Archive for March, 2009

On Remembering

It’s strange to say that I’m remembering myself — or bits of me — because I’d never thought that one could actually forget oneself. But apparently it happens. I’ve certainly experienced it these past few years. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d forgotten until I was forced to be on my own for a while.

What’s scary is the damage that this forgetting can do. Whether it’s because I purposely let things go or because I simply became overly focused on other areas of my life, there was something that was lost. I began to feel scattered, unsure, afloat without an anchor. I wandered from one thing to the next trying to figure out just how to fix me. What I didn’t realize at the time, and only now am I becoming aware of it, is that it wasn’t about “fixing”, but “remembering”.

I remember a time when I laughed easily. I remember a time when I was confident in my words and that there was a playfulness to my nature. Why I forgot these things is beyond my understanding at the moment. I just know that I did. Perhaps I tried trading them for qualities I thought would better equip me for life in this world. I attempted to be a better socialite by mimicking friends, family, and mentors. But I only found an emptiness in “trying on” another’s clothes. The more clothes I tried on, the more I covered up my own. Suddenly I found myself, much like a child playing dress up, stumbling around in shoes that were too big for me and attempting to keep my hat from slumping down over my eyes. No wonder I couldn’t take myself seriously, nor could anyone else.

I find myself in a place of taking off these clothes (not in a strip-tease sort of way, though that would be pretty funny) and discovering what I’d covered up for so long. Okay, maybe the clothing analogy isn’t the best, but you get my drift. Realizing that my unique voice means something and was meant for me is a painful revelation because I have to face how much time I spent trying to be someone else. At the same time, it is such a blessing and a release to simply be, rather than feeling I have to try so hard.

I’m still peeling away all those layers that I piled on thinking they were going to do me good. And as I do, I’m remembering what I used to love, what I used to enjoy. And I’m also able to say I’ve learned something. Some of those clothes, though they didn’t quite fit, I liked the color of. Or I liked someone’s style preference. The potential to make some of these things my own is what keeps me from regret. Yes, I spent a lot of my life attempting to be this way or that, and through that process I’ve come to realize what I truly cherish about myself. That’s a good feeling. One that I hope others experience too.

So, perhaps like the little girl trying on her mother’s clothes, I have allowed myself to pretend long enough to come into my own. It’s now a matter of putting pieces together, fine-tuning what I have created for myself, and accepting all aspects that make me who I am.

For you created my inmost being,

you knit me together in my mother’s womb

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

Your works are wonderful, I know that full well. 


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Yet another posting that I neglected to post. This one documents my weekend ski trip to Crystal Mountain with my brothers and a horde of their friends. It was quite the adventure!

February 7, 2009

Day One:

Snow Report: Crap. As of last night it was raining. 

Lodging Report: Considering that I’m rooming with 11 guys, surprisingly good. The garage remodeled into a bunkhouse with a big screen tv, pool table, foosball table and queen-size bunk-beds is a nice touch. 

Food Report: Excellent – I give Jerry’s open face sandwiches with mash potatoes five stars.

Day Two:

Snow Report: Well, it’s stopped raining. We got a “dusting” of snow last night. The nice part is it’s sunny which as turned the ice into a grainy powder (better than no powder at all). As my friend so eloquently put it, “Skiing is like pizza; even when it’s bad it’s still pretty good.” 

Lodging Report: The bunkhouse has not saved me from the realities of living with 11 guys. I’ve heard more bodily noises in the past 24hrs than I care to document. The place is starting to smell like boys – in other words, the inside of sweaty gym sock. I need a shower. 

Food Report: Once again the men have outdone themselves with the fixing of a mean spaghetti sauce. Meat, tomatoes, mushrooms with a plethora of spices spells mmm,mmm goooooood.

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Okay, I had to post this entry that has been sitting in my draft box since Christmas just because it made me laugh when I looked back over it.


