in)correct, punc;tuat!on.

Pregnancy, Weddings, and Meaning of Authenticity:

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 22:30:00 -0500

Friends, Romans, countrymen—lend me your ears. I have a confession to make to the interwebs. I am sure you have heard of my upcoming nuptials, and with the recent release of the wedding date (March 2^nd!) many a rumor have passed through gossiping lips. Half-hearted congratulations have been delivered to my step. And my belly has become the (uncomfortable) object of furtive, stolen glances. So let me put to rest any unsettling thoughts before this whole fiasco gets out of hand:

I am not pregnant.

In fact, I am so not pregnant that I’ve lost a lot of weight… My muscle has been slowly deteriorating with the lack of exercise (see: my shoulder/back injury). But other than that, I am still flying solo—no babies on deck— and I am as healthy as a pickle.

We are having a short engagement because we want a short engagement.

The truth of the matter is that Andrew and I have discussed our potential marriage since late last July (yes, for those of you counting, we were at the 9 month mark). Obviously when the initial conversations began, we didn’t want to rush into anything. New-ish/all relationships are tricky to navigate. We had toyed with the idea of getting married once I graduated— even if we put off the official engagement. We knew that we wanted to keep it short because A) why would we want to wait to get married if we knew it was already going to happen, B) why would we need the average ~14 months to plan a party, and C) The idea of sitting around a table and laboring over color schemes and party favors and hors d’oeuvres just wasn’t our style. We wanted to keep everything as simple and as authentic to us as possible. Our timeframe has shifted a little bit due to some recent (non-pregnancy related) developments, but otherwise, we have stayed mostly true to our original plan. 9 weeks to throw together a wedding wasn’t exactly what either of us had in mind, but it’s working out just fine. I feel like the authenticity is still present, and that our wedding will be quite indicative of our relationship with each other, and with God. We are spending this limbo-period trying to really focus on the upcoming marriage, and not the wedding.

And that’s pretty cool. It’s very “us.”

While I have your attention, I would like to get all wedding-related topics out of the way. I just need to go into a side note about the “proposal.” I don’t really know how to respond to people when they ask for the “deets” or the “full story,” because there really wasn’t one. Andrew and I were sitting at his parent’s kitchen table, discussing how it seemed like the appropriate time to really get down to wedding planning and… voila. It was “official.” There was no flash mob, no engagement ring, no sparklers and confetti and cupcakes. It was simply us, the soft murmur of the TV playing in the next room, the cooling tea in our hands, and our two dogs at our feet. And I was overwhelmed with joy anyway.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy a good, romantic “guy-meets-girl, guy-surprises-girl, guy-drops-down-on-one-knee, everyone lives happily ever after” tale, but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, it’s just not me. The feminist, hyper-pragmatic side of me gags at the thought of having five seconds to decide about with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. How does it even make sense that the guy gets months to contemplate this life-altering decision, and the girl just kind of goes along for the ride? I would die if the issue hadn’t been discussed in an in-depth, serious manner beforehand. How could we (as a couple) enter that kind of commitment without copious amounts of prayer and contemplation from the start? How in the world would a simple inkling that he was going to propose be enough for me? Hint: it would never have been. No thanks.

The presentation of the ring (two weeks late) didn’t have much fanfare either. We had just finished meeting with our marriage mentors over lunch, and he slipped the ring onto his pinky while I was trying to unlock my bike. I caught a glimpse of it sparkling in the corner of my eye, and basically demanded that he hand it over before I left to go take care of some Longhorn Open business. I was running somewhat late, and I knew that the ring was coming that day in the mail anyway so… I was happy, but a little less than surprised.

And while I’m on a roll, disappointing my wonderful readers, and crushing all the hopes of those wishing to live vicariously through me, I am going to go ahead and announce that my ring isn’t a diamond either—my stone is actually moissanite.

Now before all the ladies raise their pitchforks about how Andrew is a cheapskate (lol), I have to clarify some things:

A) Love (noun) is not measured in dollar bills, and I take issue with the idea that the size/type of the rock has anything to do with the love (verb) that will be exchanged between us. And B) I spent about a month deciding if I even wanted a ring. First off, did I want thousands of dollars condensed into a hunk of metal and a rock? What would this say about me? This was especially troubling, given that my idea of jewelry is a couple of hair bands, a simple necklace that I never take off, and a dilapidated sport watch that I’m refusing to throw away. Secondly, did I really want to play into the whole notion that “diamonds are rare and fabulous?” And if I did, how did I feel about the ethics that came into play with the blood diamond trade? How sure would I be sure that the diamond was mined where the certificate said it was mined? And thirdly, did I want a symbol of patriarchy wrapped around my finger? Did you know that the original ‘betrothal ring’ was more of a promise to the father? It signified that, “oh hey, I’ve spent so much money on this ring on your daughter’s finger that I’ve got to come back and claim this investment!” And—holy snickerdoodles— why in the world is the girl the only one that has to display her marital status on her finger during this limbo time?

If you really wanted to get into this discussion with me, send me a message and I’ll get back to you. I could talk your ear off about this stuff.

Anyway, the side of me that likes to play into societal norms decided that I did want some symbol of our engagement. I mean, I do like sparkly things once in a while. So off I went on a hunt for the perfect ring. And, uh, Andrew helped.

