tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59009736580916529552024-03-05T22:56:38.497-08:00A Vibrant PetalA Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-71006614172625190082011-11-25T12:42:00.000-08:002011-11-25T12:42:34.681-08:00Torn Between Two YearsThis year is almost over, already. Is it ridiculous to say that I don't want it to end? But that would also be a lie, when all I want is to jump into next year and find something happier, something easier, something less painful than this year has been.<br />
<br />
I've come to the end of my journal as well. Usually it's enlightening and rather amusing to go back and read through it, and see how far I've come and what all has happened. I tend to write some ridiculous things that should never be seen or read aloud! But this time... this time my hands shake and my eyes blur and sometimes I can't get through half an entry before dropping the little spiral bound notebook and holding my head. <br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>"May 24, 2011</i><br />
<i>...I want you to know beautiful music. I want you to be familiar with all of the great classical composers and their many thousands upon thousands of works. I want you to fall asleep to Andrea Boccelli, Sarah Brightman, Celtic Women. I want to dance with you to the music of my heritage - fiddling! In all of it's glorious forms from Jerry Holland, Jennifer Roland, Winston Fitzgerald... Oh, I can't even think of all the music I want you to know!<br />
Lovely child of mind, I'm so looking forward to getting to know you. Learning your language, personality, characteristics... you're a whole new person, yet made up of your daddy and I. I want to be the best mother on earth, even though I know that's impossible. I want you to love us as much as we're going to love you."</i><br />
<br />
I couldn't even fathom my own joy. Yes, I was hellishly exhausted, but I felt as if we'd been chosen out of all the humans in existence to do something special, something big; to change the world with this baby.<i> </i>We were, at the same time, terrified. Everything was going to change, our lives would always be different. We would never be just David and Charisa again, but that was okay. We'd have a little Christmas baby all our own, to gush over and love and screw up in our own perfect way.<br />
<br />
<i>"June 18, 2011</i><br />
<i>I've carried you in my body for 14 weeks. Fourteen weeks today. I've never felt you move... never heard your heart beating... but I have loved you. Oh! how I love you! I knew you were there by the soft swell of my belly, the heightened sense of smell because there were two of us now, the exhaustion I felt as my body gave all of it's energy to you. You, my baby, needed it to be strong and healthy, to grow and develop. I knew I loved you by the dreams which filled my heart. Dreams of your tiny hands around my fingers, dreams of your perfect little body in your daddy's arms... I love you because you are made of both your daddy and me. You are the perfect combination of our love together... My first baby; full of every potential and every good thing. I love you so!</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i><br />
But yesterday the doctor told us that your heart was not beating; your life is not there. He was so cold and abrupt that it made me disbelieve him. He can't be right - I know you're inside me, wiggling and swimming and growing. As David and I just stared at him, stunned beyond words, he let a flurry of medical terms fly at us and eventually made some form of a condolence. And that was it.</i><br />
<i>I saw you in the ultrasound. You looked so tiny and lost and still, your little chest dark and vacant where a heartbeat should be radiating off the screen. I wanted to hold you and shake life into your barely-formed body. I could see your perfect head and tiny spine connecting with wee little arms and legs. How could you look so complete, and yet be missing so much?"</i><br />
<br />
As I died in the face of the harshest loss I've ever known, I knew that nothing would ever be the same after this. I knew that this grief was cutting an eternal gash in my soul, and all kinds of buried issues would come to light. I knew that David and I were changed, and that the bliss we'd had for two years had come to an abrupt and violent end.<br />
I was unprepared for the immense feeling of failure, the doubts that I would never be a good mother. How could I be, when my baby was inches from my fingertips and I had no idea - no premonition, no instinct that he was in trouble? The agonizing helplessness as I waited for nature to finish the process. The anger at needing medical intervention after 3 weeks of waiting; I couldn't even end the damn process on my own. Looking back, I know it's because we were both too stubborn. I wasn't ready in the slightest to let go of my child.<br />
<br />
Hell sucks. Grieving sucks. Grieving while going through hell sucks.The depth of insanity I fell into cannot be described, and I couldn't escape it. Healing has been slow, so slow in coming. Every relationship in my life has suffered, especially my marriage. It's unfair that in the midst of grieving when you should be leaning on each other for strength, you're both too shattered to even sit on your own. <br />
<br />
But though healing is slow, it has come. Quietly, carefully, almost invisibly at times. We've lost everything, been stripped down to skeletal framework, and lived somewhere below rock bottom. Yet, as the Psalmist cries <i>"You, who have shown me great and severe troubles, shall revive me again, and bring me up again from the depths of the earth. You shall increase my greatness, and comfort me on every side." Ps. 71:20,21</i><br />
<br />
I don't want to face Christmas without a newborn baby. I want to be terrified that next year wont be better. I don't want to leave this year - the year that we became parents. But none of that really matters, because time wont stop for the grieving. And in a way that's a good thing. If we stopped here, we could never find the beautiful things up ahead.<i> </i>A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-63022271191364108632011-04-06T16:20:00.000-07:002011-04-06T16:22:18.951-07:00The Colors and Characters of Coffee<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Saying that I love my job is like saying that Prada makes decent shoes. The understatement is appalling. Inserting about fourteen 'really's between the 'I' and the 'love' brings it slightly closer to the truth. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There is hardly anything that I dislike about it. Well, okay; I could totally get on board with hiring someone strictly to sweep and mop the floors. (But I'd want to include my own house in that deal as well, so it probably isn't going to happen.) However, everything else holds an element of pure excitement, magic, beauty, or an entertaining inside joke with myself. The waffle cones in their great, octagonal jar with just a tint of sea-green to the glass makes me exquisitely satisfied and I really kind of resent the other cones when a customer orders them instead. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We have the teeniest, tiniest, sample spoons for the ice cream, and I'm always tempted to hold them and pretend I'm Glumdalglitch from Gulliver's Travels (“Eleven. But I'm growing very fast!”). I can't even get started on the unnatural addiction I have for pulling perfect espresso shots – the rich, reddish-caramel liquid streaming into portly shot glasses like pulled taffy; the intoxicating aroma of crème and grounds permeating my skin and hair and clothing; the brief, wild urge to pour shots between my lips instead of the customer's cup; the feeling of indulgent generosity when I hand over the drink finished with a startling rosette as I think “You have no idea how close you came to losing this”.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The names of coffee are either intriguing – Caffe Del Sol – or unimaginative (Guatemala. Where is this from?). My favorite is the Novacella Decaf. I say this to myself in the worst possible, sing-song, masculine Italian accent - “NOvahCELla DEcaf” while doing a Godfather-esque gesticulation. I am embarrassed to admit that this affords me endless amusement.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And then there are the People. It's really like my very own, unscripted Reality Show, featuring regular stars and many special guests. Some of them very 'special' indeed, like the teenage couple from this morning. She seemed bright, though shy in newly fixed braces, smiling and running her tongue tentatively over the metal as she ordered a Venti Mocha.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Would you like whipped cream?” I asked. She hesitated and looked at her boyfriend for his opinion. This was a fruitless endeavor because all he was capable of was wiggling both his eyebrows and protruding tongue at her in what he obviously thought was a manner irresistibly sexy, but really resembled a demented snake. “Do we want whipped cream?” she asked him, deeming words necessary. He leaned in and bit her nose. “Um. No whipped cream” she said to me, rolling her eyes.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sometimes the cuteness of my customers is nearly too much to bear. A group of four little girls – two sets of sisters – came to get ice cream and hot chocolate, peppering their requests and conversation with 'please' and 'thank you' at adorably regular intervals. The smallest one, perhaps six years old, was dressed in a wee red sweater vest, little red skirt, and the teeniest penny loafers possible. “I would like to please sample the chocolate, please” she chirped, standing on her very tip-toes to look into the ice cream case. I scooped as much chocolate as the sample spoon could hold and handed it to her. “Thank you! Did you know something?” she said gravely. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“No. What?” I answered just as solemnly.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I am Mother Nature!” Her eyes sparkled mischievously.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Are you serious? I had no idea that Mother Nature was so tiny!” My response sent her into gales of laughter.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I know! People step on me ALL the time!” she huffed amid giggles.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It seems that any town, no matter what the size, is full of characters. Remind me to tell you about the small town elitists sometime.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-44750051573308447892011-03-31T19:52:00.000-07:002011-03-31T19:52:47.860-07:00The Transformation of the Coffee ScroogeI have cracked his crusty facade.<br />
<br />
Apparently all it took was giving him a free coffee, in spite of the fact that he doesn't have - and is adamantly against - a stamp card. Up until now all he's given me is a brief moment of obligatory eye contact, phrases of 4 words or less, and a crumpled $5 bill out of which a grudging 30 cent tip was tossed into the jar.<br />
Today he came in behind two reserved and awkward teenage girls. The shorter one was all plump dimples, obviously feeling under-dressed in her blue PAHS hoodie next to her tall friend, who wore heels and a string of costume pearls. I could see him holding a tight breath of impatience as they ordered elaborate drinks with specific amounts of white chocolate, particular milk combination's, and repeated cautions against whipped cream.<br />
<br />
"Are you having your usual?" I asked him as I pulled the shots for the mocha's. He nodded curtly.<br />
"Don't worry about it. I'll put it on the counter behind me." I waved vaguely above my head in what was hopefully the general direction of the counter. He left without a word. I indulged in a familiar twinge of annoyance. For God's sake, why was it impossible for his face to form even a pretense of a pleasant expression? In the face of the very large chip on his shoulder, my resolve to be obnoxiously chipper was dwindling.<br />
<br />
I pulled his triple short decaf americano and placed it alongside a jug of 1/2 & 1/2. A minute and a half after I called it out he arrived to doctor it to his satisfaction, pushing a dirty five dollar bill towards me.<br />
"No, don't worry about it. I heard you get a free one now and then." I waved it away and turned to rinse milk pitchers. His eyebrows rose in what began as a sardonic stare but ended in surprised smirk.<br />
"So something exciting is happening in my life. Is anything exciting happening in yours?" he suddenly asked me. I turned to him in shock: Never had so many syllables left his mouth in succession. I told him about my birthday, and he went on about how he'd found this rooftop tent for a car for camping, the hints of an unpracticed smile parenthesizing his words.<br />
<br />
I cannot go so far as to say that we are friends. But now that he has shown me that an amiable side of his character exists, I'm not going to let him forget it.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-51064267343520037552011-02-05T10:20:00.000-08:002011-02-05T13:22:50.322-08:00Breaking CharacterI do this thing sometimes when confronted with a person or situation that hurts me and makes me uncomfortable, where I put on a completely different face than what I feel inside which allows me to say and do the socially correct things. I started when I was a young girl to help me deal with people in my parents ministry that I had a bad feeling about. You know, those people who are big and loud and claim some wild connection with God therefore they have rights to every thought and private memory you have? I would switch off my emotions and pretend that I was a famous, benevolent person and they were simply hoards of desperate, abrasive paparazzi. Smile and wave.<br />
