giving (material) things up

(does food count as a material thing?)

tomorrow marks the first day of lent.

one year I gave up mcdonald's french fries.
one year I gave up "being mean."
(side note: speaking softly for forty days is REALLY hard (and nearly impossible), but that's a blog post for another, fast-approaching time).

this year I'm giving up starbucks,
because I spend (on average) $10 a day there. it's really easy to eat and drink everything from starbucks when you live in seattle and there's a starbucks on every block. easiest lunch breaks ever!

ah, I love giving things up.
I love giving up old clothes that were expensive but that remind me of young-adult angst.
I love giving up books that collect dust and don't call to me to read them.
I love giving up shoes that don't serve a purpose besides looking nice at the bottom of my closet.
I love giving up boxes of tea I don't drink, blankets that I don't cuddle under, and random sticker books that I received for christmas about ten years ago.

I've been cleaning my life of everything lately.
goodbye to: mugs and bowls that aren't handmade, shopping at stores that sell new clothing, and the "need" to buy another pristine pair of rainboots.

but I don't like giving up things that I have on a daily basis.
icelandic yogurt? keeping it.
mason-jar smoothies - heavy, yet somewhat functional? keeping them.
daily soy chai-tea lattes from starbucks? ...begrudgingly giving them up.

I guess you could say I'm trying to live more simply.
spend less money.
give away more than I consume.

but sometimes this simplicity thing can feel out of hand,
when I look in my closet and realize... oh wait, I actually don't have any clothes to wear to a potential job because I sold or donated them all in my moment of purging.

how do you manage it?
I'm trying to find the balance between having so little and having enough to survive.
do we really need all material things that we consume?

I leave with that open-ended question.

excerpts of now

twenty. almost twenty-one, but not quite.

this is life now.

lots of autumn walks to coffe-shops. alone. down the hill two miles, up the hill two miles. latte in hand on the way back up.

insulated boots that she wears every day slipping through leaves and past homes painted blue and red and orange -- their doors adorned with twig wreaths.

outside in the dark, she makes kindling for a morning fire. chops a log into fine bits, takes the knife and peels back thin slices. nature's fire-starting-newspaper.

they will drink tea and coffee around this fire. started with one match. she feels accomplished.

sometimes the children's hands are warm, but sometimes they are cold. either way, they are so small, and they fit into her hand as they go on chilly hikes.

she knows what they mean when point and say, "go."
but she also knows what they mean when they run up and hug her in the morning, in their down, puffy jackets.
or when she tells one of them goodbye for the day, and the little girl pauses for a moment… will she get off her bike and give her a hug goodbye?
no, today is an air high-five. "give me five!"
that's the language they know.

"I washed my home this weekend," the teacher says, and it reminds her of her father pressure-washing the house before he scratched away the paint.

she feels like washing everything here. sometimes she washes her hair twice a day. her face three times a day.
her towels a little less often.

she tries to read at night.
the book in her hand is from her mom, shipped from amazon, but reminds her of Barnes & Noble pretzel and hot cocoa dates.

it reminds her of thursday nights, picked up from school, a trip to the bookstore. organic, non-genenitcally modified pizza for dinner. and then for lunch the next day.

it reminds her of falling asleep on the couch, the sound of her mother's snores waking her up, the sound of her father entering the home after band practice, guitar in tote.

it reminds her of home.

the present

it feels so good to sit in this chair and eat this peanut buttered bagel.

it feels so good to have this (tiny) mug of tea sitting on my desk.

it feels so good to have the rain today, and yesterday, and quite honestly most days.

my parents asked me how I am doing: am I missing home? am I losing my mind? how is the town and the preschool and the apartment? 

"you know, I actually feel really good," was something I was so happy to be able to say.

