Chapter 4.

The paisley wallpaper seemed faded when paired with the dim light, softly trickling from beneath the shade of the lamp in the corner. A soothing melody echoed in the background. Sometimes I could make out Parisian phrases, other times I couldn’t hear a thing.  

I was laying there, somehow in an emotional daydream. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do, all that I wanted to do was feel. I wanted to feel every bit of him. I wanted to feel his skin, feel his heart beat, feel his hand gently drawing circles about my arm. I wanted to feel his mind. And I wanted him to feel me, too. 

I looked up at him, eyes wide, begging him to see. I wanted him, in that moment, to see through my eyes past my mind and into my soul and cure all my aches and pains and brokenness and anxieties and frustrations and wants and hopes and dreams. I stared at him, bearing my existence, which no words seemed just to describe. 

An honest, gentle, angelic warmth of a smile crept about his tendered face. All his lines seemed softened by the light, and I fell and rose with each inhale and exhale. 

“I’m in love with you,” he said. I could feel my cheeks flush, and a flurry began in my stomach. I questioned, within a seconds worth of time, every bit of reason, every nook and cranny of my heart that had been hardened and blackened and blued. I trembled, I reeled, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the enchantment that after two weeks someone could love me. 

But he did. 

He said he did. 

I muster all of my strength, and again, beckon him to search me. I feel fragile and lay my head down on his chest. 

“I’m in love with you, too.”

We both laid there in silence, and I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was envisioning the future. Maybe he thought he just made a terrible mistake. Maybe he saw, two years down the road, a tired, haggard man who was angry, resistant, and exhausted from his game. Maybe he was just reeling in the moment. Maybe he was thinking how much he loved me. Maybe he was content. 

“Promise you won’t let me go,” I said, breaking the silence. 

He didn’t understand where it was coming from, I’m sure. He looked up at me, just as he always had done, and said, 

“I promise, I won’t.”

I was afraid, even in that precious and pivotal moment, and I couldn’t figure out why. I had a feeling that things wouldn’t be easy, a hunch that the ride we were about to embark on would be a tough one. I was ready to be married, I was ready to be a wife, and I was ready for the work, compromise, and dedication that would come with that. I was afraid I’d want to escape or come up with some easy excuse as to why we weren’t working. “We’re just not right for each other.” “It’s me, not you.” “I just need time to figure out who I am.”

I was tired of excuses; I was tired of running away. I wanted him and I wanted a relationship and I wasn’t going to give up – and even if I should try, I’d want him to not let me. I’d want him to not give up, too. 

Eat, Pray, Love.

"'Go back to bed', said the omniscient interior voice, because you don't need to know the final answer right now, at three o'clock in the morning on the Thursday in November. 'Go back to bed', because I love you. 'Go back to bed', beacause the only thing you need to do for now is get some rest and take good care of yourself until you do know the answer."

Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.

I was awake.

I had laid there, lifelessly, for what felt like years. I begged my eyes not to open, pleading insanity and began hoarding my sheep. If only I could stay like this. If only I could drift away, into a wide, open, breezy pasture that saluted one sole tree, looking content, and far off in the distance. I'd count sheep all day, I thought. Nothing but counting would matter - 14, 15, 16 - I imagined them in a line, waiting patiently as ever for their shepherds duty. All that the sheep wanted was a number, and all I had to worry about was giving them one - and that was easy. I would begin to know them by heart - the way number 9 walked, the way number 21 was rather sensitive, the way number 17 always wanted to be number 1, the way number 1 felt a huge weight of obligation, of being first in line. The way number 6 looked to me for comfort, nuzzling its face into my side. The way number 13 played, eyes wide and happy, the way 12 would protect me, the way 8 would sigh, the way 19 would call to me, the way 4 would reach for me, the way 2 would love me.

Time went by and my sheep became my life - I had purpose, and I cherished each of them. I was always watching, ready to relieve, to restore, to reinvigorate.

Then one went missing. I looked everywhere - I begged and begged the other sheep to help me look, to bring it back, but they consoled me instead, and promised the one would return. Days go by and I feel frantic as if I'm slipping from my little world of perfection.

I'm now missing two.

I try to forget and move on. The other sheep meaningfully proposed dreams and ideas and theories that I could cling to, and so I did.

I began to feel better. The sun was out most days, and I could get along just fine. Counting wasn't as easy as it used to be, especially after the first two losses, but I managed and started focusing on new things. I wanted to explore, I wanted to commit, I wanted to pursue. I started looking at other pastures in my off time, and some of the sheep came with me. They nodded in agreement as we went from one scene to the next, acknowledging and approving.