<br />
I did it to maintain a polite demeanor around the families we socialized with, simply because they home-schooled or home-churched or had a garden like we did. There was this one woman who took it upon herself to physically discipline one of my brothers, and the rage that filled me was a volcanic force I had never felt before. But anything a ten year old could do to express such anger would have been disrespectful and impolite. So I ran across the field and pretended that I was an orphan, singing on a corner for pennies. The injustices of the world battered me and sought to eliminate me, but I was resilient and strong! This little orphan girl could beat anything with her song.<br />
<br />
When I began acting I realized that I had been stepping into character all these years. At first I wondered how a little tiny girl knows how to do that, but as I looked into it a little deeper I understood that it had been a reflexive action. We're raised to have manners, to be polite. Don't put your elbows on the table, don't talk back, don't scream in public, don't put your skirt over your head. Somewhere along the way though it becomes less about simple manners and more about maintaining a socially correct image. We're trained to ignore our instincts about people, because disliking or not trusting them for no apparent reason is impolite. Being excessively happy about something disrupts the general calm that we strive for, so for heaven's sake don't express so much excitement!<br />
<br />
As I got older it became evident to me that my flashes of emotion had less to do with simply being a child, and more to do with the passionate nature of my character. This presented a problem. How was I supposed to fit in to the mild, un-opinionated, ladylike mold I seemed to see around me? How could I disguise my anger at the hypocrisy I saw in adults and leaders around me? Or the fact that some things were so beautiful, they physically hurt me? Or that music could transport me to such a euphoric place, I couldn't interact with people around me? I stepped into the character of the young woman that society would be pleased with. I carried it on for years, ignoring the nights that I would wake up in a cold panic wondering who the hell I was, and why I felt this jagged tearing inside me.<br />
<br />
My first step in dropping the character came when I broke off my first relationship. It came as an epiphany: The girl underneath this sweet, submissive guise was far too passionate, colorful, and opinionated to flourish, let alone survive, in that family. I was being slowly, determinedly suffocated and if I didn't get out then, I would never really be alive.<br />
In the last several months I've been opening the door for my family and I to really feel things. When people hurt us (not just 'us' personally but you, anyone), the socially correct response is to justify them - to make excuses for their behavior. We gamely try to withhold blame, acutely aware of how impolite it would be to acknowledge that they were at fault. The problem is that pain is hard enough to work through. It's already such a big burden, and taking on all the responsibility for being hurt is nearly deadly.<br />
<br />
I hold an extremely biased viewpoint on several circumstances in my past. But it's time to be biased. It's all a part of breaking character now.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-18311820322695167042011-01-29T11:01:00.000-08:002011-01-29T11:01:30.516-08:00Promise me? Wish for me?When I was a little girl I used to Promise everything. It was the closest I could get to Swearing a Solemn Oath - Swearing being strictly forbidden, and therefore incredibly alluring. I'm still not sure where a 5 year old got the concept of Swearing a Solemn Oath, unless it came from Robin Hood, who was basically my hero for the majority of my adolescent life. Promises seemed much more binding, more romantic, more tragic than simply saying 'Yes, I can do that'. Promises were the perfect method for creating a Profound Moment, and even as a child I craved that.<br />
I remember when I was about 6 years old, my dad started a business handcrafting bent willow furniture. This was a glorious endeavor in my eyes, and oh how I wanted to be a part of it! I tried to help, but my long hair got caught in the drill and scared the bejeezus out of me. The shame of having interrupted his noble work overwhelmed me, and I crept away to ponder how I could make it up to him. Suddenly a thought seized me - I would carry on his work when he no longer could! As I grew up, I would watch and learn, and ensure that his legacy would never be forgotten! Back to the work bench I ran, pulling a little ribbon out of my hair. I cut it into three parts and braided it, attaching it to the work bench with a tack nail. <br />
"Daddy" I said solemnly, pointing out the braid. "That is a sign of my Promise to always make bent willow furniture when you're old and can't do it anymore. I will do it forever."<br />
I don't remember his response, but the moment had a huge impact on me. This was something that would be written down! My descendants would read it and marvel at my staunch courage and maturity at such a young age!<br />
<br />
Wishes are another thing entirely. The world runs on Promises; businesses exist on promises from employees, friendships grow around promises, marriages work and exist on promises. But Wishes...ah wishes, what are they? Merely a futile expression of desire to see improvement, whether it be as vast as world peace, or as small as a tooth under your pillow? <br />
December 23, 2005. I'm standing on the deck of a ferry boat with a bunch of people around my age. Two families are headed to the ski slopes to celebrate Christmas together - a ridiculous, very, very stupid plan that I was not in the least happy about. Several of us happened to have pennies in our pockets, enough to share with those who didn't, and we all decided to throw them in the water and make a wish. I closed my eyes really tight and wished for an amazing Christmas. Not the best Christmas ever, but just a really happy one.<br />
<br />
That night my sister was killed.<br />
<br />
I've become rather jaded regarding wishes. To this day I refuse to throw pennies in wishing wells, or any other kind of water for that matter. Maybe it's this lingering doubt that my personal wish-genie has a twisted sense of humor and will grant me exactly the opposite of what I wish for. A sneaking suspicion that God hates when you ask anything else but Him for something. A weird feeling that maybe in a past life I must have been an axe murderer and Karma really is vindictive.<br />
