Back in the Saddle Again

I feel it.



Those almost imperceptible threads that slowly tighten around you as you grow older, weighing you down with foreign words like “premises” and “prorated tenant’s rental deposit” and “contracts.” Words that suggest a new kind of responsibility: the responsibility of ownership, as well as the responsibility of paying big bucks if you screw up.



This is called Adulthood, that rite of passage that has no clear starting line except where you can feel it in your bones. I felt it yesterday as I vacuumed and cleaned our then-empty new home, filling it with this or that bowl and table and pair of shoes. Like a bird creating a nest, I rearranged all of my “stuff” until it began to resemble a living space. Until it began to feel like my own. I did inventory and marked down all of the minor repairs and scuffs for the owners to note. I tried to nurse the poor flattened yellow husks outside back into the green shrubs they used to be. I met my neighbors and wrote down the all the important numbers for the house: repairs, garbage, cable, heating…I spent the whole day running around and playing “house,” never quite daring to believe that this time it’s for real. This time, the house is mine. The neighbors are there. The desperate need for funding and work is very tangible. We are now part of the bracket on the census entitled “home owners.”



Funny thing about homes, how you can seem to own or at least occupy multiple homes in a year. Over the last two years alone, my home has been alternately a third floor dorm room in the aging brick Anderson Hall, worn through and comfortable and full of new Freshmen; a ranch-house in Ten Sleep Wyoming, population 308, where the fields and the sky and the possibilities are as wide open and free as you can dream; the neighborhood where I was raised in Idaho Falls, brimming with memories and childhood explorations; and now this house, a three bedroom question mark with two roommates, an old folk’s home down the street, a small but lovely room all my own, and the promise of a fresh start.



All of these places have felt like home at some point to me. When they were the most needed, they were there to comfort, to hide, to shelter, to strengthen, and to encourage. The transition from one home to the next has always been rough, always full of goodbyes that I don’t want to face and doors closing and opening around me. I guess the point is that a home is what you make it. It’s not just where you live, it’s how you live while you are there.



So, here I am. Playing “house” for keeps. I spent much of today furniture scouting, doing the legwork for when school starts in a few days, collecting my mail and my textbooks…I thought I would be more nervous about this particular school-year. After all, I’m halfway through my time at the College now. I should be anxious about the fact that I’m still between majors, and that I haven’t gotten to know my roommates as well as I would have liked first, and that my upcoming semester is full of some difficult courses. Most of all, I thought I should be more afraid about returning to Caldwell, the Beginning Point for where a lot of my life changed. Last fall when I returned here I felt the pull of my depression dragging me down, I felt the urge to melt into the student body and disappear. For half the year I gave in to that downward drag, and the other half I fought my way back up.



This year feels different. I don’t feel like I have to be so afraid of falling back to a bad place. I feel like I can stand on firm ground. I feel like this could be the year where I finally have the strength to look my depression in the face and tell it to back off. I feel like I can survive my classes, survive work and money problems and writer’s block and shyness. To be more accurate, maybe it’s not the year that feels different. Maybe it’s me.



Last summer I was able to ride my favorite horse, Sysco, for several days of cow herding and rides and various activities. The first time I rode him, I was told of his history, his attitude, and his tendency to ride off with people. I was warned to keep control, a warning I did not heed well enough in the first few rides, resulting in some frightening episodes where Sysco sprinted with all that his runner’s blood was worth while I clung grimly to his back praying he would stop. Over time, I learned a partnership with that horse. We genuinely came to respect, if a little grudgingly, the control of the one holding the reins. My Aunt Lynette reminded me again and again the importance of patience and getting in that saddle again before my fear could cripple my ability to ride. I learned this lesson again when I got in my car wreck this last summer, and my good friend Erin forced me to drive her car through the same intersection that held memories of busted glass and airbag whiplash—getting “in the saddle again”—before I lost my nerve to drive completely.



I am grateful for the wisdom of those who passed on this lesson to me, and grateful that despite my hard head the lesson somehow sunk in. I am embracing it right now, this semester. The more I get back into the saddle of schoolwork and college living the easier it is to learn the route. Maybe a little more cautious, maybe a little wiser, but with the knowledge that I’ve done it before and can do it again. And who knows, maybe this time, it will be the ride of a lifetime.

To Bravery!

Earlier I posted a list of all the things I've learned from working in food service. This summer I've also learned something else. There are some people I just can't work with, no matter how hard I try, and no matter how much they may wrong me or treat me badly, I never confront them. I just apologize and back away. When I do manage to squeak out some kind of retort, I will immediately regret it and spend the rest of the night beating myself up for that small moment of bravery. WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN?



