witifulramblings

Archive for the ‘Musings’ Category

Day 55: A 6 year-old DIY in the making

In Blogging, DIY, Home Decor, Mother, Musings, Parenting, Women on July 15, 2012 at 7:15 am

I talked to little e today. He’s at his Dad’s house in LA because that’s where he spends his summers, mostly. He lives with me during the school year.

Anyway, my very adult ish 6 year-old inquires as to what I’ve “been up to lately.” His very first inquiry, “How did the move go mom? Do you have everything put together in the house?” More on that later. (I did have it all put together until I took it apart again. I’m currently sleeping on a mattress on the floor).

I replied that I’ve been very busy running (yes I’m still doing that despite all the DIY), reading, visiting with friends, and…painting the furniture.

His first response. “I can’t wait to come back! I can help you paint, like my bunk bed, let’s paint it green–that’s my new favorite color, but just the inside of it. I can do that top part mom and you do the bottom. OK?”

I somehow talked him into the idea of green sheets instead, which seem like a much better idea given his ever evolving favorite color preferences. I did tell him we’d decorate it together when he gets back. This is my ‘sort of,’ and I say that VERY loosely, inspiration. We’ll definitely ditch the ship theme.

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And…

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Grad Students: The Umentionables–Day 39

In Education, English Major, life, literature, Musings, Thoughts on April 16, 2012 at 7:04 am

I realize I spend a lot of time talking about my status as a divorcee, but I rarely talk about the other things that I am (i.e. a graduate student in the humanities).  Yes, I am one of those very dedicated, smart individuals who has chosen a career path in academia, pause, and not just any old field of academia I would add…English Literature (emphasis on the Literature portion).  You see, let me explain, Literature is one of those funny fields of study…funny in that you spend countless hours, reading countless books (thousands of pages really), and you probably will never obtain any sort of job that will help you to pay back your countless student loans.  True story.

I’ll add though, I can’t say that I am at all disappointed in my choice to pursue an advanced education in English Literature and Composition studies.  I do believe it is one of the most holistic educational experiences one can have, and when I look at others who have graduated from similar programs (albeit different disciplines) I realize the stark contrast in our educational experiences and rigor.  English is tough, it’s tough based upon the sheer amount of reading one must do (literally thousands of pages per week) and not only do you have to bank those pages but you also have to comprehend just what’s going on within the plotline and with the applied theoretical approach.  However, all of that said, you gain a greater appreciation of the world, humanity, and the experiences/perspectives that accompany the aforementioned.  The discipline of Literature really speaks to a greater understanding of the diverse nature that is our world.  I’m just struggling now with how to contextualize the aforementioned into an appropriate, lucrative career path that will support my loan repayment in particular.  I hope you can sense my optimism here.  Smiles.

Today though, I was thinking about the ways in which grad school has changed me especially as I approach the end of this particular educational endeavor.  I realized that I no longer take showers for enjoyment.  You see, as a grad student (single mother probably adds to this) you get so used to having so much nightly work that taking a shower becomes an unwanted task.  It’s a get in and get out approach.  I used to love the shower when younger; I would stay in there for a full hour if possible.  Now, my body won’t even allow me to do this.  It just WANTS OUT. Move on whit, you’ve got work to do!

Interestingly grad school has also lent to my extreme obsession over books, so much so that I take pride in all of those that I own.  This is why I have a wall-to-wall bookshelf filled to the brim with them (I’ll be adding 45 new novels next semester (one’s I’ll need for my comprehensive exam).  Because I am slightly OCD, I have them arranged by height and width.  It’s obsessive but I pride myself on having read them all.

Finally, grad school has turned me into an anxiety-ridden freak (thank god this blog is anony).  This isn’t really an isolated phenomenon though.  In fact, I work in an office of about twelve colleagues that teach within the Department (myself included) and of the twelve I would say…twelve are on the same anxiety meds.  I heard a couple of em’ swapping meds the other day (don’t know if this is legal).  I’m convinced that we’re not crazy, we’re just driven right?