I don't know how to sum up this feeling of peace - but I feel very at peace.

yes I do miss home; I miss my family and fall quarter in seattle and pumpkin patches and the organic section of the grocery store. I really do.

but it's okay to miss things,
and missing things is not the same as holding on to them…
holding on to them so tightly that you can't enjoy the present moment you are in.

that's how I had it the first month.
I was holding on to everything.
So tightly,
that each breath was breathed in for the past and out for the future
and not ever in the moment.

but here I've got a peanut butter bagel and that's all I need right now.

so simple. but for some reason, so sweetly satisfying.

about comparison

this post will be an unfinished thought process post.
a post that almost captures what I'm thinking, but seeing as my mind is not fully wrapped around a conclusion -- my words will end, still lingering in the air.

so here we go.

we will start with a quote, that I've played back in my head for years.

"comparison is the thief of joy," said (apparently) theodore roosevelt.

here, abroad, I compare. I can't help but compare.
I compare the food (more expensive but less preservatives),
I compare the children (they get more play time),
I compare the people on the street (why aren't they smiling back at me),

I compare how I am here to how I am at home.

and I think that is the fundamental thief of my happiness.

because I allow myself to compare,
to let my thoughts stop being present,
to compare to my past & to my imaginary future.

I do it in a simple form,
"this healthy dinner does not taste as good as that ten dollar ben&jerry's looked.."
but also in more demeaning ways,

ways that snatch hold of my positivity and warp it into energy that comes out in gasps.

gasps, because the positive energy in my mind is begging me to let go of the comparisons,
gasps, because the little bits of positivity that pop out are let out in rapid forms of expressions -- not the calm, happy energy that I wish to hold in my heart,
gasps, because all good things in my mind and heart are telling me to let it go
let the negativity go.

and yet, it can be so easy to ignore these gasps.
and to let the gasps turn into my own breathing patterns -
not calm. not smooth.

but quick. quick from anxiety that something in my present is not as good
as it was in the past or the future
or as it is for someone else.

I notice this here when I think,

classes are longer and days stretch on, and I feel the need to comment on this, every day, as I sit down for lunch and I've still got three hours left until I can miss the bus and wait another 20 minutes. 

but what if I said:
classes are long. not longer. then I could say, "classes are long, but that's okay, because by the end of the day I can say I put good energy towards learning new things, towards having a new experience."

where is this negativity coming from?

I feel it in comparison.

comparison is the thief of joy, because in all my comparisons, I am taken away from my present thoughts.

and ever-present thoughts -- that is what I am aiming for.

no visual inspiration board, september 2014

it's september.

I write this at six or so in the morning, wet braided hair from my shower last night, cold toes from pulling my socks off towards the time of sleep.

I took some time last week to search for inspirational pictures and print them out. all to realize -whoops - I haven't got a printer in norway.

and so I'll describe them, to you now, best that I can.

beginning with,
shades of white.
off-white. side-of-a-cabin-covered-in-dirt white. soft white sheets and kind-of-soft white towels. white pillows that my head sinks into.
but especially that fuzzy, off-white wall that appears in photos, as a backdrop to a story.

and onto a black and white photo.
defining contrasts in one frame. simple.

to, a wildflower tattoo on my shoulder.
perhaps a sprig of lavender to begin with, on my upper arm.
then to add, mountains I've climbed,
trees I've stood under,
natural moments that have made me pause.
back in january, I'll start.

and forward to night-time skies.
beginning with a photo of a constellation tattoo on a back
and finishing with descriptions of the northern lights.

finally, to finish up with a quote,
"suffering occurs when we want people to love us in the way we imagine we want to be loved, and not in the way that love should manifest itself- free and untrammeled, guiding us with its force and driving us on."

I read that in the graveyard, and willed myself to cry softly.
this is what I felt, a small suffering for all the people I missed at home, imagining all the ways that they would love me, instead of having love be felt naturally.

and with that small exercise
I move into september
we move into september
overcoming the weak
becoming
strong.

swallowing weakness

I typed this with an unopened book on my lap.

my back resting tiredly against the wall heater that is not on.

cold air coming from the drafty windows, because that's what kind of windows old libraries have.