I haven't always been this way. I remember kicking the shin of a boy who made fun of my friend in grade school and having to stand in the corner for it for the rest of recess. I remember writing a scathing letter to a teacher I disliked in high school (and, of course, apologizing later, but in the moment it was a big deal.) I have no problem standing up to rude customers, school bullies, snotty teenagers, anyone who has dared to hurt a friend or family member, even writing letters to politicians that I disagree with. As the long as the problem is not directly related to me and a person is not directly attacking me, I am fine. It seems I can defend anyone...except myself.



I've let some of my friends bully me into believing I was weaker than I was. I have allowed coworkers to talk down to me, even though I am doing my job well. I have let silence reign in my house rather than speaking up about something that upset me, holding it all inside until it eventually explodes in all the wrong ways. For too long I have let myself believe that I am the sole cause for problems that were much bigger than me, and shouldered that guilty weight for every argument, mistake, and painful moment for the last several years. I am not sure if it's because I think someone needs to pay for other people's pain, and it might as well be me; or if it's just that I don't think highly enough of myself to say: "wait a second. This is wrong. I can take responsibility for my half, but not for yours. I'm worth more than this."



The moment has come for me to be brave. To break the silence and lay all of it--good, bad, and ugly, on the table for the world to see. To say what I mean and mean what I say. No more being a martyr or being the broken one. I have a lot of letters to write today. Some good, some bad, some ugly. God give me the strength, but I'm going to do it. No more putting it off.



To Bravery!



Song for the day: Don't Carry it All- by The Decemberists



Picture: I LOVED the Brave Little Toaster when I was a kid =) call me a dork, but there it is. This pic is by JimmyCartoonist

"I Reach Into My Pocket For Some Small Change..."

A friend of mine recently showed me the importance of change. No, not the empty promised change of political slogans, or even the major life-altering kind that comes whether we want it to or not. I'm taking pennies. Nickels. Dimes.

Last summer when I was a waitress I made oodles of the stuff. I had so much change I filled four large Arizona tea bottles with it that I had to lug home in a cardboard box, and later all that change became a blessing when my savings account emptied out and I needed some cash for detergent and groceries. Yes, it's embarrassing to have a line of people behind you covering their smiles while you pay at a self-check out with a giant Ziploc bag of nickels...but, it's also a lesson of independence. I could have borrowed money from someone or written home for a twenty, but I wanted to do it myself. And my poor planning over the year meant my resources were what they were, change. And for me, the change was enough.

This year the tips were scarce, working as a bus-girl and in fast food. Yet, even though the jars aren't full, I reach into my pocket and hear a tiny jingle and I smile. Because to me, that change represents not just the rewards of hard work, but the milestones on what has been a very long year. I used to think that for me to be happy, I had to majorly change everything about myself and my situation. It's taken twenty-odd years to realize that change is snow falling; gradual, slow, steady. Eventually the whole landscape is reborn into something new, an entire page waiting to be scribbled on. And when I look at myself and my life and what I've become and how much is still so unsure, the lyrics from a Dispatch song go through my head.

Just reach into your pocket, for some small change.

Don't stress the little things, be secure in who you are. And if you want to rearrange some things, don't try to turn life upside down all at once. Chances are, the changes were always there to begin with. You just needed to let them out.

*image by google*
*lyrics in title by Dispatch--Two Coins*

The Help

It's a little after two AM, and I just finished the bestseller by Kathryn Stockett: The Help.



I love that feeling after reading something that rearranges you. You fold over that last sheet or two of blank paper at the end, secretly hoping, longing for another sentence or two to draw out the story. But all your left with is some space for thinking and taking in what you just read. And in the case of The Help (curse this blog interface for not having a way to underline words) there is quite a lot to take in.



I won't go into great detail about the book or its plot, to spoil it for the one or two people in the universe who will read this. Suffice it to say it's set in the 1960s, in Jackson Mississippi, during some of the most monumental Civil Rights triumphs and failures. There is injustice, in grave degree. There are a lot of things that surprise you, the reader, especially if you never lived in the 60's and grew up somewhere in the rural west where diversity and racism are about as common as elephants marching through town. I knew a total of four, maybe five people in school that weren't white. And to my knowledge, they weren't ever bullied, or had to be afraid to use the wrong toilet, or ever felt the isolation of segregation. I thank God that I was not born in an era where I might have been raised to hate, or had to see that cruelty for myself. But then again, I'm grateful I know it existed, so I can see how much has changed and still needs to change in the world.