So, an abhorrence for showers, book obsessions, and crazy pills…this is what grad school (in the humanities) perpetuates.  I’m proud to say that I’ve learned to control my bouts of anxiety (which typically center around my attempt to be perfect in situations where perfection does not exist) through the adoption of an “I don’t care attitude.”  Seems to be working quite well so far, although I’m judged by some.  This is another thing about grad school, it’s a political environment, one wherein there are certain expectations, ways of doing things, and definitely grad student no-no’s (not trying to be perfect is a no-no).  However, I’ve learned that life is for living and not for being perfect.  It’s for loving things beyond the halls of the English Department (although I do love these halls and they’ve given me much over the years I’ve walked them).  If you can’t find balance then you’re probably the best grad student (and the most unbalanced human being).  It’s taken me up until my last semester of graduate school to decide to stray from this.

I’m beginning to love showers again, although I’m realizing this is a gradual process.  I do like having clean hair on a daily basis, though.  Smelling good is nice too.

I don’t know how many more books I’ll be collecting come my graduation in December.  I do know that my bookshelf will begin to adorn non-classical works–and that’s OK.

Just in case you’re a perfection-seeking grad student in the humanities–anything that ends in the suffix “azepam” should be of help to you.  I suggest the balanced thing though, having tried both I find it a much better course of action. You don’t want to graduate a masters holding drug addict and/or chain smoker bordering on lung cancer.

–a grad student whit.Image

(This pic speaks well to my shower commentary.  I never  had so many days of greasy hair as I’ve had in the past three years.  Apology in advance to any of those who experienced me on a day wherein I didn’t have time to take a shower (for a few days in a row) and/or I forgot to wear deodorant.  I know it happened, more than once.

Day 25: The Case of the Missing Keys AND Pictures

In Blogging, Humanity, Mother, Musings, Parenting, Stories, Thoughts, Writing on January 19, 2011 at 11:05 pm

If at first you don’t succeed try, try again!

What happens when all our “trying” just amounts to mere frustration and anger.  Sometimes, in life, it feels as if the achievable is just out of reach.  The other night I was at a friend’s house and their 18 month-old very sneakily “hid” my keys in the sub woofer.  Fortunately, for her, the tiny opening in the side was just big enough for her little hand.  In fact, as we sat conversing my friend kept inquiring, “where are all her binkies going?”  She’d give her a binkie and then have to replace it five minutes later after searching the couch and surrounding area.  Little miss had her treasure trove nestled snuggly, aside my keys, where no one would ever suspect.

When I finally went to grab my items, and noticed they weren’t there, my friend ademently reinforced that the little one had placed them somewhere.  I thought, “no way,” it’s been so long since I’ve had a toddling thing that I thought it impossible.  Reflecting on the event it seems that we easily forget events in our lives, once they have passed, because we are consumed by a new set of experiences (i.e. my now learning to read kindergartener).

I’ll come to back to the conclusion of the aforementioned story (I know you’re dying to know how I got home).  But first, last night, as I prepared little e’s Top Dog of the Week Poster, I started thinking about all his baby pictures.  I knew them to be situated on my old laptop and just assumed it to be at my folks place in safe storage.  So, I’m visiting with my mom and mention it to her.  I use the term “white laptop.” She went and grabbed the “new white laptop” they have since purchased believing I’d find what I was looking for. Not so, “That’s the wrong laptop.  I mean the old one.”  And then it came like a ton of bricks,

“Dad took that one to the refurbish place months ago.”  Afterwhich, she turns and grabs some CD’s and begins lecturing me on the importance of backup elements.  I immediately began to cry, and I hurried to leave the house.  As I drove to my home, I thought about all the pictures of me pregnant, the ones of little e in the hospital after his birth, the entire first two years of his life.  Then I began to account for every picture that I had lost but so desperately wanted back.

I want the one with my tear stained face holding my little newborn just minutes after his arrival.

I want the one of my pink socks peeking from underneath the hospital sheets (I had specific socks hand-picked for my delivery).

I want the video of my ex filming the nurse midwife who delivered little e.

I want the picture of little e in his exersaucer, rosy, drooling, and teething.

I want the picture of little e in his little blue chair, and the one in his red highchair eating for the first time with his lefthand (I always knew he would be a lefty), the ones of our vacation in Greece, the pictures of little e and his Dad watching sports, e in his batman sneakers at 6 months, e and mommy lying on the bed together, napping.

I want them all back.  Now, all I have is the memories, those burned images, unretrievable.  I cry still thinking about it.

I returned home that night and immediately found my mother had already sent me a few pics (ones I had obviously sent her) to help ease the pain.  Mothers, what would we do without them.  However, among them did not exist the intimate ones I so long for.  The ones that were so terrible looking I hadn’t sent them to any family members.