I have been struggling a lot lately to complete things.

to clean my closet. I throw the clothes in there and close the curtains.

to pack up the things in my apartment. books are still on the shelves and pencils are still in mugs.

to admit that things can end, to say,
I will not see my family or friends for five months,
I will not get to lay on my parents couch and sleep under their warm blankets
or sit with their garden in the morning
or walk to the beach and collect sea glass, in my father's wool sweater and my mother's running leggings. 
I will not see Emme -- she will be old when I see her again, old enough to count to ten in spanish if she wills herself to.
I will not walk across that beautiful, hogwarts campus in the rain and complain but secretly love sneaking back to my room to drink tea with the Seattle rain lulling my eyes closed. 

there are a lot of things that I will be able to do, but sometimes it takes a while to remember
I will learn about children and their love of fresh-air-life
I will drink chai tea in a foreign country
I will take a lot of airplanes and walk a lot of miles 
I will spend my holiday break in spain & france
and I will get to drink lots of european wine
and eat lots of baguettes
and wear only the most minimalist, comfortable clothes
and learn yoga,
and practice more and more breathing. 

but it is hard.

it is hard at eight at night when I know the night is approaching and I really, really want strong arms around me as I will myself to cry.

it is hard when I haven't cried in a long time, and I am now having trouble stopping the tears.

it is hard to exchange one desire for another,

it is hard to admit that in order for me to follow my dreams, to pursue five months of necessary content in my heart, I will also feel sadness.

a sweet sadness, it is, missing your home. missing the ones you love.

I anticipate it. I cry it.

and then I swallow it.

courage. strength. I am finding strength.

but oh, it is hard.

in acknowledgement of the past

there were days when we were really good together.
nights when we slept in the car, and I stared out the windows at the stars, waiting to hear his breathing grow deep.
hot days when we sat on the beach blanket, eating watermelons with a plastic spoon.
afternoons where we took naps in front of the window, only waking when the air grew cooler.

but there were days when we weren't in sync.
when my hand wanted to be held, and he pulled away.
when I needed to look into his eyes, and his eyes were focusing on anything but my own.

we looked away often.
walked away often, to take a break from the stress.
walked away and wouldn't talk about it later - just move on, without addressing the passive conflict.
we both did it.

and that was the most stressful.
because I would carry that conflict around, hold it in my fingertips, stuff it in my winter coat pockets.
and I would do anything to eradicate that stress.
make coffee that I didn't drink. make the bed so it was clean. make things, fix things -
fix everything except what needed to be acknowledged.

I wanted to look into his eyes and see it.
and I caught it once, I remember it once, in the heat of the night.

and a few months later, I would realize that I would not see it again.
not because he didn't love me - he certainly did. we loved each other.
but because things had changed.

because things change.
and you move on, up that mountain, and you keep going.

you take that stress in your winter coat pocket and you tuck it into the sole of your summer sandals.

and one day you wake up,
open your curtains to the sun,
and realize that stress is disappearing.
slowly being torn up by your heel.

because you don't need to take care of people, olivia.

you need to take care of you.

and when a relationship teaches you something, it was always good relationship.
and so I have learned

I cannot change the fundamentals of a relationship by fluffing pillows
by buying care packages
by pretending it's okay that there might be something missing.

and I can start new relationships, new foundations, knowing that
I need to be able to look into someone's eyes and acknowledge them in their entirety.
I need to be able to use the word "love" and not feel like I need to hear it back.

because I do love, I live with love in my heart,
and sending that love around is what pushes my stress away,
deeper down into the dirt.

be love

every week at camp I've seen this, and now I've taken a photo. 

be love during something as simple as a movie. be the one that puts your arm around another, or touches a hand lightly.

be love as you look up into the trees, as the clouds block the stars, and you breath. you are love when you are in nature.

be love because it's one in the morning and music is good, but a phone call is better, as you navigate your way through the long road home.

be love as you sit with an instrument, with a guitar, with a piano. listen. listen to each chord, each note, listen to the fingers as they brush against the notes.

be love as you hold onto someone else, anyone else.

be love as you hear a song, a song that makes your stomach jump, makes you close your eyes, makes your hands shake. as you put your hands over your face and will yourself to sob, but no tears come. accept that as the love you are becoming.

be love as you're driving behind someone slowly. walking behind someone that is slowing you down. they are helping you slow down. take that opportunity to breath.