Books like this, the ones about social justice that people prefer not to see, erased or glossed off of their textbooks and television, often have the strange effect of making me feel both larger and smaller than I really am. Larger in the sense that I am on the outside of the scenes, looking into the minds of all the characters at once, in a time period where things are vastly different. And smaller in the sense that I cannot imagine the amount of work and sweat and editing that had to go into something so powerful. Stockett had little to lose by today's terms by printing this book compared to what the characters in her book risked, yet just witnessing the amount of personal research and tailoring...and how much of herself was pressed onto ink...I think all writers risk a little bit by putting so much into the public eye, where people are free to hate and sneer and disregard.



I have written volumes of random essays, interviews, journals and tidbits in my twenty years. And while each felt a certain weight of importance at the time of its birth, not one has ever felt too important. Like the world really needed it right then. I pray that someday, somehow, I will write something half as brilliant as The Help with even half as much success in opening the world's eyes to something deep and hidden.







*image by google*

Epiphany

I need to eighty-six a few things in my life. The first one being that attitude in my last post...the angry me that is definitely NOT me. So I had a bad day at work and needed to vent a little, who doesn't? The thing I have found about myself is that I am usually not brave enough to confront a person head on. Give me a keyboard or a pen and I can write a scathing manifesto or bleeding apology or sincere congratulations...but in person? It's more of a shuffling "sorry," "thank you," or "that's ok." I would rather write my heart out to a digital vortex that doesn't talk back then actually approach a problem and be the bigger person. Well, it's time to step up and be that bigger person.

This epiphany hit me this last week during my one and only vacation to Wyoming this summer. It poured sheets of rain all four days I was there, and usually that would send me into one of my "funks." Yet for whatever reason on the inside, I had never been warmer or more myself. Taking myself out of the workforce and into unfamiliar, beautiful territory for a few days gave me the chance to take a step back and get some better perspective.

I've heard it said that you find yourself on the path to losing yourself. Earlier this year, in the middle of December, I was told by someone close to me that they didn't recognize me anymore. The Robyn of then was worn down with self-doubt, guilt, pity fests and even a little bit of anger. Mostly directed at myself because my life had not panned out according to plan, and I felt as though I just kept screwing it up for me and everyone around me. I've taken the last eight months as a chance to lose myself, to find in me the ability to move forward, to be stronger, and maybe, just maybe, to forgive myself. I lost myself in school, in my friends and family, and turned my focus ever outward rather than inward. It's incredible how much more you see when you're not standing in your own way anymore.

That last one, the forgiving myself, is taking a hell of a time to come around. And it's possible there will never be a day when I can feel totally weightless, but at least I feel like me again. I can laugh, sometimes so hard I cry, which is something I thought I lost. I can look at that big scary unknown future and feel courageous about it. I can make grown up decisions and decide what and where, for the most part, I invest my heart into. I think the biggest thing for me is that I have finally stopped feeling like Eeyore, feeling grateful to people for noticing me and keeping my head down. My feet are firmly planted on the ground, I've grown up, but I'm still a child somewhere inside. There is still a shred of innocence and love for simple things.

This post probably won't make a lot of sense to anyone but me, but I felt it was important to write it out. And to say to anyone out there who even reads this, there are so many reasons to get up in the morning. There are so many reasons to keep changing and trying and striving for a better you, so don't ever give up on finding yourself. And I know this sounds like a huge cheese fest, but don't be Eeyore. Find a way to look outward and be free.

The Bitter Bitchin Files

Meet the New Robyn.

This morning she woke up at six forty five, grateful it was not the usual FOUR forty five. Her back muttered loudly to her, and something in her skull tapped against her temples as though making sure someone really was home in there (the jury is still out on that one), as she shuffled to the bathroom and pulled on her uniform for work.

This morning, she hated everything.

In these early morning hours I always feel a little jet-lagged and cotton-stuffed. It usually takes an extra minute or two for me to take myself out of auto pilot and adjust to my environment: for my eyes to focus on an angry customer or to concentrate long enough to figure out that that liquid pouring down my arm means something is spilling and I should probably clean it up. Working so much has made me slower I swear. And more apathetic. And it's also made me a little bitchier.

Take today for example. I have always believed that one should work for their money, and not get paid to stand around and talk. Partly this is because of the family work ethic, and partly this is because too often I am stuck in a position at work that doesn't allow me to be part of that envious "fun crowd" who has the privilege of taking liberties, of showing up late, and of goofing off instead of being where they're supposed to be or doing what they're supposed to do. I have rarely been a part of that group, and usually by the time I make it there I am just ready to quit my job and head back to college.