And I love it. It’s simple and clean and understated. It’s a pretty, classic setting with a modern twist. Its low profile means I can’t get it caught on anything (which was a must, considering how hard I am on my hands). It’s not gold, and it’s not a diamond, but the stone is just as hard (and sparkly and fiery and awesome) and the metal is much more durable (palladium, for anyone interested). Our engagement is short enough that being the only person in this pair with the relationship status on her finger doesn’t matter too much. We didn’t spend thousands of dollars on the ring. And, for goodness sake, I didn’t get the ring until weeks after the start date of our engagement. But it—like the rest of this whole charade—has been authentic. Every part of the planning process—from the engagement, to the announcement, to the ring—has been as thought out as we could possibly make it. It’s been very me, and it’s been very Andrew. It’s very us. Just the way I like it.

(Just for the record, I am not judging anyone for having diamonds, or gold, or having the biggest rock on the block. I would be lying if I said I didn’t drool once in a while over a nice halo diamond ring, complete with all the filagree, tracery, and micropave bands. This post is about authenticity, and having that kind of ring on my finger would make me feel like I was playing dress up. I’m a t-shirt and shorts kinda gal, you know? Also, if you got/want all the bells and whistles at your proposal, more power to you. Again, I just hope that it was/is something true to you. I’m just tired of the pitying glances and the half-hearted congratulations. If you’re happy, then I’m happy. If I’m happy, I hope you’re happy too! If all else fails, I hope my ramblings have created a spark of interest in examining yourself, and what authenticity means to you. Be true to your heart.)

Les Miserables according to Hugh Jackman and Anne...

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 01:03:50 -0500

Les Miserables according to Hugh Jackman and Anne Hathaway.

It’s no surprise that Les Miserables is one of my favorite stage musicals of all time.

But it was surprising that I enjoyed the movie musical as much as I did.

…. And after reading this, I’m not sure that I’ll ever think of the Les Mis movie the same way again

lacigreen: femfreq: My TEDxWomen talk is online and sharable!...

Wed, 05 Dec 2012 16:16:30 -0500

lacigreen:

femfreq:

My TEDxWomen talk is online and sharable! I spoke about sexist online harassment and internet cyber mobs in Washington DC on December 1st.

Note: The TEDx YouTube channel does not moderated comments so do yourself a favor and skip them.

I am SO EXCITED that Anita did a Ted Talk about what happened earlier this year. I hung out with her a few months ago seeking some guidance. She is super fierce, intelligent, brave, and incredibly sweet. Check out the vid (and her YouTube show, Fem Frequency). Great stuff.

This song’s been on repeat for the past 24 hours. Have a...

Mon, 03 Dec 2012 14:25:14 -0500

This song’s been on repeat for the past 24 hours.

Have a marvelous day!

"I believe in the power of text. I believe stories make us feel less lonely, and that stories can..."

Wed, 31 Oct 2012 09:50:54 -0400

““I believe in the power of text. I believe stories make us feel less lonely, and that stories can make us find more empathy towards other people and identify with their lives. I find, and I’m pretty sure it’s the same with most human beings, that it’s very hard to truly, deeply identify with other people’s lives that are completely different from me and my life. When I read literature, I manage to grasp that my world is not the only world, and that my life is not the only life that exists.””

- John Green (via endandblossom)

I feel old... But not very wise.

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 00:00:00 -0400

Hello. My name is Nicole, and I am 22 years old today. I have (technically) been running this blog since I graduated high school, documenting the bits of my life I feel are important or noteworthy. That is three-and-a-half-ish years worth of life condensed into one tiny corner of the internet. And you would think that the space between a 19-year-old college freshman and a 22-year-old senior would bring forth a new adult (along with a new perspective on life and wisdom)… But really, I just feel old. And not wise at all.

Which, on one hand, is cool—because I get to use this super fun, relevant gif from the movie An Education. And on the other hand, it’s disappointing. I feel like my collective wisdom is disproportionate to the weight of the age dripping from my body. The past few weeks I have been ticking the days off, waiting for the impending arrival of my birthday that signals the survival of yet another year of life. It used to be exciting, you know. I’d stay awake till midnight, watching as the clock flipped to the magic number that meant I was officially ___ years old. I would will myself to sleep despite my nervous fit of excitement, only to wake up and inspect my body more thoroughly under the light of day. What changed? Did I feel different? Wasn’t I supposed to feel different at 10? I had hit the double digits after all. Or maybe 13? I was a teenager! 18! Was I not an adult?

And throughout that time, I would be looking ahead with wonder. At 10 years old, I’d be gushing, “Oh my gosh, they’re 16?! I bet they can drive. High school must be so cool.” At 18, I’d repeat, “My cousin is 27 now. So old! He must have it all figured out.” And I think I was perceiving people as so old because their lives were—are—so foreign to me. The role models I would admire represented a life of things that I didn’t, or couldn’t have— or even imagine having. From drivers licenses to bills and jobs, I never believed I would ever hit the milestones that signaled the dawn of a new era in my life. And for whatever reason, I believed these points in life— these little rites of passage—would suddenly make me feel wiser and more mature.

