I have had some very amazing thoughts rolling around in my head for the past few days. I am almost afraid to commit them to text, because I am afraid that in my mind they sound extremely profound – but once they dance from my finger tips to the page, I fear that they might loose their illuminating clarity.

It almost feels like when you understand algebra for the first time in high school. Your teacher has been standing at the blackboard with chalk-tipped fingers for 6 months saying “X = 3…X is three. Replace X with 3!” And then the grand day comes where you are sitting in your chair, and it all clicks. Magically all of the Xs on the blackboard morph into 3s and slowly you manage to drawl “Ooooh….X is IS three.” Maybe its also similar to the ever famous “There is no spoon” so eloquently put by Keneau Reeves.

So, without further adu, please pardon me while I try to usher you into my illumination.

For most of my life I have known that our God finds joy in restoring and reconciling. And in my experience this process is usually something that is completed with so much irony, I can’t help but shake my head and laugh at the sense of humor of God. Maybe its the idea that he loves a backward kingdom; the first are last, the strong are weak, the poor are blessed. The longer I am walking in this road, the more I expect that this backward kingdom is something that we get used to. But the longer I walk it, I realize that it only becomes more and more profound, no matter how you try to expect it.

Alot of my thoughts this evening center around this paraphrased verse (Luke 7:47): “For those who have been forgiven much, love much.”

Now, for most of my life, this has translated similarly to that of a loan shark. If you owe someone 10,000 dollars and they write off your debt, you love them! Who wouldn’t? And let’s pretend that this loan was accompanied by large amounts of insurmountable debt. The writing off of all of this would undoubtedly yield a grateful heart. But in someways, I also seemed to relate to the shame in that.  The thought “I had to be forgiven much, so I really owe it to you to love you much” seems a bit more realistic in my heart. 

I am taking a class with a wonderful group of women through my church. And although many impressionable things were said last week, there was something that snagged me. The woman in her 60s was speaking about her journey in healing from sexual abuse. And it was from this that she was saying that she really had a well of emotion to draw from. She was a painter, and although she considered her abuse unjust, she recognized that God was able to take that very broken raw emotion, and transform it into beautiful artwork – deep expressive colors, textures, skills and creativity. She said that she was able to find the darkest parts of her soul and invite God into them. And through her streaming tears, sleepless nights and unbearable pain, there has been a deep rooted sense of talent and stunning beauty that has grown out of that.

I guess this is the part where I fear it doesn’t translate. If you have grown up in the church, you have undoubtedly heard the overplayed Crystal Lewis song “beauty for ashes, strength for fear…” We all know that God does this. But maybe I am just beginning to experience this in my soul, because the gears are slowly turning. I am beginning to see that “loving much” doesn’t mean that you are obligated to love much. It looks so differently.

It means that I am growing and finding parts of me that I like more than I ever have. Not in a loud showy way, but rather in the same way you smile silently smile at a child that you thought was adorable – when you thought no one was looking. It means that I am beginning to see the things that I want for my life, and I am excited about them. It means that I am beginning to view the darkest places of my soul in a way that could very well be the strength, the courage, the texture, and art work that allows me to walk into situations with my head held high. Not even in pride, but more in oblivion. Due to the battles I have fought through, maybe art is going to flow out of the places in my heart previously occupied by my demon, guilt and shame. And it will flow out as naturally as water in a deep mountain spring.  Without thought or pretension, just as if it was always meant to be that way.

The thought that seemed to really relinquish me into this idea was simply this: I still don’t trust God. My story has been one of God continually displaying himself and saying “Jenni, jump out of the plane with me.” And in the real life story, there have been several real planes, and even more spiritual/emotional ones. “Trust me Jenni. Trust me Jenni.” I know that there are places within me that are so hard, and painful, and jaded. These are the areas that when I am really honest with myself I don’t think that God is big enough to save me from. And the thing that got me to the end of it was simply breathing “God, I am incredibly  sorry that my stupid wretched heart doesn’t trust you.”

And slowly, in that thought there was a breathing. A releasing. A widening of the vision. A showing me of my name. Telling me who I am. Showing me what I was created to do. A charging of responsibility. An excitement for the things that are to come almost in disbelief. And in the face of this, the ONLY response that makes sense is “Oh my God, I am so in love with you.”