There’s nothing like being home for the holidays. That is unless you find yourself snowed in with your mom and dad, three dogs, and dial-up as your only communique with the outside world. This could be compared to a week long trip to the dentist. Sadly, I had one of those too while here — not a week long, mind you, but thankfully, it lasted only an hour. You know the folks are starting to get on your last nerve when you consider a brutal teeth cleaning a chance get away and unwind. Thanks Dr. Swenson! You bought me a few hours of  non-family time.

Truth be told, I love my folks. And I purposely left Seattle two days earlier than I’d planned in order to beat the snow storm and guarantee my arrival at the family farm in time for Christmas. The promise of my mom’s homemade cookies and buttermilk waffles, spending evenings sipping scotch with my dad and warming my bum next to the pot-belly stove provided all the motivation I needed. And I wasn’t disappointed. I arrived in Port Angeles with only a slight delay in my departure from Seattle due to spinning my car into the ditch next to my house. Apparently all that transferring power from the wheels that slip to the wheels that grip on Subarus only works on TV, not on a sheet of sleet and ice going down a hill while attempting to stop at the stop sign. But no worries, I managed to use the ditch to stop me before another car did. After taking a quick assessment of my bumper and realizing I’d only taken out a few small shrubs, I got back out on the road with the remains of a blackberry bush clinging to my license plate like a well-earned battle scar.

I managed to beat the winter storm by about an hour. I had enough time to unload my gear, be trampled by my parents’ 125 lb dog, JD, and piddled on by their 12 lb wiener dog, Pepper, before the first snow flakes began to fall. My dog Scout was ecstatic about the snow. She ran around snapping at the air and chasing her tail to display her complete abandon of all seriousness in exchange for the winter wonder fun. I admit, at first, I was pretty ecstatic about the snow too. After all, what’s more perfect than a white Christmas? This was before I realized the ramifications of such snow. As the next few hours passed and the snow piled up on the porch outside the kitchen window I became increasingly aware of my situation like a scuba diver running low on oxygen. When my brothers called from Portland and informed us that they couldn’t make the drive up to Port Angeles because the roads were too dangerous, the reality of my situation became suddenly clear. I was about to be snowed in with my parents for an undisclosed amount of time. Suddenly I was finding it hard to breath.

Despite the fact I was snowed in with my parents for three days, I did manage to enjoy parts of my time there. I went sledding. I had snowball fights with the dogs. Ok, it was more like throwing snowballs at the dogs and then running away before my dog Scout could tackle me. And even though I felt a bit stifled by my mom’s constant mothering, I managed to escape into the woods and fields around my parents’ house and capture some amazing photos. Christmas morning still rang of joyful reminders of childhood with waffles smothered in peanut butter and Mrs Butterworth’s syrup, a pot of coffee filling the kitchen with its rich aroma, and my dad fiddling with his camera, cursing the flash for not working while my mom and I stood by laughing knowing in all these years he’s never gotten it to work. Yes, there are still moments of perfection in this imperfect world and I am thankful for them.

Blessings to all this Christmas season.

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Hmm, apparently I’ve been silent far too long again. Maybe I just don’t like to talk. Makes for a great blog.
However, if one were to peer into my “drafts” box you’d see I’ve been quite busy starting entries and then being such a perfectionist that I never actually post them. Is that perfectionism or just the inability to follow through with most projects that aren’t tied to a grade, a pay check, or an obligation to someone? Basically, if it’s a project solely for me it tends to get pushed by the wayside. I’m sure that says something about me, but I’m so sick of analyzing myself at this point that I really don’t care to even venture a guess. Ok, maybe a guess. No. Resist sifting through all the psych class lectures that are running through my mind and pretend I’ve never heard of “Gloria”. Yeah, unless you’re in my Therapeutic Perspectives class you’re not gonna get that. It’s okay, I spend much of my time in a state of confusion and have found that I can fake understanding really well if I just nod every now and then and say “Hmmm, yes, I understand.” People buy it.
Anyway, all this to say, I can’t sleep and thought I’d actually post something to my “blog” which for the longest time has been impersonating a blank screen.

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