People become so fixated on age because popular culture pressures us to feel a certain way at 14, at 22, at 27. So we make up these invisible deadlines for our accomplishments, careers, and love lives. I need to have my first kiss by 16 (I failed that one horribly). I’m going to learn to stop procrastinating when I make it to college (HA!). I’ve got to be a doctor, published author, and world-renowned chef at 26 (on track to lose this race too). And we guilt ourselves when we don’t reach these goals, when we make mistakes, or when we do not act the age we have assigned ourselves. Let’s be honest, thanks to Facebook, Youtube, my inability to say no, and my procrastinating soul, I calculate that I’m at least seven years off schedule from feeling 22. And I panic every time I realize how far behind I feel like I am. Am I not too old for all this?

It is only when I look at those younger than me that I feel like there has been any growth at all. I can look at my little brother and dismiss something as “so-very-19-year-old-of-him.” I can laugh at my little cousin on twitter because she can be so… young. And for whatever reason, I’d like to believe I wasn’t quite as immature as her at that age. But then I realize that—holy smackerolls—I was 14 once. I was 14, and as much as I’d like to deny it, I didn’t feel anything like I do now.

Yes, we grow. And it happens so subtly that we don’t even notice. People change constantly, minute to minute, day to day. The differences are so minuscule and so imperceptible that we fail to see that we are growing. We live our lives without tracking exact changes. We don’t sit down every night, peeling back every layer of the day that has made us different from who we were that morning. There is no one “ta-da” moment, as disappointing as that is, where we suddenly “feel” the age we have built up in our heads.

And if we focus too much on trying to feel a certain age, we lose precious time that we could use growing. Growth and change are necessary parts of life. And my lack of perceived wisdom is what pushes me to keep going, to seek new challenges, and to learn new things that would never occur to me if I was arrogant enough to believe I was wise enough for my age.

And as far as feeling old… Well.

Old is not a number. Old is when you give up. Old is when you refuse to change. Old is believing the world is stagnant. Old is when you forget that the world is beautiful and full of inspiration.

So I guess I recant my original statement.

I choose not to feel old. And I’m fine with not being wise.

Happy birthday to me (and my twin, Abe!). May this coming year prove to be the best yet.

We now interrupt our regular programming for...

Sat, 20 Oct 2012 09:48:00 -0400

a little bit of sappiness.

I’ve managed to make it quite a long time without pouring cheese all over you nachos, but I can’t help myself today. Why, you ask? Because today marks my one year anniversary with this handsome fellow!

Yes! You heard that right. One whole year! And what a lucky girl I am.

I’m currently writing this post a couple weeks before schedule because at the time this is published, I will be away from my computer (!!) camping (!!!) out in the wilderness (!!!!) and doing other date-y type things with the aforementioned young man. Andrew probably won’t read this until we’ve gone our separate ways— but I know he will, because even though he hates to admit that he stalks me on the regular, I TOTALLY KNOW HE DOES*. So all non-Andrew Harbert readers, please excuse me for a couple seconds, okay?

Hey ANDREW, I love ya, kid. I know that I can be a little too hyperactive, super mean, a tad bit crazy, and only sometimes nice ;) but I hope you know that every moment I’m with you, I’m always super thankful that God has put you in my life. I don’t think you realize what kind of inspiration you provide for the people around you— me included. And if I had any less self control, all of my blog posts would probably be [mostly good things] about you.

Happy one year. And here’s to many more!

*I’m totally joking, Andrew Harbert does not stalk me. But he does keep up really well with my social media outlets.

I am capitalizing on my birthday this year... and creating a wishlist.

Sat, 13 Oct 2012 16:23:00 -0400

Under normal circumstances, I hate asking for gifts/specifying what I have on my mental “I-want-that!” list. But inevitably, every year, a few people ask what I’d like for my birthday.

This year, I ask that you take that money and donate it to this chip-in fundraiser. The German Shepherd Rescue of Central Texas needs to raise money for one of their rescued pups.

For those of you who are not up-to-date on my life, the boyfriend just adopted a sweet little girl from the GSDRCTX this past May.

She was found under an abandoned house with a tiny little puppy, and had to be live-trapped to be treated. She went into the rescue in a very submissive state, and would almost never keep her ears up.

Nevertheless, they took care of her. They found out she had heartworms, and paid for her expensive treatment. They did their best to socialize her in the short time they had. And lastly,

they went through a rather rigorous adoption process to make sure that she went home with the right family. Obviously Andrew (and I) couldn’t be any happier with how sweet she has turned out, even when she’s being a little turd.

Anyway, I just want to give back to the rescue that has enriched our lives so much. They do wonderful work for these beautiful animals, and it breaks my heart to hear that one of their newest dogs needs a (very) expensive surgery. Even with the doctor’s discount, there isn’t quite enough money to cover the treatment.

For the month of October, I’ll be leaving the chip-in widget in my sidebar in the hopes that you reconsider whatever frivolous (but well meaning) gift you were planning to get. Even $1 is a huge gift in my eyes.

So here’s the link one more time. They have a description of the surgery that is needed, plus more adorable pictures of Nadine, the pup who needs the treatment.

And if you weren’t going to get me a gift, I hope you enjoyed the pictures of Kiya. Ain’t she soooooooooooooo cute?!

Even if you don’t support gay marriage because your...

Wed, 10 Oct 2012 21:40:00 -0400

Even if you don’t support gay marriage because your religious views, it’s still discrimination to not allow the legal benefits of marriage to two people devoted to loving each other.