Maybe this is the sense of humor of our God. To find the very things impossible, and over time expound them into earth shaking strengths. I do believe that God loves to laugh. And he does. As I write and share my heart, and learn more about my demons, my demons transform into pillars of strength. And I believe he laughs so hard he cries….kicks his feet and holds his sides.  The sheer idiocy of it all it astounding. Most of the time it reminds me if a child that has pulled a practical trick on you, and looses themselves in laughter because they love being so clever.

I like it that we have a clever God that laughs. A God that believes that doing things backward is important. A God that likes saving much. A God that proves that he is worth loving much. Maybe God likes being an equation that we can’t quite always get our brains around. 

“Wait…..X is  ….what??”

Today in the car my dad said something interesting to me. I spent most of the day car shopping, as my old BMW is about to be released of it duties. Its been a good car to me, but lately I get the feeling that it has become more like a limping old man, and less like the young sporty car it was intended to be. So, as I emotionally let go of the car that has been my chariot for the past few years, I have to ask the question “what kind of car do I want?”

The funny things about cars at that they aren’t simply modern mechanical marvels that take us from our current location to our destination. We dont like admitting it, but cars say something about us; about who we are and our personalities.  They denote how successful we are in our careers, what we choose to do in our spare time, or what kind of family we do or do not have.

So this weekend, as I wandered around dealer lots, drooling over the cars that can’t afford, and haggling with salesmen for the cars that I can afford. But I can’t shake the feeling that there is a greater question being asked of me. It is not simply “Jenni what kind of car do you want to drive?” But rather “Jenni, what kind of person do you want to be?”

Am I an environmentalist, recycling cans found discarded on hiking trails, and cruising the town in my 2008 Toyota Prius? Am I a sporty and sassy, weaving through traffic, and power sliding into parking spots in my Mini Cooper? Am I a young adult, practical and somewhat stylish in a 2008 Mazda 3? Or, am I a kid of the upcoming generation, fiddling with my Ipod while I sport around in my economical and so stylish Honda Fit?

My head spinning with facts, thoughts, miles per gallon, green rating numbers and accident ratings, my dad said this on the way home: “Jenni, buy the car that YOU like. Don’t get caught up in what other people will think about you when they see you in that car. That really isnt important – what’s important is that you really enjoy your choice.” Whoa dad, I dont think you meant that to be deep, but I’m pulling meaning far beyond what you anticipated.

I am having a hard time choosing a car because I want it to say the right thing about who I am to other people. “I’m of a new generation that cares more about the environment than huge SUV trucks. Yes I care about the Climate crisis, and I dont want my children to play in a garbage heap. But I also am smart. I’m successful, I work hard and generally I go above and beyond in this world. I’m versatile and outgoing. I may wear a pencil skirt Monday through Friday – but that doesn’t mean I cant fill my hours with hiking, climbing, and surfing. I’m young, but I’m not immature. I’m innovative and interesting. I’m classy and stylish.”

Do they make a car that says that? Irregardless, I think the bigger question is “why do I feel the compulsion to ensure the people see the right message about me when they see my car?” Why can’t I just buy a car that I enjoy? Am I bound by the roll I want to play?

As a young child, I felt the compulsion to always do things “the right way.” Maybe it was just the way that my family was. My parents were great, and always accepting - but because things were hectic, I always had the need to be the one NOT creating chaos. I never came home drunk or with a tattoo. I went to a good college, studied hard and earned two degrees in 4 years – graduating with honors. Doing something that would disappoint my parents, or that would be considered “bad” was totally out of the question. I think it’s fair to say that I lived by the rules, colored within the lines, didn’t question the boundaries.

Now as a young adult, I feel like the boundaries have all become grey, and somehow move toward me like they are going to choke me. I’d love to be covered in tattoos, or to have gone crazy in college and told my parents to screw off. I’d love to find my own life and say “See ya,”  packing my suitcase and heading out to some other country; and  telling people that they could fly to see me at Christmas if they really wanted.

As I am wandering through car lots and choosing my “identity” I realize that this has to change. The messages to about me to the world need to matter less. Or even better, I need to just start ignoring them altogether. Maybe I need to push back the boundaries of “Perfect Child” role. I need to learn how to color outside the lines. And even now, I need to learn to ignore the voice inside me that says “Don’t buy the Honda Fit – it doesn’t make you look like a mature professional and no one will take you seriously.” Maybe the secret to rewriting the rules is just to take on the messages one at a time. Like my dad said, doing what I really want out of life, not what I think I should do.