<br />
In my sane mind, I know that's all ridiculous. But it wasn't until last week that I was able to make a little, teensy, tentative wish when I saw a shooting star.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-55990779367778158422011-01-27T14:25:00.000-08:002011-01-27T14:25:53.116-08:00The TwentiesI'm going to turning twenty-five in two months. It's kind of strange to be approaching my mid-twenties when I often feel like a teenager still.<br />
<br />
When I turned 20, it was a horribly emotional event. It was our first birthday without you - without a shared party, without a ridiculous number of happy birthday cards to each other. It was a bitter realization that we would never be in our twenties together and I felt horribly alone.<br />
<br />
21 didn't mean anything. I didn't do anything. I didn't feel anything. I hadn't come back to life yet, and I was largely in denial that I had survived another year without you.<br />
<br />
Turning twenty-two was terrifying. I couldn't possibly be your age. Had I really caught up to you? I'd spent my entire life wanting to be where you were...grown up, sophisticated, wise, beautiful. And here I was, standing on what felt like a steep, deadly precipice, about to fall into a world beyond you. You must have been laughing a little, because deep down I wondered if maybe we were cursed and all sentenced to die at 22. I held my breath all year, expecting the next car to slam into me and send me flying to meet you.<br />
<br />
And then I made it to twenty-three. A vast black space where you'd never been. Until now I could still pretend to follow you. I grew up like you did, met a boy like you did, fell madly in love like you did. But from here on out I would be the ground breaker. It brought on a whole new world of grief because I felt like you'd truly gone. It was just me with no one to follow.<br />
<br />
I feel cheated because I don't know what our relationship would be like now. People tell me to be thankful that we had time together - of course I am; that goes without saying. But losing something so incredible just makes you long for it even more. I know that I wouldn't be the woman I am now if you'd stayed, but sometimes I think that the price of finding myself was far too great.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-56242955959442525172009-11-07T16:10:00.000-08:002009-11-07T16:10:53.973-08:00For the love of theatre!Sitting through an audition provides an opportunity for some fascinating people watching.<br />
There are those people who try out because being onstage would stroke their ego into gargantuate proportions. It's not because they are interested in acting, or cast chemistry, or evolution of character. They come for the audience greetings at the end of the show; the compliments, the praise, the gushing and hugging and handshaking. These are the people who refuse ensemble parts because if they don't have the leading role, they wont be involved at all.<br />
<br />
And there are those people who can't stay away because they simply love everything about the theatre. Yes, they come hoping for a certain role. But in the end they'd rather be involved on any level in the show, because being around actors and scripts and costumes and lighting is so intoxicating, they can't live without it.<br />
<br />
O, the plastics and geeks of theatre.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-88296371703027979712009-11-04T12:01:00.000-08:002009-11-04T12:01:24.846-08:00To play or not to playI have an audition on Friday.<br />
I'm scared out of my mind. It's the first audition since my confidence was shattered a few months ago in what can only be called the most ridiculous, fraudulent series of events that ever surrounded the casting of a play. Suddenly I am second guessing all of my instincts. I feel like I made some sort of mistake in that whole process, but it's hard to learn from a mistake when you don't even know what it was. <br />
<br />
The show is called Damn Yankees. It's a musical from the 50's about baseball and a man who sells his soul to the devil in order to make his team win the World Series. The whole thing is rather campy and corny, but it has a certain charm as well. It's wrapped in the honesty and innocence of a bygone era - the seduction scene is extremely tame compared to today's lewd standards - and you can't help falling in love with it. <br />
<br />
The risk of failure grows according to the amount of passion you have invested. The thought of 'striking out' on Friday terrifies me because I want it more than anything. Being onstage makes me feel like I'm living in TechniColor - all my senses are heightened, defined, expanded. The lights come on and instead of stage fright and an urge to flee, I feel utter confidence and a sense of "<strong>This</strong> is why I was born". <br />
<br />
This passion is the reason I'm so afraid; but it's also the reason that I must keep trying. I must continue to take chances, because even a mere chance to be onstage is better than being in the audience forever.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-61560650883694300812009-10-23T13:18:00.000-07:002009-10-23T13:18:39.026-07:00One MindThis morning I was sitting and humming to myself, and thought how nice it would be to spend a weekend in Seattle sometime as a little getaway from normal life with My Dear Hubby.<br />
As I opened my mouth to suggest this - literally the very moment my lips parted, My Dear Hubby said "We should go to Seattle."<br />
My mouth stayed open. Gaping. Amazed.<br />
"Yes, I think we're definitely supposed to go!" I said at last, laughing a little and feeling very weirded out.<br />
<br />
I know married couples begin to look and think alike after a lifetime of being together, but after a year?A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-72380856434623050292009-10-23T11:38:00.000-07:002009-10-23T11:38:02.712-07:00Celebrity Look-alikeI am always getting celebrity comparisons. For years it seemed that every other person I met would exclaim, "You look just like Scarlett Johansson!" And I would smile ruefully and shake my head.<br />
"Really? You think so?"<br />
"Yes! It's amazing you look exactly like her!" They would assure me, sometimes mentioning my fluffy hair and full red lips. I would keep smiling and thank them, but inside my head I was stamping my little foot and declaring 'No no no!' See the thing is; I've never particularly cared for her. Not to be uncharitable, but I don't find her attractive, and I don't like her acting style whatsoever. If I was in the mood to ruffle some feathers I would voice my opinion, and chuckle inside during the ensuing defense of her beauty and talent. So usually I just smiled and took it as a compliment. <br />