This isn’t the only fight for LGBTQ people out there, but marriage equality is wonderful first step toward a more loving world.

Kudos to this guy for at least trying to be open-minded:

And more kudos to the guy who recognized that he didn’t have to be downvoted.

Peace y’all. Love you.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

On Body Shaming

Thu, 27 Sep 2012 15:42:00 -0400

I have seen this image re-posted, re-pinned, and re-blogged on pretty much every social media website known to man. The latest had a caption stating that “this is the way it should be!”

And while I appreciate the sentiment that women should stop starving themselves and instead should start embracing their curves, I think this still sends the wrong message. The image depicted on the right is still shaming a woman’s body for looking a certain way and proposing a rather ludicrous solution to her “skinniness.” And don’t get me started on the fact that the lady on the right is still skinny…

I am of the mind that the body will look the way it wants to look when you treat it correctly. Going to extreme measures to push it one way or another is unhealthy. Steroids, get-skinny-quick(ly) pills and programs, etc. are unnecessary and unhealthy ways to get your body into its “natural” state.

Everyone (not just women!) should be comfortable in their own skin— but it’s near impossible when there are outside forces imposing body shame! Looking at another person and immediately imposing negative judgement because of their weight is a horrible mindset, but it’s a mindset that people encounter all the time. As a society, we tend to focus on shaming the fat and obese, and we immediately label them as “lazy” and “unfocused.” But how do you know how their body is reacting? How do you know that they are lazy? And why do we stare with accusatory eye when people proclaim that they are working toward bettering themselves? I have a friend who has been feeling self-conscious as she prepares for her first 5K because she does not have the ideal skinny frame that is so prevalent among runners. She fears that people are laughing at her— scoffing at her attempts. I rather vehemently replied that everyone has to start somewhere— and anyone who feels self-righteous and entitled because of their own “fitness” need to shove off. I can do nothing but applaud people who are taking steps to a healthier lifestyle.

But it is just not the overweight who face the evils of body shaming. Society also shames those who are skinny— those who are thin because of genetics, and those who are thin through abnormal means. There are women who are accused of being overly narcissistic, and must be starving themselves to fit the current idea of beauty. This, my friends, is still promoting poor body image issues. I, for one, used to feel torn between proud of my naturally slim figure, and self-conscious because I could not gain weight. I was a skeleton. I was short and skinny and I couldn’t fill out clothes quite like my counterparts could. And people would make snarky comments about being anorexic. How is that acceptable? That’s belittling people who truly are suffering from eating disorders.

Now, as far as anorexia goes, there are two camps: those who are pro-ana and those who think it is absolutely disgusting. Neither of these mindsets are correct in the slightest. Anorexia is a disease much like any other addiction— and we should not be perpetuating the idea that it okay to alienate those suffering from this ailment. Yes, in its milder states it is harder to spot an anorexic person than an obese individual, but it does not make it any less important. You cannot simply tell someone to “stop.” We should be encouraging them to seek help and treatment in the same way we should be encouraging those in the unhealthy upper ranges of weight to be seeking help, and yes— treatment.

Having the “fat” and “skinny” camps argue about who is suffering more is taking ten billion steps in the wrong direction. Though the spotlight will tend to land on one side or the other given any particular day, it in no way underscores the troubles each individual person is encountering.

Everyone needs to work toward a better, body positive mindset. Accept who you are. Accept your curves, or your booblessness, or your big feet, or your frizzy hair. Accept yourself. You are not going to look like your neighbor, or your best friend, or the airbrushed supermodel on your favorite magazine. You will look the way your body wants to look.

That being said, we do have a responsibility to maintain our bodies. We cannot expect our bodies to function efficiently if we continue to stuff ourselves with empty, meaningless calories. Nor can we expect it to continue to operate if we deprive ourselves of the food that gives us energy. Everyone should—regardless of weight— be treating their bodies with the respect it deserves. After all, we only get one body in this lifetime. We treat our cars with better maintenance than we do our bodies, and cars are transient objects in our lives!

I encourage everyone to evaluate their lifestyles and see if they are doing even the bare minimum to keep their bodies in check. There are plenty of foods that are delicious and healthy. Plenty of naturally sugary fruits to satisfy your sweet tooth. And there are plenty of ways to exercise that are fun!If running isn’t your cup of tea, how does swimming suit you? Or team sports? Or solo sports, for goodness sake— not every single one requires a ton of coordination. Or how about just long walks with your hyperactive dog?

Being healthy is not the restrictive lifestyle some make it out to be. It can be freeing in many ways. I could go on and on about the all benefits that exercise provides but… I think I’ve said enough for today.

Love yourselves, people. And spread it around.

wutevrz: This comic has made me legitimately happy, just...

Fri, 24 Aug 2012 15:27:39 -0400

wutevrz:

This comic has made me legitimately happy, just saying.

The Origin of My "White Crayon Complex"

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 13:57:25 -0400

Not too long ago, a member of the country club logged into the system. An old picture came up in his profile. The guy in the picture looked almost nothing like the person in front of me. Well, that’s a lie. The guy in the picture looked like he was just… ten times heavier.