We finally made it back to our field to find the remaining sheep waiting. I was relieved they were still there, and was overflowing with hope and trust. I was excited, and clambered into my hut for sleep. I was exhausted.

My enthusiasm overflowed into the next morning, and the next, and the next. I planned and planned and went over all of our possibilities until my creativity was shot. I was connected to my sheep, I felt them, I heard them, and I knew them. And they were connected to me.

Slowly but surely, however, one by one went missing. At first I tried to accept the reality, that I would love the remaining sheep with all I had in hopes that they too, wouldn't leave, but I couldn't easily shake these obvious voids. I dearly missed those that had been lost. I helplessly reached for the others to send out a search party, but again, I was only met with words. This time they were cold and I felt as if I had failed them. They had high hopes for a shepherd who could count well. That's all they ever wanted, was just to be counted. Nothing more, nothing less.

I cried out to them, begging for forgiveness and to let me try again, but they walked away and out of sight. I collapsed to the damp ground from the morning dew, and my body began to tremble. I was alone, and I wasn't enough.

I didn't just want to count and I didn't just want to give numbers.

I wanted it all to mean more than just that.  

My eyes opened.

The dull, white, and unbecoming ceiling was an oxymoronic slate above me. Though years of paint had gone up on the interior walls, the ceiling had been neglected and always remained the same. I stared straight into it, and found that its outward appearance was a great deception. It had so much to tell me, but sat there silent, instead.

I give myself a few moments to become readjusted. I gently roll to my side and push up and greet the sun cascading before me. My hair is a mess and I've been in this sweatshirt for days.

I clamber out of bed, down the hall, and into the living room.

There's a fire going and I smile at Dad's non-verbal form of affection. I grab a cup of coffee and blanket and curl up beside it. Mom and Brother are busy both in the kitchen and in the other room, and my soon to be Sister greets me from the door. Family and friends both write, call, and take me away, and I can't help but feel their warmth - not just for me, but for my sheep, as well, and what they mean to me.

There's a reason why He's called a Savior - that even when I could feel so dejected, defeated, beaten, and broken - I feel the safest on my knees, where I can only look up. I suppose it's a place we all need to be sometimes.


And what a place at that.


 

The Horse Dealer's Daughter

"Only now it had become indispensable to him to have her face pressed close to him; he could never let her go again. He could never let her head go away from the close clutch of his arm. He wanted to remain like that for ever, with his heart hurting him in a pain that was also life to him."

Quiet Riot, "Mama Were All Crazee Now"

"The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on."

Silence is a fickle thing. For some of us, it's appreciated, for others it's dreaded. Being immersed in good 'ol Mama Nature, "Hello, Clarice," or (dare I say it) the silent treatment - each leaves us feeling anywhere from way up, to way, way, beneath-the-earth's-crust magma low. What's interesting, though, is how much silence surrounds relationships. Is this normal, or are we simply living amongst couplings who happen to have a surplus of duct tape?

Why are we so obsessed about discussing normalcy, when in fact, normalcy isn't (sorry daydreamers) normal? We can spend hours chatting about last night's game highlights, yet when it comes to the behind the scenes/off the field discourse - silence reins supreme.

Just like relationships.

Humanity is eager to speak about the positives (call us optimists), and consequently, bury away the negatives. Soon, we have an over-booked graveyard and a full moon coming. We trivialize and affront those who are "having problems," "working things out," or worst of all, "seeking help," all at a low whisper. Its almost like we're scared into the "Sleeping Beauty reality." Of course - Prince Charming will come, wake you up from an evil slumber, wed and bed you in only a matter of days. But what if Aurora was enjoying her shut eye? Maybe she'd been an insomniac for years and a man (who just so happened to be a Prince) penetrated her spatial proxemics, all for the sake of his Napoleon complex? Because of our unwillingness to say, "Hey, Princey and I are struggling. We're trying to understand each other and it's not easy," we again, influence future generations that things, in fact, should be easy, and if they're not - something's obviously wrong with you (or him).

Seldom you hear (or begin to see) from your parents that marriage is difficult, and I surely appreciate the gesture of honesty. But that's it. Everything else should be a walk in the always incandescent, smiley, happy-go-lucky park - work, school, friends, xy and xx. As much as I enjoy glasses half full (especially rose-colored ones), I'm trying not to be confused by the unspoken rule of life. We keep a lot to ourselves. Sometimes it helps, but a lot of the time it hurts.