I dont know that I’m ready to run out today and tattoo a huge rose across my breasts and dread my hair. I dont know that I’m quite to the point where I could live my life completely against my parents, my bosses, and the rule-telling voices in my mind. But maybe I can silence the car issue. Maybe I should call the Honda Dealer tomorrow. I am beginning to think that I might not look professional or extremely successful….but it would be alot of fun to let the wind blow through my hair as I cruise down PCH in my new orange Honda Fit.

 ps – note added May 15th…I didnt get the HondaFit. I got a Mazda 3. I couldnt get over the weird body style of the Fit. But, I feel badly in that there were alot of good thoughts in this blog. And the Mazda 3 doesnt make as catchy of a title…so we’ll leave it up for now

Every year of distance that I gain from my twentieth birthday, the emotional growth that accompanies that time seems to amplify exponentially. The way that I remember seeing life and the world around me from ages 20 to 22 was dramatically different than from 22 to 24. Maybe its a testament to increasing adult mentality. However, in someways it seems like I not only have a changing out look, but that someone has allowed me to take off the lenses I use to view the world, and rub them down with a clean cloth. Or even yet, in the past six months, I can almost begin to say that it feels like someone has allowed me to take the very eyes from my head, and given me a new fresh pair. These new eyes have vision that has not been scarred by the wounds of my past, but somehow has retained the wisdom proved by those scars.

Unfortunately, I am not suggesting that I suddenly have arrived, or have my life figured out.  If anything, the more distance I get from the tender age of 21, the more issues I am stumbling upon. And it is this continual realization leads me to become more in touch with the places that I am horribly flawed. In some ways, I fear it leaves me nearly paralyzed.  Almost as if my issues are a sleeping giant that I do not know if I should wake until I have a plan in place – complete with a pack of matches, a map, 4 meters of climbing webbing, a Swiss Army Knife, some flares, and maybe a few gallons, of water…you know, in case my life erupts into World War III and we have to go into McGuyver style survival mode.

The most interesting thing is that I would think the more in touch I became with the places where I am tempestuously broken, the more I would become hardened or deflated in my soul. I would think that the surmounting issues would pile themselves in a way that would cripple any last sense of vitality that I had left. However, it just hasn’t turned out that way.  I feel like there has been a softening within me, much like that of a refined piece of leather that has been pulled this way and that way, and conditioned. Stretched far away from the stiff brittle piece of hide that it once was, and forming into a beautiful, valuable garment.

I am finding that I like myself a little bit more. I find my very own thoughts a bit more interesting when I have the resolution to voice them with conviction. I find that my failure are slowly becoming less like tremendous catastrophes, and more of an opportunity to respond to the landscape that my actions have painted for me. 

In my very first job out of college, I was given a responsibility much heavier than I had ever worked with. I was supporting several hundred business partners all across the nation for a large international company. And I remember the alarming chill that coursed through my veins when I realized that I had made THE biggest mistake of my life, and it had been broadcast across the United States. I remember quite literally asking my supervisor at the time if I was allowed to crawl under his desk, and remain there until the end of the day. But later that afternoon, when discussing my mistake with my boss in a “How Do We Salvage This” meeting, my boss said something very profound. She wasn’t a very good boss, but this was one situation where she hit the nail on the head. She turned to me and said very purposefully “Jenni, sometimes in life, the important factor is not that you made a mistake. Mistakes are inevitable. But what is important is how you respond to the mistakes you have made. You have an opportunity here to show us what you are really made of – to pull yourself up by your bootstraps if you can. And to me, that speaks more of your value as an employee, than if you never made the mistake in the first place.”

In that moment, her words were extremely valuable. She was giving me permission to fail. To make mistakes – even to make mistakes that could be felt by management all across the country. And even though I dont work for her anymore, her words still resonate within me.

 Coming from a background where I didn’t really feel like there was much room for failure, that if I did, the potential consequences could feel dreadful, the idea of failing is one that scares me. Maybe its that I dont trust- don’t trust God, don’t trust other people in my life, don’t fully trust myself. Maybe its something in me that needs to keep all things pretty, clean, in order, successfully humming like a finely tuned machine. But when I am really honest with myself, those ideas repulse me. Where is the life in that? Where is the vitality? Where is the growth? I think there is more vigor in thrusting yourself out there to be rejected, investing all of your money only to go bankrupt, or desperately trying but somehow missing the mark – than there ever could be in a little life of cleanly order.