Our short interaction proved to be riddled with awkward gestures and phrases. This man’s self-esteem hadn’t caught up to his new body. Maybe it was my prior knowledge of his weight loss that made me more privy to what seemed to be self-confidence issues, or maybe his mannerisms were just extremely pronounced. Either way, it got me thinking… I think I experienced a (less dramatic) transformation since my younger (cough cough) years.

Let’s take a scroll through my blog, shall we?

June 11, 2011, I reblogged a post that said “I get about as much attention as a white crayon.” This humorous anecdote is very true in my mind. But how much of this is because I still live in my 13 year old body?

Many people have laughed when I’ve brought this up in conversation. I call it my “white crayon complex.” And most people don’t understand why I seem to suffer from this bout of seemingly “low self-esteem.” After all, I am about as confident and quirky and loud as they come.

Today, my friends, we are going to walk through memory lane.

Meet Nicole, circa 2005:

May I just say, she was awkward as all get out.

Puberty was not nice to me. At all. Thanks to my raging hormones, my naturally fine, pin-straight hair suddenly became thick, frizzy, and awkwardly curly. I combated this newly emerging hairstyle by attempting to flatten it into a pony tail. This often left an awkward cowlick at my hairline. It looks hilarious.

Also, the fat in my face redistributed rather unevenly across my cheeks. I wore braces for close to five years. And, uh, I hadn’t discovered how to pose properly for the camera…

Apparently I didn’t know how to open my eyes either. It’s a wonder I got anything done. You would think I would spend the majority of my time navigating the halls.

Early high school didn’t treat me much better. My awkward look lasted me straight through 11th grade, I think.

I lovingly referred to myself as the girl with two backs. That description is still pretty apt, if you ask me.

Anyway, I think this is where my nice little awkward streak comes from. It’s hard to shake that old image of yourself from your mind. It doesn’t matter that I’ve started wearing make up, or began to fill out a little more, or that I finally learned how to carry myself better. Really, I think I’m pretty good looking these days (oh-hayyyyyyyyy!). But new experiences and awkward moments make me revert back to my 13-year-old self. Back then, I got about as much attention as a white crayon. I was no head turner for sure. And I think it has taken me until this year to realize that… Well, I grew up.

Growing up doesn’t mean the duck face got any cuter though.

Make Me Smile! Pt 3.

Mon, 30 Jul 2012 17:36:40 -0400

80. Long walks.

79. Coffee dates that last 7 hours.

78. Passionate people.

77. A*teens

76. Singing so much my voice goes hoarse.

75. Symmetry.

74. Finding old journals and planners.

73. Finding the perfect paper planner.

72. Alliteration.

71. Free t-shirts!

On Geese: A Lesson in Interdependence

Tue, 03 Jul 2012 19:53:00 -0400

So a few months ago, I confessed that I made a cleaning lady cry, and that I was proud of it. Well today I’m here to tell you of the time my teacher made me (and twenty-something other students) cry (which inevitably made her cry too).

Ahem. Imagine a sparkly-eyed seventh grader, preparing for the last few days of classes. She is ready for A) summer, B) summer, C) summer, and D) eighth grade, the year to “rule the school.” She is sitting in pre-algebra class, passing notes about boys back and forth with the girl sitting behind her. This little girl has already discovered a mild distaste for math, but she brushes off her own feelings toward the subject. Her affection for the silver-haired lady teaching the class overrides her dislike for the stupid numbers that make no sense to her (after all, words and sentences and grammar always were her stronger point).

Her affection, however, cannot wipe the excitement of being done with the academic year. Her mind flits from subject to subject—namely, the bathing suit she had been eyeing at the mall for the past week, and the cute guy sitting two rows to the right of her (how was she going to keep in touch while school was not in session?!).

Mrs. Nelson clears her throat and hobbles gracefully (if there ever was such a thing as gracefully hobbling) to the projector. She announces that every year, she likes to share a touching message that she thinks will speak to that particular class. Recently, an e-mail arrived in her inbox that shared the story of why geese fly in a V formation.

It read something to this effect:

Next fall, when you see geese heading south for the winter flying along in V formation, you might consider what science has discovered as to why they fly that way. As each bird flaps its wings, it creates an uplift for the bird immediately following. By flying in a V formation, the whole flock adds at least 71% greater flying range than if each bird flew on its own.

People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going more quickly and easily because they are traveling on the thrust of one another.

When a goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to go it alone and quickly gets back into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the bird in front.

If we have as much sense as a goose, we will stay in formation with those who are headed the same way we are.

When the head goose gets tired, it rotates back in the wing and another goose flies point.

It is sensible to take turns doing demanding jobs with people or with geese flying South.

Geese honk from behind to encourage those up front to keep up their speed.

What do we say when we honk from behind?

FInally—and this is important— when a goose gets sick, or is wounded by gunshots and falls out of formation, two other geese fall out with that goose and follow it down to lend help and protection. They stay with the fallen goose until it is able to fly, or until it dies. Only then do they launch out on their own, or with another formation to catch up with their group.

If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other like that.

Poor Mrs. Nelson’s voice began to crack by the end of the email as she looked upon the faces of several pre-teens whose eyes were brimming with tears. The students began to reflect on the simple but powerful message of “sticking together” before moving to the back of the room to take a class picture.