be love as a child keeps talking, and all you want to do is talk over them - resist that urge. let them practice language.

be love as you do what you need to do; love will show you what you need.

be love, simply because you need to be. because you can love the world, but it is not the same as letting that love become you.

to be love, each day.

on the importance of face time

I said to her,

"your class has made me
one," I held out my index finger, "consider the possibility of getting a tattoo,"
she laughed.
"and two, challenge how I view the world."

if I had said that in a written evaluation, it would have been different.
she would've seen my handwriting, the scribble in a pencil that I stole from the person next to me.
hearing it from my voice, possibly reaching the point of breaking, was far more powerful.

and that is what I write about today. the importance of looking at someone, face-to-face, staring that someone in the eyes.

being able to reach out and give them a hug, or trace the veins on the top of their hands.

we have this thing called "FaceTime." as a mac user, I appreciate its convenience, its simplicity. I can see my family, I can hear their choppy voices as my wi-fi fails.

but I can't reach out to them.

I can't share the dinner they eat at the coffee table in the living room.

and I realize this, as I'm on the phone with my mother, and my father says, "do you want a salmon burger?"
and I realize this, as I say, "can I share something with you that I haven't shared yet?" and I want to see that reaction.
and I realize this, as I think about busing at one in the morning, because waking up on the living room floor, wrapped in a blanket that you put over yourself, is far different than falling asleep with someone pressing their arms around you.
and I realize this,
as I avoid getting a Facebook,
as a snapchat makes me want to go to J's house and lay on her floor and drink lemonade,
as an instagram photo tells me to hike through the forest and take five deep breaths.

the importance of face time means you see them, you see them without the lens of a blurry webcam, you see them without the static from the phone line, you see them without typos.

you see them with tears blurring a face, a body, a room they sit in.
you see them with the fireplace turning your skin a dry red.
you see them with the toothpaste on the edge of lips, as heads are placed onto pillows and shiny greens and browns and blues are hidden under eyelids.
you see them with a softer, dying voice, as the time of night disappears and doesn't matter anymore.

you see them.

getting out of a phase

I sit in the car, no longer on the beach, escaping the rain. it's dark outside, and the lights of other cars are flashing through the window. this is how all good stories begin.

is being someone a phase? I think, and what comes out is,

am I really this way, or am I acting this way and taking on characteristics because I like you, and this is who you are and what you like? 

I remember in high school, feeling different around different people, changing my personality to fit whomever I was talking to.

if I liked someone's company, I did what I could to keep them close: make jokes they'll get, tell them things about you that are similar to them.

 talk about your life in relation to theirs. encapsulate who they are by what you share with them. 

and in that way, I felt like I wasn't sharing who I was.

and on that night, I felt like I was doing it again. something I hadn't done for a very long time, and so I asked again,

what if I only like these things because you like them, too? 

there was a long pause. another conversation in between. and finally

I think if someone brings something out in you that you like in yourself, there's nothing wrong with that. 

oh.

I had been blaming myself - olivia, you weren't compatible with these people because you faked who you were. you didn't like these things, even if you really did. stop liking them, start over new. and that was your downfall. you pretended to like things that you didn't like, be a person you weren't, and that was why you fell.

but that night, I didn't feel like I was falling. I lay there, getting it. understanding ten years of mistakes, of reading seventeen magazine for advice instead of watching the world.

there are some things about me that are good.

and when people around me bring those out, those are great things. I shouldn't feel wrong or guilty about liking those things, because they are deep inside of me, hoping that they'll have the opportunity to escape.

but there have been times when some people brought out things in me that weren't actually there - I fabricated them from the hopes in my heart. 

and so with that, I look back, and I admit, in an ambiguous train of words:
I like soccer, and I liked playing with you in the summer. But I liked listening to you play the drums a lot less than I led on. I liked being free, and that's why I didn't meet you outside the lockers that one time. I also sort of liked your best friend, so there's that. I liked that you let me apologize for everything, because that's who I am, but over time, I grew bitter. I like the city, but I love the countryside, too - and so I'm stuck in this place of where I want to be in five years and it's not fair to tell you otherwise. I like the forest and I like being barefoot and I like the grateful dead - but there are other things about me that I like, too. there are always more, always more things.

always more things, the honest things about myself, that I should share.

on being so busy

it's been a while. it's been a while because I cannot remember a time in school when I have been this busy. senior year of high school, maybe? college has never felt this overwhelming. I've got a to-do list a mile long. I work fridays, saturdays, sundays, at a camp - all hours of the day. and I've never felt so stressed! 

and so when I stress, I need a break. 