Maybe I need to remind myself of this a bit more. That its ok to be wrong. That it’s ok to make mistakes. And that if I am going to fail, I might as well do it with conviction, and commit to the ideas that I am advocating for.  Somehow I need to convince myself of that. Maybe I will walk around whispering the words softly under my breath “Jenni, you have permission to fail….you have permission to fail…you have permission to fail…”

Over the last few weeks I have been threshing through an interesting concept. It was a thought that was breathed out of a Church message that noted the importance of telling stories. And of course, as a writer, I firmly believe that there is something intrinsically beautiful about telling stories.

Stories are like the details of an elaborate stage in which the play of life makes its production. There are characters and action, love stories and dramas, comedies and tragedies. However, there is so much more going on in the story line than the mere actions of the main characters. In a particularly winning show, there are lights, colors, textures, costumes, props, and scenes conveyed to the audience.  If we were to merely see the actions and thoughts of the few main characters, it could be compared to a small children’s play; a play in which all of the actors wore white Polo t-shirts and khaki pants, performing in the school cafeteria on a homemade stage. How much more could be experienced by the audience if the actions and thoughts of the main characters with accompanied by a playhouse, with a real stage, costumes, music, lights and all of the complexities of an elaborate production? 

Our lives are incredibly similar. My life has been a tumultuous, beautifully frustrating journey of a young girl, learning to trust a God and find her way in a world can be a little too backward. However, if you just look at these actions and parts, it is the “white polo and khaki” version. There is so much more to be seen if we examined the backdrop in which I entered onto the scene. I am talking about my mother’s story. Her life. Her struggles, her dreams, her character, and where she has been. And in turn, my grandmother’s story is equally crucial. My grandmother is beautiful older woman, who immigrated to the United States in her 20s. Her story was marked by bravery, heartache, desperation and joy. It was within my grandmother’s adventure that my mother arrived on the scene. All of the making of my grandmother’s story marked the stage for my mother to begin her piece, working within her dysfunctional family to make things come together; striving to ensure that her children could fall a little father from the tree than she did.

This is the beauty of the whole thing: I know my mother’s and my grandmother’s stories because I have the ability to share in life with them. I know and love my grandmother because she is inherently a part of my life. But should there not be the same “setting of the stage” with my grandmother’s mother, and the mother before that? Are we not all connected, each setting the stage for the one that is to come after? If so, if we write the scene in which our children will enter the world, how is it that telling our stories to our children is not one of the most valued traditions of our time? It is through telling our stories that we can truly understand one another, and come to appreciate their thoughts, actions, and happenings in this life.

Taking this truth and applying it to our spiritual lives, we can draw some interesting conclusions about the way that we relate to God. If we are serving a God that never changes, a God has been faithful throughout the generations, then the telling stories become critical. It is through the amazing adventures, huge losses, and deep passions of my life that I have learned to recognize the character of God. I know that He is faithful through the events in my life where He has truly shown up, proving that He is worthy to be trusted.  One of the most powerful tools I have to share my experiences is to share my story; and I can use this story to convey the character of my God to my children and my grandchildren.

This theory does not just hold true with my story, but my mothers and my grandmothers, because theirs bleed into mine, just as mine will into grandchildren ten generations from me. Ensuring that our stories are told not only connects generations in a powerful way, but reminds us who God was, is and will always be. It displays His glory beyond my short life time, giving the full picture of Himself in context; not the mere “white Polo and Khaki” version of one person’s life time, but the full fledged production of who He has been over the last 10 lifetimes of our family.

In addition to connecting generations to the character of God, sharing in our stories gives insight to who we really are. My mother’s story tells me where I came into the world. I can only know who I am, and where I am going, if I know who has come before me and where they have gone. Knowing who my parents were, and where they came from tells me who I am and what I am capable of. 