The rest of the period was given to the pre-teens as “free time,” which they then used to construct a card for Mrs. Nelson. The “sparkly-eyed girl” carefully wrote out every name of the students in the class in a V formation, with the teacher leading the flock at the tip. Right before the bell rang, the kids handed Mrs. Nelson the card, thanking her for a great year.

Little did they know the impact this simple gesture had on her.

I returned to Mrs. Nelson’s classroom several times throughout eighth grade and high school, and found that she posted that card, along with the picture of our class on her wall. She expressed that we were by far one of her favorites—if not very favorite class that she had ever taught. I’m sure many teachers say this every year to every passing set of students, but her sincerity was almost crippling. Many details of my middle school career have left me, but apparently our class did something to make us stand out in my mind, as well as hers. We somehow came together as independent beings and shared our knowledge, love, and time to create a special bond with a tired teacher.

And over the years, I have somehow forgotten the simple lesson Mrs. Nelson had taught us.

We need to be geese.

I have (for the most part) prided myself on being a totally independent being. Not too long ago, my friend Meeta posted a blog about how she was growing out of her codependency into independency/interdependency (and later a blog explaining the differences). She has some lovely reflections on her own personal growth— and that’s wonderful! But my problem is that my efforts to never be codependent had made me more independent than is healthy.

Before we delve more deeply into the subject of my own development, let me quickly break down what codependency is vs. being independent vs. being interdependent.

Codependence: Simply not being able to stand on your own. Giving someone (or something) else the power over your self-esteem. You find your identity in someone else instead of defining who you are as a unique individual. Think of a leech, if you will.
Independence: Confidence in yourself. Can find the value of their worth internally, instead of reaching out to others.
Interdependence: Making connections with other independent people, and mutually sharing traits and talents that we find valuable. It’s trusting that you can lend some power over your welfare to another strong, independent person who will respect your own boundaries—all the while helping you flourish as your own being.

So here it sounds like independence is a great thing. But independence can also be lonely if you continue to push people away.

On some level, I may have realized this as a younger student. I may have intuitively allowed myself to be interdependent with my friends and family. But somewhere along the way, I got the stubborn idea in my head that there is only room for ME as an INDEPENDENT INDIVIDUAL. And not only is that mode of living incorrect— it is destructive.

It has damaged, or at the very least hindered, my growth with the people to whom I am closely attached. For one, my spiritual growth obviously came to a mild standstill. I never doubted that there is a loving God who cares immensely for my own well-being, but I also never gave Him the full praise and thanks that He deserves for always keeping me safe.

Secondly, it damaged my relationship with my parents. I spent almost all of high school and the majority of college trying to distance myself from them. Trying to see what I could make of myself. But familial ties are the bonds that I should continue to foster into interdependency, not smother.

I’ve also managed to mangle some pretty great friendships. Unintentional though it may have been, my quest for total independence left me pretty high and dry. I have been completely ostracized from some people. Others have simply fallen to the wayside, forgotten, but occasionally dusted and re-shelved. And some of my friends have gone through rough patches while I flew on, ignoring their cries as they fell. (Isn’t that dramatic?)

And I definitely inserted a nice halting point in my relationship with the boyfriend. Talking about my feelings is a touchy subject, and allowing myself to be vulnerable to any degree is totally counterintuitive. Guard your heart,* and all that jazz. But how do you grow with someone else if you cannot share your thoughts, even the uncomfortable ones?

This is not to say that independence is a bad thing. Not at all! It is a totally necessary part of everyone’s growth as a human. After all, as Meeta nicely stated, the natural path is to follow codependence to independence to interdependence.

… But independence can be just as destructive as codependence. I have learned that you have to accept other people into your lives to live healthily. It’s freeing to know that others are there to also watch out for you—that you can let go of your “welfare” knowing that your self-esteem is still very well intact. You can leave your spot as the only guard over your heart and take a rest. Let someone else do the night-watch. Stop. Listen for a minute. Breathe. Fall behind in formation and take advantage of the lift others are providing you.

Did you take that breath? Good. Now I have a request. I have to ask all of you to be patient with me as I try to reestablish myself not just as “me the individual,” but me as a friend or daughter or sister or girlfriend or whatever I am to you. Allow me to continue to grow into the person you want me to be. I want to be able to share in your struggles as you share in mine. I want to be part of your joy as I lend some of my own happiness. Interdependence is not the same as codependence. As long as we are both able to grow both independently and with each other, we can sleep well knowing we are living the most purposeful lives we can.

So yes. Here I am, 21 years old, sitting in my childhood bedroom revisiting Mrs. Nelson’s pre-algebra class, dreaming of the sparkly-eyed 7th grade version of me and silly geese. If only I had been able to keep her touching story with me these years, I wouldn’t have felt so lacking in some of my relationships. It is slow going relearning these things that should have come second nature to me. But I’m sorry. I’m finally addressing it. In the mean time, will you take point on our flight? I promise I’ll honk from behind!

*Proverbs 4:23

Make Me Smile! Part 2.

Fri, 15 Jun 2012 12:34:03 -0400

90. Puppy cupcakes.

89. Dog parks.

88. Ocean breezes.

87. Genuine, heartfelt advice.

86. Handwritten notes.

85. Getting lost in a book…

84. … whilst sitting up in a tree.