Whether or not we have real expectations regarding life, love (thank you Notting Hill), and the pursuit of happiness, I suppose it really doesn't matter. Because soon enough, we each fall into situations that make soap operas hit a little closer to home. And then we can start to, finally, understand. Much like any instance, we never quite know how someone's feeling until we too, get pulled over for going 83 in a 65.

It's okay to be okay, and it's okay to not be, too. And maybe that's why this profound silence continues to live on. Waiting for the rest, while now, ironically, growing quiet in contentment.

"If people are truly, madly, deeply in love with each other, they will find a way." Remember that.

Cheers,

CourtReplies

Not To Scare You Or Anything.

I like to say that I'm ready to be married.

I like to say that a lot.

And, for the most part, I think a lot of female colleagues I've talked to are in the same boat, which I'm sure is quite startling to the XY club.

I'm ready to be married, in a sense, to find my partner and get to the good stuff: learning, battling, and growing in faith. It's exciting to me, to share a life with another individual, the good, the not so good, and the thoughts and ideals in our mind that we like to keep packed away. I'm ready to trust. I'm ready to believe. Moreover, I'm ready to create a life with someone who will walk beside me. Not in front, nor behind, but beside me, and take it one lovey-dovey* day at a time.

I have it all planned out.

But knowing my Father, and His great sense of humor, will come at me from left field - completely polar to what I was expecting. I like to say I'm not looking. I like to think I'm not looking, but deep down my peripheral vision has the creativity of a seven year old. I'm sure it has something to do with the estrogen.

That's the beauty in plans, though. You make them, yet the probability of those desires coming to be is a complete mystery - just how I have a list of qualities I'm (not actively, of course) looking for: he must love cats, drool over Egg McMuffins, and share in my chai addiction. However, years from now, I'll probably be exchanging vows with a dog lover, fast-food hater, and a calorie-counter king**.

You never know what you're going to get. But that's the most enchanting realization, I suppose. At the end of the day, I do know what I want, but I don't know what's best for me. And that's where the light shines through: my King who knows me inside and out, action from reaction, thought from craving, from want, from need, from hope, from truth - sees me in my undoubtedly overwhelming transparency. And with that solidified notion, I uninhibitedly surrender. And wait.

And I keep telling myself that, "I'll just know when it's time," but as each day goes by I wonder how even that is possible.

How will you just know?

Is it like God slaps you*** and says, "Here, look, it's him" with doves fluttering about in a divine nature? Is it through tireless dating? Is it through our standards being met and the individual exceeding those?

These questions position myself to becoming increasingly aggravated at my own ill-supported-by-any-concrete-evidence ideological fantasy, so I stop.

I think there's a healthy balance between the two: actively searching and waiting. What I do know for certain, though, as Luke covered in Acts, is we, as women, should be keen on finding a man who is seeking God's own heart, and continue to trust in Him wholeheartedly - with or without a significant other. And with that, I think everything else will fall into place.

And you'll just know.

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* My primary love language is affirmation, then touch. Be prepared hubby, be prepared.
** I'm just sayin'.
*** In a genuine, I-love-you-unconditionally kind of way.

Oh Hot Damn, This is My Jam.

I was told to write a post on my past weekend experiences, and have found great trouble in doing so.

It's not because it isn't worth writing about, the fact that my room screams emptiness, or simply due to my lackadaisical mindset; Even my current enjoyment of dark chocolate pretzel bark isn't keeping me from typing furiously (which would be fully understandable, if otherwise). What is however, is that I want to do it justice.

Just like any college graduate quickly thrown out onto the curb of you're-on-your-own-so-do-something-oh-and-we're-all-watching-you, I was able to cast aside the doubt, stress, and frugality that a simple commencement ceremony, once completed, brought upon for a smidgen of time.

I took a trip outdoors, and found a lot.

I found that you should break your boots in before hiking, I can comfortably lay face down in my sleeping bag, I'm less than mediocre at Speed, and low-and-behold a "strong current" is really, a strong current.

I also found that I finally surrendered.

There's something incredible about primitiveness and the absence of complication. With no connection to the outside world of fast-paced living and limited leg room, satisfaction came easily, trust came easily, and nothing else mattered than being with the people you were with. It's comforting, even in it's trivial state, to fall asleep under the stars and wake up with the sun, mother nature saying hello the way she knows best.

Escapes like these are so close and beneficial, yet the small amount of times they are actually ventured to seems one too few. I suppose one day I'll just find a plantation* up in the mountains and finally garner some quality air. Maybe then I'll even escape to the city - maybe not. But what I do know, is that comfort was solidified this weekend, and I can face the next couple of weeks with confidence simply by the people around me.