The stories of the women in our family lines are the most powerful tool we have in telling our daughters what we have over come, what we have battled against, and what parts of the fight they are to carry on for us. It pulls them into something so much bigger than themselves; something bigger than the slightly narcissistic world of MySpace pages, msn messenger, text messages, and picture mail. It pulls all those things from the forefront and declares a message that says “This journey you face is not only about you. You are one face in a long line of warriors. You have a task to carry out. We are all a legacy and you are bound into us simply through who you are- through your blood.”

All of these truths sit heavy with me. They are imitating. They are a powerful calling. They represent a responsibility that is larger than myself. A small selfish part of me enjoys the lie that “life is really all about me, my independence and my happiness. It is about finding myself, accepting myself, finding the right career, husband, house, car – becoming successful the way that I want to.” In on way, I really love the “Burger King” life motto – “You’re way, right away, at Burger King now.” A small part of me loves the lie that we aren’t all connected, that it’s about me having it my way right now.

But there is another part that believes that the “Burger King” life style isn’t enough for me. The small children’s version of the life play isn’t enough either. I don’t want life to be all my thoughts and feelings, with no context, no background, no stage, no lights, texture or culture. I don’t want to buy into the lie that it is really about being and independent woman that needs to find herself alone. There is a part of me that needs the call. It needs the truth. It needs the responsibility that it bigger than myself. I need to be connected to tremendous women dating back in the history of Mexico and Spain from generations ago.

It is only through this recognition, this telling of story, this passing of the gauntlet that I can really see the whole play before me. It is in this truth that I can see my role in the whole thing. This is a role that will put forth a call to my daughters that are to come. It is a calling that will usher me into a legacy; a legacy that will both bind me in…and call me out.

- Featuring a guest piece, by H.G. Nichols

Breathing softly, rythmically.

I am seeking something that would explain my life.

A word, a phrase to sum up my presence here in this world.

My body feels soft, smooth from the water. Soaking in a bathtub is a woman’s answer to longing. Can one soak away their troubles?

I assume this is my coming of age portion of my life. Where does the hypothetical life end and the real one begin? The real, grown up life everyone else seems to be living?

When I grow up I want to be a dancer, a painter, a writer, a singer, a deliverer. Peace Corps volunteer, philanthropist, dutiful wife cooking dinner and mending socks, loving mother pushing a stroller on a Wednesday at two in the afternoon. A business woman strong and confident.

As the dancer I would be graceful and long, thin and delicate. As the painter I would be slightly not in touch with the busy outside world, with little spots of paint on my shoes and under my fingernails. As a writer I would be deeply insightful, serious yet creatively funny and wittty, smoking like a chimney. As a Peace Corps volunteer I would be purposeful and off beat. My hair would be swept back in a ponytail, and I would never wear makeup with my khaki shorts and hiking boots.

Who am I? Does anyone ever come to know their true selves? This journey has no map, and we are left without a compass.

Flutters of feelings, wisps of butterfly wings, pitters of a heart…but yet I hold my breath because if I’m really honest, I’m afraid its all too fragile and I’ll breathe out and break it.

I almost have the compulsion to take it deep within my heart, and bury it like a seed. A little tiny seed, that I can close my eyes and imagine it growing. Pushing it deep into the cool earth, desperately trying not to over water it, not to under water it, not to scorch it by the sun.

Smiling, I would sit next to the pot everyday. I would read to the dirt. Maybe looking like and idiot, but feeling elated. Reading stories to the little seed that I knew was deeply in the soil, toiling away. I would sit and stare until I could see the little green arms reaching for the sun. And the day that the tiny pink petals made their way to this great world, gasping in their first breaths of open skies and cloudless wonder – I would want to be there with my camera, taking photos like a mother with her first born child. I would want to post them all over every website I could log into. I would bore people with my detailed explanations of how the pink petals came first, and then we realized that there were little yellow centers – “And we were so shocked because we thought the centers would be purple!”

Then I laugh out loud. Listen to me – I’m ridiculous! Babbling about a plant that doesn’t exist. And taking pictures of a metaphorical seed? I’m clearly retarded. There isn’t a plant. There isn’t a pot of soil. There isn’t even a seed.

There are just little flutters of feelings and wisps of butterfly wings. And I hold my breath because I know how fragile they are. I know that one day you can wake up, and it will be all but gone. But somehow this time, I don’t want them to be gone. I beg for them to stay long enough to even think that they are real. I think that if there is even one ounce of beauty and justice in the world, they would not disintegrate. They would be here when I am ushered into a quarter of a century, I can know that there is some gorgeous purity to the whole thing.