I need to sit in silence for a little bit. this past weekend, I took a break in the camp garden, sitting on a log, sketching in my journal. I drew the trees, and the sun began to set, and I closed my eyes and took a breath. 

because at the end of every to do list, you should always add:

breath.

wise words from my grandmother

a few months ago, I was on the phone with my father. 

I called him in a moment of panic, in a "dad I am so sad and I don't know what to do, please help me" moment.

normally, I would approach him after dinner at the kitchen table, as he rereads the day-old newspaper and finishes our food so it doesn't go to waste. but this time he couldn't see my face, couldn't read my expression, or give me a hug. so words would have to do. 

"you're like me," he said, explaining to me his young adult years, "I always thought I was the one who was ready, and no one else was, then my mom said to me,

'the right person at the wrong time is the wrong person.'

and then I caught my breath in a large sob. and the crying began again, and I couldn't stop. I didn't want to admit that I had made a mistake, that I was so ready at the wrong time. 

I didn't want to be wrong. and I certainly didn't like that statement. because what if you meet that person again, and the time is right? does that make them the right person? 

but that was future thinking. and future-thinking is something I'm trying not to do. because when I future think, I hold expectations. 

I hold these expectations. when I meet someone, I almost instantly have expectations for what and who they will be in my life. what imprint they will make on me. and I expect that imprint to happen at a certain time, and when it doesn't happen at the right time - I get sad. 

last night, in the dimness of my star-lit room, I realized: 

"I was sad," I whispered. 

"you were sad?"

"sad because I always expect more, constantly. I always want more love. I want everyone to love me as much as I love them, at the exact same time."

"that doesn't seem fair, olivia."

no. it isn't fair. 

I let myself curl into a ball and lay there, thinking of how to defend myself, thinking of what I could do to be right in that moment. but in that moment, with the dim light, and the heat from the hot day still in the room, and my eyes falling shut as the clock stretched on, I couldn't defend it.

because my concept of time is unfair. my concept of the right and the wrong time. I want every moment to be the right time, the right time for everything to fall together and be perfect. I want every moment to be exactly what I have planned, exactly what I have expected. and when it's not, I fall. 

when my father said, "the right person at the wrong time is the wrong person," he was not trying to despair me. he was not trying to tell me to move on and grow up and find another path in life. he was telling me to let the time come. 

to let things happen without expectations.

the right person will be the right person because it is the right time, not because I expect and hope them to be the right person at the wrong time. 

"the right person at the wrong time is the wrong person … maybe," I whispered. 
and with the cool air tickling my skin as I lay backwards on my bed, I smiled a sad, but understanding, smile. 

and it's just a box of rain

the sun passed us quickly. after a week of almost ninety degree weather, this weekend was rain, and that was okay.

(because let me just pause for a moment to explain to you how absolutely perfect my job is)
I work at an outdoor camp on weekends, and often it rains (it's the pacific northwest). but seeing a kid's face as they run to play ball in the mud or climb up ropes or even come into the arts&crafts garage to warm up and make a friendship bracelet - it's so sweet. it is sweet to see children and their parents playing together outside, exploring. even when it rains. 

so anyway, I'm setting the scene. I sit here with "american beauty" playing as my night's soundtrack, after having an exhausting weekend of painting faces and dancing in the rain and eating lots of junk food.

today, on the drive home from camp, I had one of those moments.

one of the moments where Sam tells Frodo that there's some light left in the sky, a little bit of blue in the otherwise dark sky, and maybe there's some light left in the shire, some shire sky.

