOT STUPID!” His voice cracked and he began to cry harder. “Don’t you DARE tell anyone, don’t tell my mother or any of your friends.” <br />“Jordan, I don’t have any other friends.”<br />“Oh, I forgot.” <br />“Yeah, well it looks like I’m your only friend now.” <br />“Kristine, I don’t know why I did it. I’m disgusted with myself and with them. They’re sick and Dominique is sick for making me do that.”<br />“I know Jordan, I know. You should have stayed firm and said no.”<br />“We’re not all spoiled homeschooled brats.”<br />“That was lovely, you jerk. I really appreciate that. I’m not saying it wouldn’t have been difficult, but it’s over now. Just stay away from those kids,” I sighed, “It’s getting late, I need to go home.” I stood up and hugged Jordan and began to walk home. <br />Jordan yelled after me, “ Are we still together?”<br />I shouted over my shoulder, “No!” <br />I noticed a relieved sigh from Jordan and I felt myself heave a relieved sigh as well. But every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and the lovely butterflies left.navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-52946690503161949452009-05-14T21:27:00.000-07:002009-05-14T21:43:07.830-07:00MissingWhy do we miss people? Why is it that our souls cry out and ache for someone to be near us? Their smile? The way you feel with them near? The contentedness that settles in your soul knowing they are near? Parts of your being follow them wherever they may be and an empty hole reaches into the crevace of our being and an ache, a need for that person strangles our gut when our minds drift to them. Maybe it's the silent communication, when they know what's bugging you before anyone else, maybe that's what we long for. Perhaps you feel the emptiness without their touch. The constant feeling that they are close to you, but too far away. And your heart rips in two. You need them, want them, hope for them. And secretly you dream about them coming for you. And for a moment, you feel a gentle touch. But it hastens away. <br /> The missing and longing is human. It's a tragic human experience that creates endless tears and an endless longing that cannot be subdued. Dreams haunt you, reminders of the way life felt with them near. And you wake. And ever so softly the awareness gently surfaces that once again they are gone and you are with out them. And you sigh. Alone.navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-24755719899167447072009-04-19T16:13:00.000-07:002009-04-19T16:52:49.413-07:00True Love?<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Drama, drama, drama.<br />For these three excellent reasons I'm rather bitter at the whole "love" thing. However, I was thinking about my great-grandma and grandpa and their romance. Man, it was amazing to see.<br />So I found myself writing something about them. Have a read:</span><br /><br /><div align="center">She wears his ring on a chain around her neck, and it gracefully falls near to her heart. Perhaps when she feels it tap her chest as she walks reminds her that he happened, and he is no longer alive. Perhaps when she hears the ring jingle when she bows her head, she remembers how he loved her and the sound of his laugh. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Romeo and Juliette. Considered to be an epic romance. I ask you, how is a week of love epic? How does it grow and change and become greater? It doesn't . No, it never stood the test of time and never experienced life. None of the epic couples in the past ever struck me as having a love that could endure all things. It seemed so fickle and unrealistic. Perhaps seeing my great-grandparents pushed my perception of romance far beyond any literary creation. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Their love stood the test of time. I witnessed an epic romance in these two bodies. But human bodies are fragile and wear down leaving behind a wake of mourners who deeply miss and love the soul encased within the body. Indeed, bodies must simply be skin and bones and muscle containing the essence of humanity. Preventing it to floating into the afterlife. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">And so her soul remained. Her soul remained longing for him.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Between their children, but one fight could be recollected. Their children, each in their own way, recalled how in love their were with a sigh and a smile. "Man, they had the real deal." My firm belief is this: True love happens so rarely that when it happens it's as if the whole world must stop and take a peek. For a rare moment the toils of humanity cease and the Earth celebrates the most pure creation of God. For what on this whole planet is greater and more inspiring than love?</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Sadly, time is too short for those who love deeply and 60 years fly by, paying no heed to lovers begging it to slow, leaving behind my grandmother lost and broken hearted. </div><div align="center">"I just keep expecting him to walk back through that door. It just doesn't seem real." and she look at me with wise aged eyes. Eyes with no more tears left to cry and smiles at me. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Her smile says so many things:</div><div align="center"> I love you, I love him, I miss him, I'm brave, I'm weak, I'm trying, I'm lost, it cannot be true, I'll be okay. Don't go. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">I wonder, does she still feel him? When she wakes at night, does she reach for his hand? Does she order a table for two? Does she call out his name, and hope for an answer? Does she feel him caress her hand? Did she feel her heart break? </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Is it possible for a heart to shatter so completely, that there are no more tears left to cry? there are not enough words or even the right ones, to describe the absolute hopelessness, the total sorrow, the complete tragedy in her eyes. No longer does she speak his name, no longer do her eyes sparkle, her step is heavy. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">He used to make her laugh. When she looked at him she never looked 82. She looked 16, staring at her first love. She giggled when he kissed her or reached for her hand. She intently did her eyes focus on him. His loving gaze, when it held hers, stopped their worlds and they only existed for each other. Together their souls were still newly-weds. When grandpa left her, age finally caught up to her. She looked tired as if she was half in a dream world, one where he could still hold her. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">They loved each other more than any Nicholas Sparks novel could describe. I've discovered that their love cannot reside in past tense. They <em>love </em>each other with passion. For their love will be immortalized long after grandma joins grandpa. Their children saw their love and attempted to emulate it, setting an example for their children who, in turn, showed love to us. Though we witnessed the end of grandma and grandpa's physical love, we will never be rid of their example and the high expectations we gained from them. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Perhaps love is nothing but the legacy you leave behind you to future generations. Perhaps love is the memory of you and your spouse remembered with awe-filled respect and wonder. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">At any rate, I've witnessed true love and it is something from which you walk away changed. God's most brilliant idea was bringing love to life through my great grandparents. And they were great. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">The ring around my grandma's neck is powerful. He will always be close to her heart. She will always feel him as long as she breathes, faintly tapping at her heart. Someday her soul will escape the skin and bones surrounding her and she will go home to him. And we will miss her. But she will live for a much longer time ingrained in our memories of their love. A love greater than those concocted by Shakespeare or Jane Austen. The rare love they shared, moves us beyond words and inspires us more than any other. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">God's greatest invention was shown to me in raw form and it's a memory that will follow me until I die. Perhaps, I'll find what they had, but if not, I'll have seen true love and have been blessed beyond all measure.</div><div align="center"> </div>navy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725777876961905081.post-26883737380635679372009-02-17T15:14:00.001-08:002009-02-17T15:22:32.054-08:00Sucking faceThis is going to be odd. I really wish people would read this but if not. Whatever. I'm actually copying my best friend in writing a random blog, you should read hers, it's <a href="http://himynameissierra.blogspot.com/">http://himynameissierra.blogspot.com/</a>, totally worth it.<br />I have a Military Brat survival guide as well at <a href="http://kristinedyer.blogspot.com/">http://kristinedyer.blogspot.com</a> if you'd care to read it.<br />So now, to the meat.<br /><br />I hate teenage romance. I'm really sick of people mashed up against lockers making out. I don't care to see you groping each other. That is a private thing, and should be kept as such. That's exactly like the people that wear plunging necklines and ask why people stare at their boobs. Well sweetheart, you're advertising the goods. I wish people were less dramatic about relationships too. If your "significant other" is making you stress out, do you think that's healthy? Because it's not. You shouldn't have to constantly worry about whether or not your boyfriend/girlfriend is happy with you; be yourself. (Yes, yes cliche I know.) And please stop being so darn serious about EVERYTHING. It's ok to tease. The world won't end if your single. NO you are NOT in love after 2 and a half weeks of dating.<br />And I realize this won't change anything, but it helps to rant. I just wish people would be thoughtful and not so self centered.<br /><br />Well now that I've scared you off, lunch time.<br /><br />Tata,<br />Kristinenavy_twithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01339344576842814204noreply@blogger.com1