Until then I suppose, hold my breath because if I’m really honest, I’m afraid its all too fragile and I’ll breathe out and break it.

  It’s a funny way this world works. He loves her when she doesn’t even see him. Then she loves him and he happens to be looking the other way. The other her is prettier than than she is, has skinnier legs and better skin. And just when she is getting over him, he breaks up with the other her, but now she is dating a new him that is better looking, with a better job and bigger muscles.

        It all seems a bit unfair sometimes. We are beings that roll through this world looking for a person that can carry us through the days with laughter, joy and adventure. She wants the man who can see her with dirty shirt and a bandana after a long hike, and he will still lean over to kiss her forehead, thinking she is beautiful. She wants a man that doesn’t see that she looks like hell and smells even worse, but carries her when her knees are too bad to finish hiking. He wants a woman that laughs at his shockingly coarse jokes, sweetly rolls her eyes and then shakes her head. He wants a woman who will come over for beer and hotdogs after long Saturdays outdoors.  They both want to be people who laugh, and go to parties, and sing in front of their friends, who dance in the kitchen when they’ve had too much to drink.

       But how it is that we walk through this world and almost miss each other? We brush shoulders with hims and hers that seem to do all of that, and yet, it doesn’t all feel just right when it all goes down. There is too much, not enough, they live too close, too far and everything in between. He has eyes for her, and she never sees him.  He always has a girlfriend, and there is never a chance to even think about dancing half drunk in the kitchen.

      Are we really all at the whim of timing? Is it really about rubbing shoulders with the amazing hims and hers in our lives, and looking around one day to realize that there is so much more? And what if she isn’t lucky enough to have fireworks and butterflies? What if it’s just a matter or choosing to see him? Is dancing drunk in the kitchen, or going to parties or singing in front of our friends the memories that 50 year marriages are made out of?

      Maybe it is all just timing. Hoping that he is lucky enough to be single when she looks his way. Hoping that he finally asks her out on a date when she opens her eyes to see him. Hoping that their worlds collide at just the right moment to explode into years of beautiful memories.  

I know that I hope its enough. I hope I can be the girl who is in the right place at the right time and has eyes to see. I hope that I get to be the smelly girl who gets kissed on the forehead, and laughs at inappropriate jokes. Because maybe just maybe, if I can plan it just right, schedule my blackberry to the tee – maybe one day my timing will be dead on and I too can have an appointment that reads “Fall in love with the right man today.”

First Day.

Big Building. Marble Floors. Crystal Doors.

Stiff Suits and high heels.

Hard handshake. Firm grip. Bright smile.

“Hello, Sir, its nice to finally meet you.”

But what you dont know is that I am really saying, “Hello Sir. You are about to meet the biggest face that the company has ever seen. I am about to change your world. I am smart. I am smarter than you know what to do with. I am quick. I learn systems and processes, and then re-write processes to be better than you could have ever imagined. Little do you know it, but you have just met your next star player.”

Sit down coyly. Smile brightly. Say “Ok, sir what would you have me to do first?”

Then as you walk back to your office, determination crosses my brow. A smile comes over my lips. First things first. Get rid of all of the nonsense of wasted time that suffocated the desk before I got there. We are in business now, and we dont have time for such silly exersises.

Deep breath. Late nights. Early mornings.

Gritted teeth, hard pushes, long hours and brilliant ideas.

Sir do you remember what it feels like to be young and hungry? To want to accomplish something great more than anything else you could imagine? Give me one good thing, one inkling of success that I can sink my teeth into, and turn it into a masterpiece that could make you proud.

For I am smart.

And I am hungry.

I will make you look good.

And It is so nice to meet you,

Can I please run your company now?

I am Beautiful.

And you, unfortunalty, were blind.

I sat across the table from you at dinner, holding your hand and looking into your eyes. Yet, somehow, you managed to see right beyond me. Maybe there was a very beautiful girl sitting right behind me that got into your eye. Maybe it was a baseball game, or a basketball championship.

It doesn’t matter what it was, because the point is the same.

I am going to look deeply into your eyes, and say “Enough of You.”

I will get up from our little table, I will smooth my georgous dress that you didnt notice was brand new. I will march toward the door, leaving you to the beautiful girl at the next table and baseball game on TV.