83. Trying something new.

82. Finding forgotten money in my laundered shorts.

81. Old school computer games.

I Cannot Speak: A Lesson in Vulnerability.

Wed, 13 Jun 2012 21:35:00 -0400

Stare blankly at the wall, recounting every word you’ve rehearsed for hours beforehand. Continue to trace the imaginary lines on the carpet whilst following every train of How Can This Conversation Go Wrong. Clear your throat. Clear it a little too forcefully. Cough. The speech you have prepared has disappeared with the expulsion of bad air from your lungs.

The conversation dips into an easy flow of actions. Your hand moves a little closer. Feet brush. Heads bob the beat of the muffled music from across the street. The thick dimness of the room begins to whisper encouragement. You start with words too formal and constricted in your throat. Hello. How Are You. Are You Tired. Your sigh feels cold; its steam rises into the empty air between you and dissipates.

Everything is so far away, too far to touch or feel or understand. They are far— too far to finger the Braille of your face, or to analyze the rhythm of your breath.

It is not embarrassment you feel—not like the time you slipped into a superman dive in the cafeteria in 8^th grade—it is vulnerability. The same vulnerability that society has bastardized into weakness. And nothing drives people away faster than a dip in strength, a lack of stability, a nick in solid steel.

Consider aborting your mission. No, by now the tension is palpable and pregnant.

Proceed with caution. Take a deep breath. Go.

The words are bulky and unfamiliar in your mouth. Attempt to apologize, retreat back into the sanctity of silence. But instead move forward, clumsily, haphazardly, explaining nothing and confusing everything. The effort is exhausting, and all your audience can offer is shoulder on which you can rest your weary head, miles of skin to pierce with anxious fingernails, and ready ears to absorb the foreign words from your mute tongue.

Leave in your wake a quiet present: Prayers and Advice… and Hopes and Dreams and Strengths and Weaknesses.

And all you ask is that they keep polishing this present—familiarize themselves with this fragile box of keepsakes—wear it down to create a groove where their heart fits perfectly.

Make Me Smile!

Fri, 18 May 2012 21:49:11 -0400

So Jeremy was so kind as to tag me to do a list of 100 Things That Make Me Happy. Since I’m a little bit short on time, I think I’m going to do this over the next few weeks in increments of 10. Here we go!

100. Snuggly kittens.

99. Thunderstorms at night.

98. Freshly laundered sheets.

97. Super duper hot bubble baths.

96. Journaling. And blogging.

95. Having a reason to dress up.

94. Having no reasons to dress up.

93. Waking up naturally.

92. Playing racquetball till I ache from head to toe.

91. Being done with finals.

A Case of the Mondays

Mon, 07 May 2012 18:06:19 -0400

I am almost always happy. 90% of my life is spent dancing and singing and jumping and being at the level 10 kind of happiness that some people find obnoxious.

But some days I think I just decide to be unhappy. It doesn’t happen often—and I don’t particularly enjoy it— but I figure I’m happy often enough that I deserve a break from my near constant state of euphoria.

This expresses itself in many ways. Sometimes I rant. Or cry. Or watch cathartic movies and bawl my eyes out over a bowl of popcorn and a liter of mountain dew. Maybe eat a pint of ice cream. And I cuddle my dog until he decides the couch is no longer an appealing fixture and that the floor may offer some relief from the excessive heat of my body.

Sometimes there will be a series of events that just cause a day to completely collapse (see: car crashes, getting towed, the impending gloom of having to return four fostered kitties back to the rescue, etc) and sometimes I just decide that people are awful and it’s not worth it to move out of the comfort of my bed.

Whatever it is that is causing my case of “The Mondays” (or Tuesdays, or Wednesdays, or Thursdays, or whatever horrendous day it is) I apologize in behalf. I’ll be checking back into work tomorrow.

15 Life Lessons From My Dog.

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 20:01:00 -0400

I was originally going to explain every bullet on this list, but then I realized rule number 1:

Simplicity is key. Over-thinking things can lead to hours more head and heartache than necessary.
Diversity is golden. Embrace every type of person, regardless of “breed.” Who cares about upbringing, gender, color, size, or shape? Love everyone.
There’s nothing quite like a good bout of exercise.
There’s nothing quite like a long nap after a good bout of exercise.
There’s nothing quite like a nice stretch after a long nap.
You can choose to hang out in the shade, but joining in the chase is almost always more fun.
Celebrate the little, inconsequential things—even if no one else understands what that may be. Don’t be afraid to dance around and wag your entire body when you’re happy.
Don’t take a simple plate of food for granted. And always drink lots of water.
Choose your bathrooms carefully…
Take care of your teeth.
You don’t have to broadcast every passing thought. (Sometimes I think twitter has killed the inner monologue.)
But still speak up when you need something. Sometimes a simple bark is enough to get your way.
If someone you love left— even for just a few hours—their homecoming is always cause for a celebration.
When you fail… try, try again. The stairs may look like Mt. Everest, but you’ll pick up your failures like a pro in no time.
Leave people smiling.

A Catalog of My Favorite Scars

Sun, 08 Apr 2012 21:59:46 -0400

I spent most of my childhood up in the trees and tangled in the bushes. I would come inside at the end of every day with enough cuts and scrapes (and mosquito bites) to scare a parent into believing their child is going to unwittingly kill themselves one day. At one point, my mom got so sick of my carelessness (and scars) that she threatened that “no boy is ever going to love you because your legs are so scarred/ugly!” I might have laughed at this because… Boys. Eww.