So when New Robyn saw a large number of my coworkers today doing squat and making me do both my job and theirs, she got irritated. When those same coworkers then spent the majority of my eight hour shift whining about how tired they were, how their stomachs hurt, the drama with this or that friend, and how unfair life in general is I looked at them with their easy laughter and full stomachs (I still hadn't had my break yet) and text messaging and I could muster no sympathy.

I work forty five to fifty hour weeks now with my two jobs. I spend most of my nights staring up at the ceiling rather than sleeping. I am having a total of eight days off this summer for vacation. I work hard, I make myself get up even when I feel sick, I'm on my period, and damnit, I don't take the luxury of complaining to everyone I see. Usually I'm pretty good. I play the adult, I shut my mouth, and I get through it. I know how to grow up and I know how to avoid drama.

But on days like this I just want to scream when a customer is being slow and I am blamed, or when my coworker passes the buck to me, or when I don't get a break until seven hours in and I'm ready to pass out. I want to tell my coworkers to shut up and stop allowing so much drama in their lives. I want to ask them how they ever got this far with their poor attitudes and laziness. I want to throw an order of food at someone's car and have no consequences. Most of all, I think, I just want someone to recognize that they aren't the only ones on the planet. And that I'm here too, working right next to them for hours at a time, and I'm not invisible. Just once, I'd like to be more than the go-fer girl.

Ok, I'm done venting. Do I sound bitter? Do I sound bitchy? I know I'm being a brat, and at the same time, I simply do not care. All I gotta say is that it's a good thing I'm going back to school in a few weeks, because this New Robyn is a little frightening.

*Image by Google*

Age-less

Elda Rawlings Juchau was one month shy of being one hundred and five years old when she passed away in 2008. She was a woman infamous for cheating at cards and cussing like a sailor. She remained in good health until the end, insisting on living independently in her home and doing everything herself, which sometimes got her into trouble. (My mother was once horrified to burst in on her balancing precariously on the top of her walker--the kind with two tiny wheels on the bottom--trying to reach something on a high shelf in the kitchen. She was "rescued" at once and promptly pouted, muttering darkly about how she had been fine all along.) I remember her sneaking the complimentary jars of jelly beans into her pockets at Thanksgiving, giving me a wink and telling me "you only live once!" She was kind, and she was generous, and she was beautiful.

She was a woman full of fire. And she was my great-grandmother.

Melody Porter is almost fifty, and on the outside a lovely middle-aged woman with a big smile. But on the inside is endless youth. She will always believe in magic. She will play dress up on Halloween and look forward to holidays with the same eagerness as the children that live with her. She loves to give hugs and she loves cartoons. Every time I've ever been around her, I have been amazed at her energy, her ability to take joy in all of the small things, and her innocent way of embracing anything and everyone.

She is a woman full of sunshine. And she is blessed.

Everyone knows that saying about only being as old as you feel. That you age less when you live ageless. I myself have been blessed/cursed to physically appear much younger than I am. Although I am nearly twenty one, most people assume upon meeting me that I am in my teens, usually somewhere between fourteen and seventeen. The kind will ask me where I'm planning to go to college after I graduate. The not-so-kind will ask me what Jr. High I go to. I know that in about twenty more years I will love these genes. I will praise my mother and her mother before her for giving me a youthful face. But for now, it is just irritating to always be judged as more immature than I am.

However, if someone has only ever talked to me over the phone, or only read the things I write, or has known me on any kind of terms of friendship for a while, I then stand accused of being old-fashioned. An Old Soul. Weathered. Cautious, even. Like an old lady piloting a fast freeway from over the steering wheel. I don't party or drink so I'm no fun. I insist on using full words instead of abbreviations in my texts. I used to also be called sheltered, but now people recognize that I have experienced perhaps a little too much, and I am asked the question "how are you handling everything?" more often than a simple "what's up?"

If we really did age based on our emotions and trials more than on a stiff time table, I would put myself at about thirty five now. Wise enough to know that I am not an island, and never have been, and that my mistakes leave a trail of consequences that last whole lifetimes; but also rash enough to still want to dive off the occasional cliff just to see what's on the bottom. I know that I'm no longer a child, but I don't want to call myself an adult just yet. That word carries a lot of weight with it, and a lot of debt. And quite frankly, sometimes I like to just turn on some Disney and eat Spongebob macaroni and play make-believe with my nieces and nephews. These things aren't aloud once you are dubbed: Adult.

My hope is that at my funeral, they can say I was like my great-grandmother. That I was on fire. That they'll say I was like Mel, full of sunshine. That I can live, truly live, with an open heart and mind and not be so cautious as I tend to be; and that I'll still know how to mend rather than break. I'd like to be remembered as selfless and warm. I'd like to be ageless.

I hope it's not too late to start.