I’ll return now to the story of the little sneak and the missing keys.  We tried, unsuccessfully sticking our hands in the tiny hole; however, to no avail.  Then someone got the idea to fish them out with a fork-like spatula.  I had my doubts, but it worked.  Exactly twenty minutes later all of the binkies, minus one, and my keys had been retrieved without any permanent damage to the speaker, fabulous! We had conquered the unachievable and there was happiness and laughter at the carelessness of the event.  When I started up my engine that night I sighed, “I can’t believe that just happened?” I know, though, four years ago, with a toddler in tow myself, I wouldn’t have been surprised in the least bit.  I’d forgotten.

And so my tears for the lost pictures were not for the objects themselves but rather the memories.  I recognize the nature of one’s recollection and I know someday I’ll wonder, what was e like at three months, or how did he act?  I know though that certain photos will missing.  This isn’t a matter of trying, they’re gone and no amount of achievement can fix this particular experience.  But–I can take that CD from my mom and try again, burn the pictures I have now, and keep them in a safe place.  That is achieveable.

And words, I’ve decided to write a paragraph for every picture I remember.  I’m hoping that will, at the very least, keep those images active in my mind.  I never want to forget my bald head, blue-eyed, little e.  His infancy.  Ever.

a missing whit.

Daily Cupcake: What? Not Jewish Enough?

In Articles, Blogging, Blogs, Education, Faith, Family, God, History, Humanity, life, literature, Love, Men, Men, Mother, Musings, Parenting, Politics, Stories, Thoughts, Travel, Women, Work, Writing on November 16, 2010 at 7:07 am

It’s quite odd, during the Holocaust many struggled with the idea of being, well, “too Jewish,” or rather Jewish at all.  Lives were literally lost over Jewishness, whether you looked it, acted it, etc.

Well, now there seems to be a new crisis.  Now, we’re dealing with the issue of being “not Jewish enough,” put quite simply.

Check this out.

This post is dedicated to all of those who experienced, survived, or were lost in the horrific Holocaust.  If this is a historical event that interests you I highly recommend the two part comic narrative Maus.

God Bless.


 

Should I get Divorced?: Day Eighteen

In Articles, Blogging, Blogs, Dating, Education, Esteem, Family, Fiction, Friends, Happiness, Humanity, Laughter, life, literature, Love, Men, Men, Mother, Musings, Parenting, Politics, Romance, Sex, Stories, Thoughts, wit, Women, Work, Writing on November 16, 2010 at 6:51 am

It seems to me that after you experience divorce, that is, become a divorcee, you also become a magnet for those seeking “friendly” relationship advice.  Since my divorce, I have never had so many married friends approach me expressing their own personal marital woes.  Can we say smoke and mirrors?

So, what do you say to these helpless worshippers?  Their eyes pining upwards toward yours, in dismay, you (well I) certainly cannot leave them hanging.

So, I tell them what my mother told me almost four years ago–

“It’s time to evaluate.  There are thirty days in a month and if over half of those thirty days are spent in argument/fighting/retribution, then you seriously need to consider your life.”

So, I did the addition and I recommend it to my pleading friends as well.  If you’re in the negative then…

I guess this doesn’t necessarily mean divorce, it didn’t for me, marriage counseling can always be the next step but most I find have already given that a fair shot.  So, then I move to my next bit of advice.

It isn’t easy (divorce that is).  So, consider wisely.  This isn’t a life and death situation, in any sense of physicality, but it may be with regard to the soul, your soul.  If he doesn’t pick up his dirty underwear, empty the dishwasher, or clean off the toilet seat–you may want to hire a maid and get a good job with long work hours, instead.  No, but seriously, divorce isn’t easy and making that jump will most certainly change you in every way possible, good and bad.  It will also present a little addition to your life.  Something I like to call the “what if factor.”

What if he had been different?

What if I had been different?

What if the timing had been different?

What if that whore from the Nordstrom shoe department had never been working that Wednesday afternoon when my husband, on a whim, decided to go peruse for a new pair of penny loafers?