I’ve come to really love my scars and the stories they tell. I think they’re hilarious. And interesting. To read a line on one’s palm is to read their future. To read a line on one’s body is to read their past.

1. Chicken Pox Scar (age 3ish)

Just above the left corner of my lip light-ish patch of skin—a permanent mark of a very itchy point in my life that I can’t remember. I mostly enjoy this scar because it means I can’t get infected with that virus again. To this day, I scratch most mosquito bites until they bleed… Imagine if I had the pox now. I’m thankful that my baby skin healed quickly.

Does anyone remember the time that chicken pox was going around the dorms at TCU? Ha.

2. Dog bite! (age 8)

You would think after being bitten at a relatively early age that I would be terrified of dogs… And yet my love of the canine species continues to grow with every passing day. To be fair, it was barely a nick—nothing serious enough to warrant a life-long phobia. Puppies have sharp teeth. Puppy left a mark on the back of my right knee. Nicole does not terribly miss puppy. Puppy was given away at a garage sale a few months later.*

*Not because she bit me, but because clearly an 8 year old cannot take care of a wild, rambunctious beagle.

3. Self-inflicted shot (Age 13)

I spent two years of my life being poked by needles delivering artificial growth hormones into my system. That meant I spent every night calmly waiting for my mom to arrive home so she could doctor me up and stab me with my nutro-pin. My dad hated the idea of inflicting pain on me (however minute that pain may be), so that meant days without Dr. Mom to deliver my daily dose = no shot for the evening. After accumulating a number of missed days, my mom became insistent that I learn how to give myself the shot. I hated the idea, for obvious reasons. There is a huge gap between receiving a shot from someone else and giving it to yourself. You are knowingly inflicting pain on your body. Oh heck no.

Well, one night she finally convinced me to do it. I prepped my right arm, picked out the right dosage, and sat at the kitchen counter for 30 minutes while I psyched myself out. Before I continue with this story, I should mention that this “pen” is not like a normal syringe that easily pushes down. The pen is digital. The black piece protruding from the end is a dial that sets how much of the medicine you want delivered; the only way to ensure that the entire amount has been given is the “click” the pen makes after being pushed down all the way. Ahem. So. After I finally worked up the courage to follow through, I reached around with my left hand, stuck the needle into my skin and… lo and behold, the pen jammed. The click didn’t come, and my already-shaky hand slipped and sliced my right arm open about three inches.

I spent the rest of the night sobbing on the couch, cradled in the arms of my dad who kept repeating, “You shouldn’t have made her do that!” to my mom.

A few days after that, I got into a fight with the bathroom door at school. It resulted in another scratch that created an X with my beaded scab. I looked like a certified bad-ass, let me tell you. Pirates beware.

4. Kickball (Ages 11, 12, and 18)

Age 11: I am celebrating the end of a poor-weather, dry-land workout for summer swim league. My legs feel awful after doing lunges around the entire pool and doing crunches until my abs refuse to contract any longer. The team decides to cut loose early and play a little bit of kickball outside. First base is a pole attached to a sidewalk, and obviously I run further than I intend and scrape the top of my right foot on the concrete. Blood ensues. No crying.

Age 12: Yet another dry-land workout, although this one does not stem from poor weather. We play leap-frog for twenty minutes and kickball for the rest of the afternoon. First base is (yet again) the pole at the sidewalk. I scrape the skin where my foot attaches to my leg. Blood ensues. No crying.

Age 18: It’s the Diocesan Kickball Tournament, arguably the best youth event the Board coordinates every year. My team is undefeated. We rock that field. Second to the last game of the tournament, I slide into home and fall into a left split. I take it like a man and high five the team before sitting down and inspecting the nice long scratch that takes up half of my shin. It barely looks like I hurt myself, but I spend the rest of the afternoon fanning my burning leg. The next day, my leg looks like bacon. No blood. Plenty of whining ensues.

It takes a week before I stop limping for fear of breaking open my scab, two weeks before I can comfortably sleep with the sheets over my leg again, and a month to be able to wear pants. I believe my bacon scab is where my abhorrence of pants stems. I just realized shorts are the way to go.

(Now that I think about it, I also developed a habit of shaving around this area, which means I have multiple “are you serious..?” moments when I realize I have a streak of hair right around my scar.)

5. Capture the Flag (Age 20)

You would think that I would learn that any sport involving a significant amount of running in a wide open space is not a terribly good idea. Also, running where there are sidewalks to be tripped over = not a good idea!

One night whilst playing Late-Night-Capture-The-Flag-At-The-Capitol, I darted across a hill trying to claim the black flag laying down at the base of a tree. A sidewalk appeared out of nowhere (I mean, really, it poured itself and cemented immediately) and I… completely ate the ground.

Everyone—including the person chasing me—stopped for a minute out of shock/concern, but to my credit, I stood up and started running again. It wasn’t until I was caught that I stopped and asked for a bandaid/time out. My left knee is now permanently discolored. I look fondly upon this moment. So does my then-awful-friend, now-boyfriend. He still laughs at my clumsiness.

Hey, at least my mom’s prediction didn’t come true.