I won’t cry when I get in the car. No, instead I will reapply my lipstick in the rear view mirror, and notice that my hair looks simply stunning tonight. I will tossel the end pieces over my ear, as I flip on the radio to a song that sings to my soul.

I will drive home in the darkness with a smile on my face not noticing or caring that you are not in the passenger seat with me. I will walk to my front door, not excited for a goodnight kiss, but instead I will fling open the front door, and kick off my new shoes.

I will turn on all the lights, and pull out my paints. I will set down with my favorite album jazzing in the background as I paint deep into the night. I will be artistic and fabulous. I will creative and stunning, stroking the depts of my heart across the canvas in blues and reds, in colors that you never knew existed inside of me, because you never bothered to look. And as it sit there allowing my heart to flow out of my brush, I will be smiling all the while.

And when my eyelids begin to droop with sleep, I will put on the sweetest, softest nighty I own. I will slip between my sheets alone, spreading out in my own bed, leaving no room for you. I will drift so peacefully into dreamland. And as I wind down to the end of my thoughts for that day, I cannot help but say to myself:

“I am beautiful. And you were blind. So that was enough of you.”

Sitting at the station on a cold hard bench. Holding a ticket in my hand. “Destination – ARRIVED.” The train moves all too quickly, and yet the longer I ride along the cold iron rails of life, the more I realize that maybe “ARRIVED” is a place that doesn’t exist  – a made up fairy tale that we tell ourselves in order to keep us going along the tracks.

There are so many ups and downs along the journey: new jobs that are nothing like what you thought you were signing up for, relationships that come at you like a bus and leave you slightly broken, expensive things that break just when you don’t have the money to fix them, friendships that turn dramatic when all you need is a break, a cold beer and a smile.

And as I sit in my seat, holding my ticket, I continually tell myself, “We are almost there. I am almost arrived. Any minute the announcement will come ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are nearing our final destination. Please gather your belongings and thank you for choosing to travel with us this afternoon.” However, the longer that I ride this train, it is slowly sinking in that ARRIVED doesn’t exist and we never get there. That maybe the train is my new home, and I am going to have to be content living in a small cramped seat, and eating bad food from the dinning car.

And lyrics from a song echo in my mind over and over as I sit waiting in my seat “Once, in a while when it’s good, it will feel like it should…”  Living on the train is a tense marriage. I am waiting to be ARRIVED, I am realizing that we never get there. Somehow it is only once in a while that life feels like it should be.

Maybe the train stops for a pit stop, and we get to get off and stretch our legs in the sunshine. Opening our eyes we look around the beautiful rolling green hills, and majestic architecture of a city. We get to walk to a quaint cafe, sipping coffee and relaxing in the fresh air. Feeling like “Finally, this is good. This is what I have been waiting for. This is what ARRIVED must be like.” And as we drain the last of our cup of coffee, a whistle yelps in the background, reminding us that this was just a glimpse, and we are to get back on the train. Back to enduring. Back to the cramped stiff seat and stale recycled air.

It all seems a bit backward, that we should be in the open air of the country and the busy downtown of the city all the time, and enduring the waiting on the train occasionally…but the longer I ride this trip, the more I am realizing that this life is backward. We sit and endure for much too long, in order to get the glimpses of good life, of fresh air and happiness.

And as I look over my shoulder once again, bidding goodbye to the quaint coffee shop and the rolling hills, I begin to think that maybe the trick is to learn to like the train as well. Maybe sitting in my little seat and holding my ticket I need to learn to say “Thank you that I have a seat. Thank you that I have friendly passengers to pass the hours with. Thank you that when we travel through cities where the weather pounds, I am inside my little train, and shielded from the brutality of it all. Thank you that my little stiff seat has a window. Thank you that sometimes I can open the window and let the air in.”

Maybe the trick to the whole thing is to love the train. And love the journey that we are on. I think if I am holding out for “Destination – ARRIVED” I think I will be desperately disappointed when I realize that it isn’t a real place.

ARRIVED isn’t a place that ever existed on a map. Maybe I need to learn to see that ARRIVED has been cleverly tucked away in a series of places: the coffee shop, the rolling green hills, in a friendly smile at my stiff seat. The longer I ride this train, the more I realize that I need to learn to have eyes to see ARRIVED both on the train, and in the glimpes of life when it feels good like it should.