You’ll always wonder, what might have been?  What dreams might have come AND could things have worked?  This is what you sacrifice when you choose divorce.  You sacrifice ever knowing.  However, consider this, whose to say things wouldn’t have been different anyway because with every circumstance, every change, there comes a differing outcome.  So, maybe the Nordstrom girl wasn’t there that Wednesday, instead, five years later your hubby gets run over by a truck crossing the street–either way, you’re alone with accompanying heartache.  It’s all a matter of relativity and the passage of time, leading you this way and that, all dependent on varying occurences.  I think Robert Frost put it nicely, “And both [roads] that morning equally lay / In leaves no step had trodden black / Yet knowing how way leads on to way / I doubted if I should ever come back.”

So, finally when I have exhausted all the aforementioned then I end with this, “secure your finances before ever mentioning the word divorce.”  Trust me, it’s not being deceitful…it’s being smart.  If you have to, stick it out, until you have what you need to leave.  I’ve encountered many friends, with young children, no assets, no education, their husband(s) owning everything; having reduced them to the life of: housewife.  Just make sure you leave when the time is ripe, oops, I mean right. 😉  It never hurts to get a little legal advice prior.

A good friend from back when I was married emailed me the other day concerning a matter similar to this post’s topic.  I thought it funny, she, after all these years, my divorce from her husband’s friend, had returned to me for some semblance of hope.  My final words to her, “I’ll be praying for you and your little family.”

That’s how my advice column will always end, always.

A divorced whit.

The Roads We Travel

In Faith, Family, God, Happiness, life, Love, Mother, Musings, Parenting, Stories, Thoughts, Writing on September 12, 2010 at 8:22 am

There was a time when I followed the same certain walk to my work everyday.  You can read about it here.  The leaves are beginning to fall and school has resumed, my path is now a different one.  Walking along the other day I began to ponder this and how life leads us in so many directions.  Although this post has obvious analogous properties, it is quite real.

Wednesday I was driving along when I suddenly realized my close proximity to Kaiser and the subsequent need of little e’s kindergarten shots.  My path suddenly took a turn and a few moments later our car sat nestled in a parking spot.  Walking up to the clinic, with a huge grin e questions, “am I getting a shot?”  You should know, there was little fear, this inquisition seemed pure jest.  I thought carefully on how to respond, ultimately deciding honesty the best policy, “yes.”  His demeanor changed almost immediately his body folding inward, the way it always does when he is truly hurt.  Then it escalated to pure anger, running up and down the halls screaming, climbing the beam, hanging from the window, kicking, biting, totally not my e—

I think e has probably thrown three to four tantrums in his life, not his thing.  He’s such a mellow child, the “go with the flow” type, so I knew him to be truly frightened.  I thought back on our recent hospital stay (for a possible hip infection) and the IV’s and pokes which accompanied.  To be so little, he’s getting bigger, but still the world is a vacuum and his little mind couldn’t escape those memories.  It took two nurses and I to hold him down…when they were just about to poke him, his little eyes filled with tears, looking up at me, “Mama, mama, hold me, I’m so scared, hold me mama.”  It was the fear of a child, yet at that second there seemed so much wisdom inside him.  I put my face against his holding back my own tears.  Up until that very moment feelings of exhaustion overwhelmed, pulling him from that window beam, I questioned, “why, is this so hard and I have to do it alone?”  If only I had someone to support me in this moment of difficulty.  Then pausing, with my face against his, an answer came, “you do have someone and he needs you to be strong, “YOU CAN DO HARD THINGS.”

We left the doctors office that day a closer mother and son.  The path we took taught us both something.  For e, he realized mama will always be there, and I saw how much e needs me.  The experience reminded me very much of my life as a whole and the relationship between my Father in Heaven and I.  It is not easy for him to deliver the struggles he is sometimes required to do, but nonetheless he knows they are necessary and required for our growth.  Life isn’t always about being happy–sometimes it’s about fear, and hardship, struggle, and pain.  All of these paths take us places we need to frequent, and offer us experiences and relationships vital to our growth and development as individuals.

In four years I’ve walked many different roads, some have been gradual turns, others indecisive forks; however, all have lent to me, happy me, sad me, scared me–a better me.