these are my favorite skies. that speck of blue is always there.

and you don't really realize that unless you spend more time outside. inside, you're in this stationary position, maybe staring out the window, or glancing every once in a while. and you see the grey and don't want to go outside, or you see the sun and long to go outside.

but unless you're outside in the grey and the black and the rain and the hail, you won't see that tiny pocket of blue sky. or you won't appreciate it as much - knowing that you fought for that blue sky is a satisfying feeling.

no metaphors. no analogies.

just acknowledging that feeling.

using the future

let's touch upon the past.

time spent on the couch, a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream balanced between book pages. in this instance, she is in a John Green phase, ripping through Paper Towns and Looking for Alaska.

and she is devouring Looking for Alaska, because in more ways than one, she wants to be Alaska. but she is not that girl, because Alaska does what she wants without worrying. and this Olivia, she is worried. she is so worried about her grades and her best friends and her hair (why was that always a constant worry). and she is so worried about the future.

I have always been worried about the future. 

I cannot think of a time in my life where I was not planning a future out in my head, clipping magazine pictures to create a journal of my dreams, googling college classes before I was out of junior high school. I've always been a planner, planning for the future, planning to be on the correct path.

this future planning was always an excited worry. a "wait until I can get a cottage on the edge of the sea" worry, or a "wait until I can have a rose garden in England" worry.

and the point is, I was always waiting. I was planning and waiting on the future, not acknowledging the present.

this is often what I do. I get through my homework and complete my reading and go to bed on time and wake up early and get ready for the day and repeat. I do all of this quickly, completing the path I planned to be on, just waiting for the future.

just waiting.

so fourteen year-old olivia is sitting on the couch, eating baby spoonfuls of ice cream, and she reads John Green's words:

"You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you'll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present.”

and she gets it.

"You just use the future to escape the present."

and she realizes she does this. but she doesn't understand the wrongness.

she doesn't understand that obsessive idealization of the future will someday lead her to a discontent of the present.

imagining is fun. I imagine I'll live in the english countryside, with a full garden to tend, with a fireplace in my living room. I imagine I'll spend my days hiking the tallest mountains, climbing the steepest trees, dipping my toes in the freshest river water. I imagine I'll walk through the streets of a city, feeling a loneliness because I am alone, yet feeling a community of busyness. I imagine I'll have a comfortable bed with a hand stitched quilt and flat, down pillows. I image all of this, at different times, at different moments.

but I can't use the future to get out of the present.

the future is not something to be used, to be snatched up and morphed into changing desires. the future is something unknown, something every-changing, something that, to quote my mother, "you just never know."

and so this is my challenge: to stop using the future.

to embrace whatever my future may be.

five things my father has taught me

happy friday, my friends. this week has been filled with endless school work and whenever I catch my breath I am self-reflecting. on today's ferry ride, in between research paper paragraphs, I took a breath and thought. I thought about how I've been changing to be more similar to my father in some ways. and thus was born the following: 

five things my father has taught me

1. walk when you can, for as far as you can.

    walk outside. a walk will make you feel better. a walk will clear your head. don't let the rain stop you.

2. be patient with everyone, even if you are frustrated. 

    in my young adolescence, my father was so patient that he talked with and comforted one of my old friends, when I refused to see that friend. at the time, I was so angry with my father, but he was so right. be patient with emotions and feelings and actions. of your own emotions, of others' emotions. things will work out. 

            (this one I’m still trying to learn)

3. being outside heals the inside.

    when I was a child and screaming my head off, my father would pick me up and take me outside and sit with me in the garden until I stopped crying. and then I would go back inside. lately, I have been finding such comfort in the natural world.  

4. “be nice to your nails”

     – a.k.a don’t self destruct in the face of anxiety. and I have stopped biting my nails (they're currently a brilliant, spring red).

5. continue to make jokes even if no one gets your sense of humor.  

    laughing at yourself, even if no one else is laughing, is still fun.

always reflecting. always changing. 

thanks, dad. 