Sometimes Rachel McAdams would be mentioned, or that girl from the iceskating movie. I even got a Taylor Swift - tho I'm a mere 5'3" to her astonishing 6' height; but it was nearly always Scarlett. This went on until I pixied my hair, and the comparisons abruptly ended.<br />
<br />
Over the last year my hair has grown into a bob with a mind of it's own, and I took the plunge and colored it a rich dark brown with a subtle hint of red. I felt gloriously like my own unique, individual self.<br />
My sister and I were walking downtown, and in an effort to explore shops we'd never been in before entered a scrapbooking store next to my work. <br />
"Oh my god! You're Alice!" someone shrieked. I spun around, wildly startled, to see a woman practically leaping at me from behind a table. My first instinct was to grap my sister and throw her at the oncoming commotion and RUN for my life. Instead I covered my terror with a calm smile and said "Excuse me?"<br />
"You're Alice! From Twilight! You just need to flip out your hair and change your outfit but you look just like Alice!" she babbled ecstatically. "We're having a Twilight Festival and need an Alice look alike to do psychic readings. You could just make stuff up you know, like, OOH! 'I see a handsome man in your future' or 'you will have ten kids and five dogs' and oh it would be so much fun you're perfect!" She paused for breath but as soon as I started shaking my head she plunged headlong into persuasion. "Oh I just can't believe this! You know you want to. It would be so much fun! Doesn't she look exactly like Alice?" she demanded in my sisters direction. Halleleyah was practically in stitches trying to conceal her laughter and could only say "oh hm um I" before she was run over. <br />
"You don't have anything going on next weekend right? You'd love it - we really need someone - oh my goodness you look exactly like Alice!" <br />
I finally recovered enough to find my voice, and tried to politely refuse. It was not very effective, and we made our escape as quickly as possible. <br />
<br />
The dear woman pops in every day that I work. She cannot remember my real name, but calls me Alice, and is forever trying to convince me to participate in the numerous Twilight events in Forks and Port Angeles. (I hold firmly to my charming refusal, but I'm afraid that one day I may crack!) <br />
<br />
I'm sure the comparisons are well meant, but with acting being my passion I can't help balking at the thought of being exactly like another actress out there. I don't want to be the next Scarlett Johansson, or Alice Cullen (I don't actually know her real name). If I burst onto the scene, I want people to know it's me, Charisa Silliman, without a hint of anyone else.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-47891426053907721312009-10-21T10:48:00.000-07:002009-10-21T10:48:50.106-07:00My ChumMy sister kept a blog for years. I don't remember if she started one because I did, or if I was the little sister copy-cat. It was most likely the latter; everything Odessa did was marvelous in my eyes, and worth imitating. We would regularly read each others entries, and leave comments that only we could appreciate or make sense of. The magic of sisterhood is that you have your own secret language - even if you're using English words the meanings are entirely different in the context of a sisterly conversation.<br />
Her postings became sporadic throughout college, mine as my life settled into uninteresting routines without her. She was the source of my inspiration; the other half of my brain; an eerily similar yet slightly more mature perspective thru every event in our lives.<br />
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I haven't had the courage to read her blog since her death nearly 4 years ago. It's funny how even tho you miss someone with every atom of your being and the pain of their absence is so brutally persistent that you would give anything to have them with you, you still avoid anything that brings you too close to them. Somehow the pain of remembering is even harsher than the pain of losing. Just the thought of hearing her voice in her posts makes me literally shake. All of my creativity - music, theatre, and writing - died with her. This blog was rather a surprise to me; little parts of me were waking up after four long years. Like muscles that have been paralyzed and unused, my inspiration was weak and malnourished, but with time and use it would grow strong again. I thought that I had healed at last.<br />
<br />
But healing from an amputation doesn't mean that your limb grows back. And even tho I can read music again, and I wear her jackets, and I don't scream into a pillow every horrific, sleepless night, the gaping void she used to fill in my life still exists.<br />
I didn't realize tho, how much of herself she left for me. So many of her thoughts, musings, and personal stories in writing, so I wouldn't forget who she was and how well I knew her. I'm working up the courage to read her postings; to open the land of memories for exploration again. I started by reading over my own old blog and finding her in blurbs about our concerts, photo-shoots and jobs together, and in the comments she left. I wrote briefly about the term 'chum' and what a comfy, intimate, life-long friendship sort of feeling it invokes. My darling sister responded:<br />
<br />
"I completely agree. Shall we be chums? Forever and ever? Please do say yes. :)"<br />
<br />
(Her blog is called Andante. You can find it on my Site Seeing links.)A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-72789259941185388272009-10-20T11:39:00.000-07:002009-10-20T11:55:38.638-07:00Once upon a Neverland...There is something magical about mist. It's like wrapping a present in pretty tissue paper, instead of a paper bag. Or newspaper. Or a towel, for that matter ( yes, based on a real incident). Mist is different than fog, in that fog is h***bent on hiding everything. It becomes an annoying game of hide-and-seek; trying to find the car in front of you before it's too late, searching for a road sign, wondering if you really know that guy you waved back to or if you just made a creep's day. Fog is worrisome, and seems to enjoy being that way.<br />
<br />
But mist. Ah, mist is indeed magical. Instead of hiding the world, mist takes delight in revealing it, gently bestowing enchantment on the most ordinary, mundane things. As it clings low upon the grass, you can't help but look for tiny faeries asleep in their misty beds. And when mist tiptoes over the water, your childish fantasy that mermaids <em>do</em> exist returns. Somehow it lifts our tiresome grown-up concerns and whisks us - if only momentarily - to Neverland, where none of us ever really grew up.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-70980962737203427532009-10-19T13:45:00.000-07:002009-10-19T13:45:56.696-07:00Relatively BeautifulToday hasn't been so bad. <br />