Thoughts On A Kindergartener’s First Day: Day Fifteen

In Articles, Blogging, Family, Laughter, life, Love, Mother, Musings, Parenting, Stories, Thoughts, Writing on August 24, 2010 at 3:25 am

Today I found myself at the schoolyard amidst all those hobblyknob youngsters except this time I wasn’t one of them.  This time, I was one elusive parent huddled among the classroom four corners.  Little e was all jitters for this glorious occasion, and I managed to hold it together until the very end then I almost cried.  Suddenly, it occurred to me that e has been attending “school” for three years, why was this any different?  How could I be near tears with such a usual and customary occasion?  We had done this two or three times already throughout his daycare/preschool career.  I thought about it long and hard before I picked him up two hours after dropping him off.

I was probably the only single parent in the classroom of mom and dad couples.  This was in no way a downer for me, but the toddles of those littler siblings was a bit dampering.  I want one.

Since losing my job I have discovered something that I wasn’t fully appreciative of in the past, always attentive, but at a much stealthier pace, disallowing the full realization of it.  My left-brain whispered to me, “He’s only four once Ms. whit.”  That shocked me.  Reality is, there are so many things in this life that we can recreate, reproduce, rethink, re-do, but our children’s childhood, that is not one of them.  We may spend all the time in the world attempting to capture our dreams, provide, plentify life, but what is all worth if we miss out on a morning bike ride filled with laughter and hill climbing, or the colloquial phrase such as little e’s term “manajerky,” (referencing a turkey/mayonnaise sandwich).  These were all the things I thought about while I waited to retrieve little e.  The things I haven’t had much time to reflect on as of late.  I thought about the times of my own youth, spent with my mother, who quit her other “assignment” to stay home with my sister and I.  I know this time is fleeting, unemployed and out of school for the summer, but soon the hectic days will resume.  I wish not to forget this moment, and the joy it has brought me.  I guess today’s posting is less about happiness and more about the gratitude that fills me.  Five. Six. Seven, Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven and into infinity and beyond he will go.  I can’t stop the mechanisms of time (oh how I wish I could stay twenty-five forever and he four).

As I was bathing e tonight, in a sea of bubbly, his face full of laughter, “like my bubble beard mom?”  “Oh, how I love it, just love it.”  There will come a day when bubble beards are a thing of the past, so I plopped down next to the tub and there I smeared some lather across my own face afterward we conversed about tomorrow night’s soccer practice, his love of Coldplay (the band), and the weirdness of so many things his little eyes notice.  It was truly joyful.

****

Today’s Cupcake: Wicked

In Blogging, Blogs, Family, Friends, Happiness, Humanity, life, Love, Men, Musings, Stories, Thoughts, Writing on August 16, 2010 at 10:49 pm

I recently saw Wicked again (I highly suggest seeing it).  To accompany today’s post “Sharing Life,” I’ll share these “For Good” lyrics. You can listen to the song in its entirety here.  Enjoy.

****

I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you…

Sharing Life: Day Fourteen

In Articles, Blogging, Blogs, Dating, English Major, Esteem, Friends, Happiness, Laughter, life, Love, Musings, Stories, Thoughts, wit, Writing on August 16, 2010 at 7:21 pm

There’s this little white blank church I would pass everyday on my way to work.  I’d find myself wondering, who worships here, who fills this place every Sunday?  What are their thoughts, hopes, desires, and pains?  That happened every morning for a few months.  I was so tempted to return on a Sunday, the place was so lonely, but I knew there was a time of infusion.  The worshippers would come and breathe vitality into this place.

In your life there comes an instant where you really have to sit and evaluate who you are and what you’re living for.  This moment isn’t the same for everyone.  For some it comes by a breath of happiness, others tragedy, some change.  I can remember the day I got married.  I thought this was my juncture.  Here I would ask, “Who are you?  Who loves you? And then, you are going to have this beautiful life with this beautiful person—you are defined.”  But these moments aren’t so easily recognized, and oftentimes they happen without us even noticing it.  This is how it happened to me.  I did get married, I remember pieces of that day so vividly, and I hold them in my heart, mostly so I can share them with little e.  I recall the pink cake, and how the train on my dress ripped unexpectedly, I remember sitting on a bench, surrounded by white, staring out through the etched windows of the church.  Uniquely, I remember doing all of these things by myself (this is quite anomalous for someone’s wedding day).  I don’t ever remember being scared, or worried, or even unsure.  I felt blank.  This was not my moment.