Pew, pew.

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* Oh, hello ignorance, didn't see you there.

Mess With The Bull, You Get Gored.

I suppose we should call this relationship week (or month, potentially), because it's recently been brought to my attention the vast amount of individuals who are being unfaithful.

Now, in order to do your partner dirty, there needs to be a stable definition of what that exactly qualifies the notion. To some, cheating is considered as anything that you wouldn't want to tell your partner, and should they find out, drastic things may occur (such as throwing objects, hurling fists, or even the torturous silent treatment) such as ultimately ending the coupling. There's also the additive of mental vs. physical, with the prior being deemed as the greater sin. Whatever you're doing, be it emotionally attached to another or poontangin' it behind doors, stop.

First of all, I have no patience with this. I don't quite understand the point of being in a relationship if you'd rather be with someone else. Or, for that matter, why you would stay in a partnership when you feel it's a-o-k to want to find happiness elsewhere. Second of all, what's the point? Why not be reasonable, mature and end it, rather then drastically damaging your reputation and credibility, not to mention mentally impairing the spirit of the significant other. The implications that come with making the conscious (yes, conscious) decision (yes, decision, because nobody is forcing you) are usually not part of the thought process when said choice is in motion. Being inconsiderately selfish, you, cheating world, cause immense soul-bruising and potential long term effects. Moreover you've* officially fallen into the "once a cheater, always a cheater" category - welcome, I hope you enjoy your stay. Fortuantely, for those who have enough self-respect after they've been cheated on, your apologies have no effect, although your presence has a new one (and it's not positive).

When I'm with someone, it's simply because I don't want to be with anybody else. I'm with someone because I couldn't imagine, nor want to imagine, being with another individual who appreciates my sarcasm or ridiculous need to drive with my foot on the dash. I feel that the people who are unfaithful impair those that are, especially since it's so common; Relationships have diverged from a wholesome, emotionally connected theology to one that requires less juncture and more protectively egocentric dispositions. But luckily, there is hope: trust. It's a funny thing - trust. It's hard to give and easy to lose, but is an act that is vital in order to maintain a successful relationship. Trust that they're yours, you're theirs, and in that finding a sense of worth, a sense of contentment.

I feel for the people that are the victims, yet, in a twisted way I also feel for those who I've been screeching at this entire post: for their lack of mentality and concern for others. Regrettably, Darwin's natural selection hasn't quite kicked in yet, but beware.

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* I apologize for all the "you" references, it's not directed at you personally, unless you've cheated. Then it is.

She-Wolf Meets Gypsy.

"People change and forget to tell each other."

There's a lot of experiences I still have yet to face. Comparing to the majority of individuals around me, catching up is something I've become accustomed to. Whether it's realizing dish soap isn't for the dish washer, popcorn does in fact burn, or that yes, cell phone laws do apply to me, the naivety of life somehow continues to perpetuate this exasperating notion of virginity.

And I want more.

It's almost as if there's this whole new enchantment encompassing my dogma of life, a whole new desire to come face to face with uncertainty. This thought process couldn't have been spurred at a better time, especially when I'm overtly excited to experience said mentality.

However, there are a few items I would like to bring along for the journey: an open mind, an open heart, and an unlimited supply of egg mcmuffins.

Cheers to the future.

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Thursday Fight Night.

There's one concept throughout my collegiate career that has had a jaw-dropping effect. Now, it's actually a rather simple notion, so before you prepare yourself for some grandiose spiel, don't.

Written communication is different than verbal communication.

"Well, that's obvious," you might be thinking, but pre-Communication 309, this elementary sentiment was never brought up or thought upon. The more I swallow this idea, the more I realize why I prefer writing.

For example, anyone who knows me, is well aware that my foot (or gravity-defyingly* both) is usually positioned somewhere near my mouth. When you share discourse with someone words can't be taken back, nor are there opportunities for unlimited editing prior to submission.

All in all, I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere in this, such as the ruby rule "think before you speak." Or, better yet, maybe this can spur the invention of a filtration system that can be surgically installed near the connection between my brain and vocal cords. Whatever it is, I appreciate the individuals around me who continuously help to get myself out of the human pretzel position (as I am no gymnast), and being worth the dissection of prior assertions.

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*Apparently this suffix is incorrect, but I'm using it anyways.

Edit: I've really tried hard to steer clear of big words, really.