Well, apart from the fact that I thought I'd be working a half shift and wore the shoes that are comfortable only for a few hours and then proceed to deliberately torture my poor little feet, and then <em>after</em> I arrived at work got the call that my coworker is ill and could I please cover the rest of the shift? Well I need the hours, so of course I said yes. But now I'm wondering if an extra 4 hours makes up for the terribly unpleasant sensations my shoes are causing. <br />
<br />
When I was younger I watched a movie (lost to memory now) in which the heroine sighs "Ah, let us be beautiful, or die in the attempt!" The reckless use of the word 'die' invoked such romantic passion in me that I readily bought into the pathetic mantra without considering the consequences. It seems that women are in such a frenzy to match our fantasy ideal of beautiful, that we turn a blind eye to the unique charms we each naturally possess. <br />
<br />
I spent last evening with a very dear girlfriend watching movies in our pajama's, feasting on popcorn and drinking copious amounts of rum and cola. As is so common when two or 3 females are gathered, the Body Issue arose. We became vulnerable while confessing our deepest insecurities - how our bodies have changed - our struggle to reconcile our present appearance with the memory of how we looked at 19 - and most shockingly, how very very crazy our husbands are about our forms now. I began to ponder this as the buzz wore off, and wondered: Why is it, that despite the whole-hearted appreciation that the most important people in our lives have for us, we are determined to view ourselves as insufficient, imperfect, and undesirable? We are taught to rebuff a compliment with a self deprecating remark. To look at our girlfriends with comparative envy, as if simply being a different shape or size gives them an edge of superiority. <br />
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No epiphany struck me while I mulled it over. I don't think there is a quicky solution to the Body Issue. Perhaps it is simply a stubborn mental decision to defy insecurity. To rebel against all your self-loathing instincts and pummel yourself with love and goodwill. To accept the pleasant things people say about you as truth - could it be that you really are sexy? Desirable? Adorable? <br />
I realized that the Love of my Life has never lied about anything. And it's nice to believe that I am actually as beautiful as he tells me I am.<br />
<br />
I'd love to hear your thoughts - feel free to comment!A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-6459397385402677482009-10-17T09:27:00.000-07:002009-10-17T09:27:29.992-07:00And you, my book, whom I love.I read books.<br />
Well, not just read them. I devour them. I inhale them. I pick one up in my hands, and it is directly absorbed into my brain. I choose my books even more carefully than I choose my friends - I will not buy a book unless I am certain that it will get along and fit in with all my other books - and oh! I have <i>ever</i> so many other books. 3 whole bookcases full of books.<br />
When we moved into our tiny, vintage house on 4th Street, everything seemed perfect. The house is full of weird, charming quirks - bright yellow countertops, original glass doorknobs, a pantry built into the wall, no room for the refrigerator (or no room for a table, depending on how you look at it), and we fit perfectly. Almost. Once we positioned the piano, couch, shoe rack, and my magnificent, hideous lucky gold chair, I realized that there was only room for 1 bookcase. One. Uno. I would have to choose only a few books out of the twelve-ish boxes that eagerly awaited in the garage.<br />
How do you choose a favorite book? Is it based on your feelings when reading it? Or how strongly you relate to the characters in the story? Does it have to do with the sentiment attached - the memory of an era, the circumstances in your life surrounding your introduction to the book? I haven't any children, but it seems as impossible to me to choose a favorite book as it would be to choose a favorite child. I will draw a little curtain over the ordeal now, to protect the intimacy and agony of the books involved. Suffice it to say, my bookcase presents a curious selection - from The Color Purple to L.M.Montgomery's Emily books, and from C.S.Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia to several Ayn Rand novels. <br />
I was recently introduced to The Time Travelers Wife. It was glued to my hands; I could not put it down until I had finished it two days later. Never do I remember being so intensely connected to the people in a book before. Every emotion they experienced became my emotion. I laughed when they laughed, I ached with their pain, I panicked when I saw the end and could do nothing to fix it - nothing to stop it - to keep the happiness living. I cried as if the man I love had lost his life. The story shot into my soul, came to life there. I have not seen the movie, nor do I think I will - I don't want to see another persons interpretation of it.<br />
Every once in a while I meet a person who says they don't like to read. And I wonder what sorts of cardboard words they have experienced, to give them such a distaste for it.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-20045857866002307232009-10-16T10:21:00.001-07:002009-10-16T11:01:14.894-07:00slowly workin'The sun is streaming thru the high ceiling windows, making a valiant effort to lighten the dark, dismal sky. Rain is falling in careless straight lines, like a trillion tiny, lazy torpedo's.<br /> "No one will be shopping today" I think out loud, addressing the racks of winter coats and scarves. A woman with a bright red umbrella, dark red coat, and faded red trousers scuttles down the sidewalk, not even glancing in the window.<br /> Not that it's different than any other day at work.<br /> I have a new job. It's at a private clothing boutique named after a flower. My hours are piddly (yes I said piddly, it's a word), and the only time we're 'busy' is after 3 when all the teeny boppers are released from school and flood the downtown area. They bop in, carrying on chat-fests with each other and their cellphones simultaneously. My greeting fazes them, and they pause, trying to remember what the fitting response is to "Hi! How are you?" Generally a confused nod and tentative wave is what they come up with, and then I am invisible - until the urgent question inevitably arises "Do your jeans go down to a size O?"