Six years have passed since that occasion.  Now, I find myself meditating on who I’ve become and what that experience did to my life.  I realize that I’m angry.  I’m so mad at the person who betrayed me–he let me down.  I direct that anger, not at him, but at people I’ve dated since him.  It may be something they do, something they say, it reminds me, and then suddenly I see a reflection of his face staring back at me.  While this is happening, I let him do whatever he wants.  I never show disappointment, or rage, for him I am still blank.  Once he told me, after everything was done, he was about to remarry, “I am so sorry for ruining you.”  I responded with a quick, “thanks?”  That was my first evaluation session (some people have more than one).  I was no one, a ruined individual that was it.  Well, you know what they say, “ruin is the road to transformation.”  I gave myself a few months and began taking that seriously.  Then with the start of this project there came my second moment.  I write it out and I begin to see who I am and what my dreams are.  I’ve accomplished. I’ve lived.  I don’t feel ruined anymore, but I have to stop being angry or I’ll never capture what I am truly living for, happiness.

So, I asked myself last night, what good has come from the end of that marriage? Immediately I thought, the people I have met.  I think about all of them.

****

Steve, his wife died of cancer and now he’s a single dad with two beautiful girls.  Chloe, his miracle baby.  She was delivered premature so that Bridget (Steve’s wife) could undergo chemo.  Then there’s Grace.  Steve once told me that while driving in the car Grace noticed the leaves outside falling, blowing away.  She said something like, “Daddy, that’s like mommy right?  The leaves come and go.”  He loved that moment because his little girl understood life and death.  Steve taught that there is beauty in tragedy, and hope.

Karen, when I met her she was weak but at a distance I have seen her grow into someone of strength and courage.  Her family lives in Hawaii and she raises her son on her own.

Jason, his wife also died of cancer.  He graduated law school, top of his class, and got a job with one of the best firms in Nevada.  He bought a new home and then six months ago sold it after being laid off.  His daughter McKenna is beautiful and has a stitched pillow on her bed with a picture of her Mom holding her.  I met him right after my divorce and he taught how to move on.

Wayne.  I wonder about this one.  I spent a year crying that we weren’t together but then one day I realized, that’s a good thing, now you know what it feels like to love someone.  I never felt blank with him.

Dr. S, our custody evaluator.  I spent numerous trips to San Diego for sessions with this fellow.  He reassured me of all my parental intentions.  He never said, “you’re a great mom,” instead he said something much deeper, “you have a spectacular child, one who is very loved, I thoroughly enjoy little e.”  He restored my worth as a mother.

Joey.  A Mormon that taught me Mormons are good when I stopped believing they were.

Jerry.  He gave me my first job after my divorce.  When I started working for him I was timid.  I didn’t even know how to say, “I WANT THIS.” After leaving his office I worked for a law firm (that should give you a good idea of my progression).  I ran into him at the grocery store about two months ago, he said, “I can just see how you’re different.  You’ve got life in you.  You’re in a great place.”  He was a stepping stone.  I had to start somewhere and he gave me that opportunity.

The countless men I’ve dated.  They’ve taught me how to date, how to pray, how to recognize a wanker, how to listen, cultural awareness, money management, passion.

Glen.  He’s my attorney friend who always has good advice.  He’s also always on IM chat and easily accessible.  We’ve been friends for three years now.

Scott.  A single Dad who loves taking me to concerts and being my “wingman.”  He’s always willing to take one for the team.

Chloe.  I just met her, but she reminds me of all my college girlfriends.  Chloe laughs with me and it gives me a sense of “times gone by.”  She’s great.

James.  He taught me about addiction, what it’s like to live in the shadow of it.  I pray for him.  Memories of James helped me through some tough family times.  I needed to meet him.

Toby.  He sold me an Anthropologie rug off craigslist.  A cute aussie who has since moved back to Melbourne.  In a late night conversation he was able to get through to me.  He also taught me the word “wankers,” which I love.

Jonathon.  He started out as the perfect date.  He’s an English professor who loves literature.  I learned from him that I may be able to get a job when I someday finish school.

Professor Ochoa.  She told me that someday I’ll write a book.

****

I look at all these people and cannot help but smile.  They’ve given me so much life, they are all so beautiful, and have attributed to the transformation currently underway.  I am like the white church, the blank lonely church, and all of my friends they are the worshippers. They come into my life, at their moments, and they infuse me.  I am going to stop being angry, and self-conscious, and closed.  I am going to let more people in. I said before that life is defined by moments, but I retract that statement.  Instead, life is defined by the moments you share with others.

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