on running away.

I go through certain phases where I can get kind of obsessed with certain poets. Anyways, right now it's Clementine Von Radics, and I just bought her book. I can't get enough of her.

She was kind enough to autograph the small homemade paperback copy of poems she mailed to me. I am silly enough to admit that it made me rather giddy.


Advice to Those Like Me, With Hearts Like Kindling

Darlings, sometimes love will come to you like a fire
to a forest. When it does, be braver than I was. Just leave.
Take only what you can carry. No tears. No second thoughts.
You have hands like tinder boxes, the smallest spark
will kill you.

Get in the car. Pour water on the maps. Avoid gas stations.
Don't look at the flames dancing in the rearview mirror.
Go to new cities, climb on rooftops, and slow dance with
your coldest memories. Wallpaper your home with every
dusty, desperate love letter you swore you'd never send.

Find a stranger with sharp edges and uncharted hips
Press your stories into their skin and forget you ever knew
his name. Just promise me you won't think of burning
or embers. Even when there is ash in your hair. Even when
there is smoke in your mouth.


There was this one time I went to a hairdresser my sophomore year of college. She gave me fringe bangs that day and I was thrilled because I thought that they were edgy and exciting and different, and goodness, I needed different that year (heartbreakingly, fringe bangs don't make your life that much more edgy, exciting, or different).

She also told me about how two years after her high school graduation, she ran away to San Francisco for a year with her best friend. I thought, "Forget the fringe bangs. I need to run away to San Francisco." For a split second, I was so sure that it would solve all my sophomore year problems.

I am an avoider sometimes, a kinda restless wanderer. I sometimes leave with no explanation at all, whether or not it has something to do with problems or love or possibility. With hands like tinder boxes, sometimes I think I'm afraid of what could happen if I stay too long. 

I leave, but it really has nothing to do with bravery.
Part of it was just because I could.
I could simply leave.
Shockingly easily.
Always.

I flit from place to goal to the unknown to what I've always thought I wanted. 
This poem makes me sad because I realize now that I have always chosen to leave
because I thought I was afraid of burning.
Now I'm afraid that maybe that wasn't what I was afraid of after all. 

Tell me that someday there will still be smoke in my mouth.
That I won't be able to wash the ash from my hair.
I would like to know that there was at least one thing that I couldn't just run away from. 
That I didn't run away from. 
That was powerful enough to make me stay. 

I think I would like that. 
I think love is supposed to be like that.

so go downtown (where all the lights are bright)

You know what's scary? Graduate school. It's absolutely petrifying.

Can I just run away to San Francisco and pretend to be a hipster? It seems like it would be easier. I could pretend like I've never aspired to do more than eat clam chowder (#alldaylong) and wander along fisherman's wharf. I could frequent Starbucks. I could write angsty stories and neurotic poems and get those horn-rimmed glasses that everybody seems to be wearing nowadays. I could probably be perfectly happy. Maybe. 

I know I don't actually want easy. I just think I do when it's the middle of the semester and grad school apps are overwhelmingly awful.  But here's the deal, I'm going to grad school . I've decided it's what I want to do. I'll like it. I just need a grad school to decide I'm worth the investment is all. Oh goodness, I'll be so glad when this entire process is over. 

I've eaten my weight in cheese and sausage today. Seriously though, I've probably eaten $40 worth of expensive cheeses of all varieties. That's what happens when you happen to be the 251 lab instructor and it's the week where you get to teach all about cheese. The entire situation is exacerbated when that very same day you also happen to have that one micro lab where all you do for a whole hour and a half is eat more cheese  and all manner of similarly delicious things.

I keep thinking I should feel slightly sick about that, but I don't. I feel nothing but good about this. If we're talking about the smoked gouda, that is. Because

this girl was not born to eat blue cheese. I'm not sure if anybody is ever born to eat blue cheese. In fact, I'm almost positive the consumption of blue cheese could be turned into some sort of extreme sport. 

black and white and grey

A friend of mine (Matt, you always post the best things) posted this article on facebook, and I just happened to see it. It's an interesting take on religion, and I like it. Here's the link if you want to read it.

Maybe it's controversial. People sometimes think that when it comes to God, things are black and white. You're obedient. Or you're not. You have faith. Or you don't.

When I look out at religion, the window starts fogging up with my own breath. And all I can see is how I feel about God and how I feel about faith and how I feel about my testimony even when all that seems to be there is the condensation dripping down the pane. My world is black and white and all sorts of grey--beautiful, beautiful shades of grey. It's not unsettling and it's not murky. It's the kind of grey that almost kills you with its clarity and acuity, even if you don't know what it means, really. It's the calmest kind of a misty day.

It's the kind of grey that lets me respect the way a Muslim prays five times a day. It helps me understand the LGBT community. It lets me appreciate a Buddhist temple. It's the kind of grey that lets me remain strong in my own faith, even when I don't have all the answers.

My world is not all black and white.
Perhaps it should be. I don't know.

Perhaps nothing is more personal than your relationship with God.

So maybe you see God differently. So
disagree with me. It's fine. I dig it. Be singular. Live the most personal religion that ever was.
I'm okay with that. Are you?

home

I bought my plane ticket home the other day. I'm excited to go home. It sounds ever so cliche (please forgive me, do), but there's no place like home.

People don't always know Michigan. It's just one of those states on the map. Truth is, that doesn't really change until you've run down a sand dune in the summer or seen the frozen, rippled edges of Lake Michigan in the winter. You need to experience the brilliance of fall time up north, or walk among the tulips and daffodils in spring. And downtown Holland, be still my heart. It's one of the best parts of Michigan, and I can't help but be overcome with nostalgia every time I even think about 8th street. It's brilliant. The state is brilliant. 

Christmas is easily my favorite time of the year. Christmas lights all over the trees (especially the white lights, which just knock me out). Wreaths and holly. Snow and hot chocolate and the Christmas markets in Centennial Park. The Salvation Army people with their bells. Delicious baked goods. And the music. I live for the music. I am about 97.6% sure that the first Christmas song of the year (played on the Friday after Thanksgiving, of course) is the best song I listen to all year. 

I'm going to be home for Christmas time. Home is with family in a cozy house in the middle of the woods, and I love it. I hope it snows like crazy, because gosh, it's so beautiful.

Our Christmas break is depressingly short this year. I think I'll be home for a mere week and a half. It will be the best week and a half even though I'm super bummed that I'll barely miss Evelyn's dance concert on the 20th. Dance your heart out, baby girl. I'll be rooting for you all the way from Utah.

Chaos.

Once upon  a time, I used to think the idea of being a chaotic, beautiful mess was terribly romantic, in a kind of fascinating and devastating sort of way. 

To embrace hedonism and anarchy and passion with a ferocity that scares away all your old demons with new ones. To languish away on sofas and swear at the banality of the weather. To hold ticking bombs because that soft staccato countdown is the only thing that can still make your heart race with anticipation. To vortex disaster, to make it disappear into the void where all such disasters go as they patiently await you again & again & again.

Here's to choking the dull rankness of unexpressed artistry and unrealized genius with your bare hands around the neck of a glass bottle. Here's to laughing with your mouth [alone], to lying on the bathroom floor [alone] because there's really nowhere else to go. 

But it is not romantic. 
It is not romantic at all.
What it wants is romanticism.