<br /> In the mornings an occasional cluster of middle aged ladies meander in, relieved to be out of the house and 'out on the town'. They thrill over our inexpensive earrings, scarves, and "are your sweaters really that cheap?!" Happily scolding themselves ("I really shouldn't be shopping - but look how cute!") they ask me questions, ask for assistance, ask for my opinion ("Can you tell I have a tummy?"). This is when I feel like I actually have a job. I step into my salesgirl persona, even my voice changes (I don't know why, and I can't help it - I have a 'salesgirl' voice) and I become efficient, reassuring, flattering without gushing, and innocently charming. I become every woman's daughter and best friend. I've learned how to tilt my head just so and smile out from under my fringe of dark bangs, eyes wide and convincing (you know you deserve this!). They think I'm adorable and buy all kinds of stuff.<br /> But most of the time business is very slow. I tidy the mountains of camisoles, button all the coats, organize the jeans. The store is spotless within a half hour of clocking on, and then...I wait. And watch the rain battle with the sun for dominance over the sky.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-33434550873900648232008-09-24T14:16:00.000-07:002008-09-24T14:35:48.731-07:00I'M MARRIED!!!!!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsHIFadwWs4yrM1sNaBV9L4eVnIcm38X6BDW1ibw6-UQMidxwCrhnseTibHK_EEMzdey6Uv9chaSaVahFv_VWszO6hBwJ3FEUNDjYmaihUZ4RUxCPE2fcYyf9upe1tHCfcajQtpHj0S52/s1600-h/0221.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsHIFadwWs4yrM1sNaBV9L4eVnIcm38X6BDW1ibw6-UQMidxwCrhnseTibHK_EEMzdey6Uv9chaSaVahFv_VWszO6hBwJ3FEUNDjYmaihUZ4RUxCPE2fcYyf9upe1tHCfcajQtpHj0S52/s320/0221.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249704367671631730" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIrw9AQ6OYXV6PN3q_9UlGnI5cSxCbVpkcnqEM2T77Iroi8ETFbobfjRooKs472JI7-r5R6q_7lBjWyFSx8M0BORLBEgOoQsRYI27-VOu7RhS4da2pZIZYBF_gpbG7NsJnvDeF1Q77o0v/s1600-h/0196bw.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIrw9AQ6OYXV6PN3q_9UlGnI5cSxCbVpkcnqEM2T77Iroi8ETFbobfjRooKs472JI7-r5R6q_7lBjWyFSx8M0BORLBEgOoQsRYI27-VOu7RhS4da2pZIZYBF_gpbG7NsJnvDeF1Q77o0v/s320/0196bw.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249704371550850514" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NjIXDbXRPxUA37IMrcXtAKnQe_G46WLglEL2d7SQaGBvBWPgvLd2WOhymqkajMmORxSQrB6lCMk8L9UfRrx3PeqSrHh_rrwUeawtTwoCI9I_NaV0mC135DAIQxrjhfdzGhI1GfYEfGRm/s1600-h/0166.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NjIXDbXRPxUA37IMrcXtAKnQe_G46WLglEL2d7SQaGBvBWPgvLd2WOhymqkajMmORxSQrB6lCMk8L9UfRrx3PeqSrHh_rrwUeawtTwoCI9I_NaV0mC135DAIQxrjhfdzGhI1GfYEfGRm/s320/0166.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249704374247978962" border="0" /></a><br />I promise to post more! I'm still figuring this whole 'putting-pictures-up' thing lol. Life is beautiful, and our wedding was absolutely perfect. I'm Mrs. David Silliman!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2FXuD73MAoCxAzVmgS7PAuPmLe-3Rndn0vD0lhE13IZ5J4T_nAbgI-tDu92vQJxvAaWQjbywCy40TFiDj8umWTsbc1Diad3t1Reoc2ZUHIVL6otx-AgkoLjNRaSVu1S2754TyhX38f1E/s1600-h/0138.jpg"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a>A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-82701972490936873372008-08-14T19:20:00.001-07:002008-08-14T19:22:34.166-07:00Baby!My best friend just discovered that she's pregnant!<br />At the moment it is the size of a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">poppy seed</span>.<br />Adorable.<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Congratulations Annalise and baby Poppy!</span>A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-6508552722740950552008-08-14T19:14:00.001-07:002008-08-14T19:19:54.741-07:00hot hot hotIt is a very hot day. Very. Hot. Day.<br />I melted into a sad little puddle at work. A weird collage of syrup splatters interspersed with coffee grounds decorated my arms and legs and chest and face and neck. I'm sure they were other places. On days like this it seems that everything wants to stick and creep and spill on me.<br />However I triumphed over two ridiculous young men when I told them that the more they flirted with me, the better they'd have to tip me. They were incredibly silent and polite thereafter. When they drove away I found 5 dollars in my little jar.<br />Bless God for giving me sass and wit.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-66007643372954463502008-08-08T11:54:00.000-07:002008-08-08T12:17:14.561-07:00Trial and ErrorMy darling mother never used recipes for cooking while I was growing up. Oh we had cookbooks, and I made devout and religious study of them. But mum would throw in a little of this, a handfull of that, and stick it in the oven for oh however many minutes, and wuah-lah! Perfection! She has this magical sense for when something was 'done'. She knew precisely how a chickens leg should wiggle when it was cooked to tender, juicy perfection. She knew exactly how browned a biscuit should be when it had reached fluffy, flaky perfection. Ah! If I could only reach such a height of knowledge!<br />I've been feeling very ambitious and brave and housewifely in my kitchen lately. With only 3 weeks to go before transforming into Mrs. David Silliman, I decided that I should get a handle on cooking meals that men can eat. I am sadly handicapped however, having only one 8/13 pan and one little pot. My options have been to make either a miniscule amount of food, or righteous heaps of it! I've gone for the heaps of it, which seems to thrill my fiance to pieces.<br /> "I love how you always make way too much food!" he exclaims in delight. "I always have enough for lunch the next day!"<br />My most recent endeavor came in the form of biscuits. I'd picked ever so many raspberries that day, but realized that they were so ripe they wouldn't last thru the night. I wanted so badly to make shortcake, but had no heavy cream, so biscuits it had to be. Now I'm not sure if my mother actually had magic fairy dust, or if I just rolled them out too thinly, but my biscuits did not achieve the 'mile high' state which I was hoping for. Oh, the flavor was divine, just divine in a very flat way.<br />One simply cannot eat berries and biscuits without a little whipped cream, but I lacked such a luxery. In my eager state I decided to whip half and half. If you <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> need to laugh hysterically, I recommend doing this! It foams! In five seconds I had a huge bowl full of fluffy white foam, and David found me in stitches on my kitchen floor.<br /> Despite these drawbacks, my man raved about everything, and a funny thing happened. Perhaps I had a little magic fairy dust of my own, but in eating those sad little biscuits covered in raspberries and foam, he fell madly in love with me all over again! And I realized that however sadly I fail in the kitchen, his utter adoration of me will always provide the motivation to try, try again.