"friluftsliv"

I'm not sure how to begin this. I wrote a few sentences, all something along the lines of "a break from my busy life was necessary," but none of them seemed to capture what I'm feeling right now. 

understanding?

this weekend brought understanding. 

a break from the city, from reading articles off of my laptop, from straining my eyes over syllabi and emails. 

there's something about the quiet in the forest. I fell asleep in front of a fireplace, seeing the little light of the flames jump outside my eyelids. and it was silent. I woke slowly, the sound of geese and running water outside the window. natural light flooding the room. 

being outside, I smiled. 

and at first, it was hard - but then, then I felt like olivia again. olivia that turns everything into a song. olivia that meets new people and acts ridiculous but always smiles. that goofy olivia, the original olivia. the one that attempts to match excitement and curiosity with that of the children. the one that starts talking again, speaking when she needs to speak, laughing when she needs to laugh. playing soccer barefoot - dear lord, I hadn't done that in a long time. the sun came out, and I ran barefoot through the forest. through the mud and then the sand and then to the field. and it felt better. 

and so I start this week with a deeper understanding of me. of the open air life I crave so desperately. 

(and here is the song that we played while cleaning at camp, my theme song of the weekend. it will possibly forever remind me of these last two days of self reflection)

on children

"children are brutally honest."

that is what my professor said, when asked why she chose to work with children.

the young ones, they have nothing to be dishonest about. they should have no reason to fret.

they have no fear in giving compliments, and compliments they sure give. in my case, "miss olivia, I like…" your hair (that they love to play with) and your nail polish and your ring (oh, someone new discovers my ring every time I work) and your skirt and your shirt and your jacket ("I have elbow patches on one of my jackets, too!") and your shoes ("are those ballet shoes?") and you - especially you.

they love you when you roll out of bed and your hair is a mess and your clothes have dirt. they love when your clothes have dirt, because it means you were probably playing outside with them. they love you when it's raining, even if they wish it was sunny outside. they love you even if the classroom is messy and even if you're sick. children will tell you they like something about you, that they love you, when you are looking or feeling your worst.

as my almost-three-year-old niece would say,
"I like that."

They ask you honest questions. On tuesday, a child squinted at me for a moment, and then slowly asked:
"why do you always eat yogurt when you come here?"
to which I responded, "yogurt is one of my favorite foods, it is good for you and has lots of protein."
he stared at me for a moment and then said,
"I like it too but I haven't had it in a while because my mom never asks me if I want it so she doesn't buy it!"

there is a boldness to children. a bold curiosity that I want to embody.

I feel that we lose that boldness as we get older - we lose our organic, curious selves, worried about what others will think if we are outwardly kind or too inquisitive.

and so when working with children, I attempt to take on their curiosity. I ask questions,
"why do you think you have cherry blossom petals stuck in your hair?"
and I tell them boldly
"I love the necklace you made for your mom. that is such a nice idea. she will really appreciate that you made something for her."
and
"oh, I love the Harry Potter scar that your sister drew on your forehead!"

give honest compliments. ask questions. don't be afraid.

be bold.

where the end of winter quarter has left me

when you walk through here it feels like snow is falling down upon you (nope, just cherry blossoms)

winter quarter was a difficult quarter. not in the classes, no, I can handle school - but in all the changes and the personal struggles. this past year has been a lot of internal angst & perhaps I did not realize it until yesterday afternoon.

walking home from my last field trip,
down the bridge,
realizing, "I might have to move out of the city,"
realizing, "everything is different,"
realizing, "in this moment I am so sad,"
and feeling like someone from my past was placing her hand on my chest and pushing me backward,
saying, "just stop. just stop because everything has changed and you can't handle it."

do you ever have those moments?

you are twenty and you want to walk home … but home is not the place for which you pay rent.

that has been a challenge for me this past year, and especially this school year, as I moved to my own apartment in the city and moved out of my parents' house.

and yesterday, I was told that I may have to move back.
and in that moment, of admitting that everything was changing, that the end of winter quarter was bringing me frustration instead of excitement, I wept.

swallowing back the breaths in my throat and trying to get air in through my nose,
determined to look straight ahead because if I looked down and focused on my thoughts I would waste some tears.
I was that girl.

and I am not proud of her.
I am not proud of where winter quarter has landed me, emotionally.