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-88711452507870351952008-08-08T11:06:00.000-07:002008-08-08T11:39:02.199-07:00My Grey MorningIt is a grey day. Lightly falling from the silvery grey cloud cover is transparent grey drizzle, and over the lawn a grey mist clings to the grass with damp, wistful fingers. When I hand drinks through the drive-thru window of my coffee shop, my arms are baptized with a vague sprinkling of water that reminds me of the vegetable mistings in the produce aisle.<br />People are so interesting on mornings like these. The air is filled with quiet bustling; there are urgent things to be discussed! Grandchildren, the death of lilies, the restoration of a classic car, the ridiculously slow internet connection, the cute little barista's wedding details. Yes, I am getting married in 3 weeks from today! I am met with widely varied responses to that news.<br />"Congragulations...I guess" one little woman says quietly with a sideways glance at her quiet little husband beside her. I've always assumed that they're happy, but perhaps appearances are more deceiving than I give them credit for.<br />I brew enormous pots of drip coffee this morning. The names of the different roasts make me laugh: Organic Tatoosh, a deep, dark piercing blend with a little roller coaster of an aftertaste that begs to be tasted again; Espresso Paledino, which invariably brings a picture of a horse to mind; and my favorite, Guatemala Huehuetenango, a name that makes me want to sneeze. They are like the children of faraway and foreign lands, sent to bring a little culture and beauty into our decidedly bland American lives. One exotic woman with tiny, fiery blue eyes orders the light Huehuetenango with 5 - count them, five! - sugars and absolutely no cream. She speaks of her coffee like it is a thrilling, holy secret we are sharing with her.<br />The breeze sneaks in the window and laughingly kicks the dark coffee grounds across the counter. I want an entire room painted this color; this deep, deep brown with a gorgeous hint of red. It is so vivid you can almost taste the way it looks.<br />Fall is gently but firmly hinting at it's coming. All the coffee shop folk feel it with mounting excitement, tinted with a soft disappointment in this brief and fickle summer. We feel ourselves settling in, and thinking of books we want to read on grey days, cozied under blankets with new husbands or lovers, and of <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>the marvelous, strangely named coffee that we shall drink.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-15637885446390053932008-07-21T10:16:00.000-07:002008-07-21T10:24:49.994-07:00Li'l SisI am going shopping with my little sister today. Actually, a more appropriate term would be my 'younger' sister, considering that she outgrew me when she was 10 and I was eighteen.<br />She has blossomed this year. I've never seen anyone truly blossom the way she has. When I remember the little, slightly awkward baby of a sister I had last year, I almost don't recognize who she is now. It's not very often that you look at a person and can so clearly see every inch of brilliant potential they posses. It sparkles in her eyes; it's written in every new graceful line in her body; it dances out with every word she speaks. I ache to give her the tools and opportunities to do and become everything I haven't, but I can't. She is her own very individual person, and I can't wait to see what she does with her life.<br />I love you baby sister!A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-91454323182008996702008-07-18T10:29:00.000-07:002008-07-18T10:42:47.062-07:00b-a-n-a-n-a-sThis morning I cut up a banana and ate it in my granola. I'm sure people do it every day, but the banana opened a whole little drawer of memories for me.<br />When I was little, my brothers and I ate cold cereal with bananas all the time. But pretty soon one of us simply did away with the cereal, and for weeks we lived on milk and bananas. It was like heaven in a bowl. Sprinkle on a little sugar when mums back was turned, and it was quite the feast! But like a song that's overplayed on the radio, I eventually ate too many bowls of bananas and milk and for a long time couldn't stand the odd yellow fruit. I worked myself up to the point of being able to eat a banana, but only if it was slathered in peanut butter, or disguised in the form of my sisters banana bread.<br />I haven't touched them in a long time, but this morning the bright little bananas on my counter beckoned to me, and I gave in.<br />I think I have made my peace with bananas.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-58863825947671382102008-07-17T16:36:00.000-07:002008-07-17T16:37:14.758-07:00Lavender Festival.<br />God help us all.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-22679139633434482032008-07-17T16:21:00.000-07:002008-07-17T16:36:11.415-07:00It is the most incredible feeling to be loved. But not only to be loved, but to be <span style="font-style: italic;">known</span>, and loved all the more for that knowing. The other evening David (my shockingly gorgeous fiance) and I were quietly relaxing in each others company, when my fingers absentmindedly began moving as if they were playing the piano.<br />"I love when you do that," he said suddenly, the lines around his mouth crinkling up with his smile. There is nothing about me that he closes his eyes to, or pretends not to notice. Every part of my personality and character he understands and appreciates. He has such a clear picture of who I am and what I'm made of, and is still absolutely crazy about me. I have never felt so free; never so devoted.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5900973658091652955.post-8883212554713748532008-07-11T12:16:00.001-07:002008-07-11T19:27:30.486-07:00May I Introduce...the mind behind this blog.<br />I'm rather out of practice. I used to do this all the time...<br />But life seems to have had me in a tumble dry high for the last 3 years<br />and until today<br />I had no urge to write<br />No words to say.<br />It's very hard to put immense emotions into phrases that other people can understand, especially when you are somehow numbed in spite of those emotions.<br />But I have come alive again!<br />As this little blog grows,<br />May you enjoy the random thoughts, private jokes, lectures and rambles that you find;<br />May you come to know and understand, and find comfort in the fact that you are not<br />the only contradiction out there.A Vibrant Petalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05380146680111692122noreply@blogger.com5