I am getting better, because I am always getting better.
but I can always be better than I am today.

today I am doing better and that is a happy thought.
today I am determined to do better.
and tomorrow, again.
and the day after that.

the history of love: nicole krauss

"Are you the happiest and saddest right now that you've ever been?" 

"Of course I am. Because nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me sadder than you."

at night, I read until my eyes were sore from reading and crying and reading and then crying some more. books do that to me, this book did that to me. I finished it in the morning, lay in bed not moving, until it was done. and once it was done it was not gone. 

I feel it throughout the day. its words are inside of me, because I am the happiest and yet the saddest I have ever been. I can be the happiest because I've got a trip to Norway secured. because I have a new job in the forest on weekends. because I see him playing guitar or staring at me with one eye covered by the pillow next to me. but I am the saddest. I am the saddest because I feel like I am carrying around with me a tightness in my chest and love in my throat that no one knows. that I can't begin to explain.

this old man, Leo, is living his life, loving a woman he has loved his entire life. and he has lived his life doing things for him, and he can unlock any door in the city, and he has written his life in words on a typewriter, and he goes around the city living his day - and yet no one knows. no one knows that he loves a woman, and that he wants her to be happy, every day, and that he is constantly thinking of her.

and when I go downtown to the shopping center, I wonder if the woman at the counter sees it in my eyes. as she's showing me lotion and I smile and nod, I wonder if she knows how much my eyes are feeling right now. they are taking in everything, from the sparkle of the soap to the black on the ground, and yet they are taking in nothing.

I am noticing everything, and yet everything in me is not being noticed. 

and when I sit on the bus, I wonder if the person next to me can feel it when my leg presses into the seat. I half expect them to turn to me and say, "I understand." but they only see the library books sticking out of my bag, they see my rain jacket with the fuzzy velcro, they see my hair braided back away from my face. that is what they see. 

and when I am in my apartment and it is night time and I've watched six episodes of gilmore girls in a row, and my roommates are all getting ready for bed, I wonder if they notice. notice that by the second episode I'm not fully engaged. notice that by 1am, in an unlike olivia fashion, I am still awake and staring at the side of my wall and not crying but not smiling. 

because I am the happiest that I have been, full of hope and a mind of great things in the future, but I am the saddest I have ever been. It is a sweet, romantic sadness that I have never felt. it is the first time I have felt this much hopeful love (maybe that's the correct word) kept up inside of me. but because of what the words in this book have pinpointed, I am carrying around a feeling that I do not know how to express because I do not know the words. 

"When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?"

on pictorial social media

photo taken this summer in my parents' garden

I would love to tell you that going on sites like pinterest and instagram make me unbearably happy. that seeing images of beautiful homes and lovely outfits and cool new braiding techniques make my life a lot better. that I've just seen a picture that sums up how my life ought to be and now it is perfect.

but that's just it. sadly, it's not perfect. 

my life is built up of more than visuals. it is the spirit I feel when I take a walk through the forest, when the air is silent, and then little pine needles and twigs slowly drop from the trees. it is the satisfaction I feel when I've completed a full quarter at school, when I've secured a new job, when I've woken up early and gotten a multitude of things done by noon. it is how I feel when I'm kissed, when a stranger tells me I have a nice smile, when I witness kindness through people I do not know, when I wake up in the morning with the sun pouring through the window and the sound of someone breathing beside me. these are the things that contribute to a life I love. and yet...

often times, I get sucked in, to scrolling down my instagram feed, wondering what new foods that stylist has prepared, curious as to what those cute children are up to today. and that's okay, to look and admire other lives - to be curious. curiosity is a wonderful thing. but curiosity about visuals that you wish were your visuals, to the point where you stop trying to improve your own life and live in social media outlets … that's my downfall.

and so I need to remember. to constantly remind myself. there is more than someone else's life - there is your life. your life, through your eyes, through your camera if you do so please, but not solely through your phone.