I see strands of hair every day. Dozens and dozens of them litter my floor, I’m sure hundreds are in my hairbrush—not to mention the uncountable number I catch glimpses of in the mirror, still attached to my head.

But this particular strand, which fell off in my fingers as I ran them through my hair, caught the light and gave me pause.

As I looked at its deep orange sheen, I thought about how fascinating hair is. When it’s on someone’s head, it looks more or less uniform in color; but take a closer look at individual strands, and you’ll see a different story. On my own head I’ve seen blonde, brunette, and red strands in all different shades—I’ve even seen a few white hairs. I thought about how strong hair is, how beautiful it can be, and how it can contribute to each of our personalities. Like every part of the human body,  it’s a small miracle when looked at in the right light.

I’m sure I speak for most of us when I say that I am quick to be dissatisfied with my body—my skin is too broken out, my posture too crooked, my hair too frizzy—but haven’t we each been given an amazing gift? Wasn’t each of us made exactly as we were supposed to be made? Doesn’t that make each of us a walking miracle, beautiful in the eyes of the one who made us?

I believe so; but that does not mean we will see it. Our world is filled with creations that ought to have us trembling on our knees in constant amazement, but which we daily pass by  (or walk around in) without so much as a thought. And I suppose that’s how it must be—that’s how we creatures live our lives here and now. But still… it’s worth taking a moment, now and then, to notice, and wonder, and give thanks.

Once again, I reached the end of today without taking a photo. I only remembered as I was falling asleep without meaning to and without having gotten ready for bed… the idea for this photo was the only thing that got me up.

That ring has been on my finger for a week now—and what a week it’s been. It’s amazing what a bang a decision that has been quietly making itself for months can produce when it’s externalized. Suddenly, I’m allowed and expected to plan a wedding. Suddenly, everyone can see that I’m entering a new chapter. Suddenly, I can’t pretend my life is not changing.

This week has been a rollercoaster ride from joy and excitement down into fear and anxiety up into giddy planning… and so on, and so on. Gil, meanwhile, has walked beside me steady as he ever is—constantly patient, constantly a grounding force. (Although he has been sick this week—in sympathy with my sudden spike in stress, he hypothesized. ) My calmest moments are when I remember that the entire reason we’re doing this is to spend the rest of our lives together.

And meanwhile, there’s school. Lots of it. And there’s my thesis. And there’s taking pictures every day. You see why I’ve almost forgotten so many days now.

But as crazy as the last week has been, I do feel like it is balancing out. The rollercoaster is slowing down, mercifully, at least for a day or two. The wedding details which most needed to be hammered out are being hammered out. My brain is shifting focus back to schoolwork. A few impromptu talks with friends and family have helped remind me of how much I have to be thankful for—and it’s a lot.

And with that thought, now I really will go to bed. Sweet dreams.

Gil and I have this thing with driving. He gets behind the wheel–where I have asked him to be–and I’m immediately tense. Suddenly I’m like a mother with her teenage son, painfully aware of the almost five-year difference in our driving experience (which doesn’t reflect our age difference; he grew up and graduated highschool in a country in which he didn’t have the paperwork to legally drive).

It’s one of our less graceful areas. There’s nothing like near collisions (mostly imagined) to test a relationship.  But with every trip I build a little more confidence in his driving ability, and on every trip he extends grace to me once again for my passenger-seat driving.

Not unlike the rest of our relationship, and not unlike this life in general, it’s a messy process; but I think it’s a good road we’re on.

This is it.

Now. Right now—this very moment.

Not ten minutes from now, when you sit for ten minutes in the back room.

Not tomorrow, when it’s light again.

Not next year, when you’re done with school.

In this moment you decide: bow your head, bend your knee, weep for the love you can’t give, or continue to snap, and bite, and flail.

Choose to see the soul inside the bag of meat and bones in front of you, or choose to criticize its shirt and hair.

_____

At the shower, they asked us to write a recipe for marriage.

I included ‘forgiveness’ but now suspect I should have written it in larger letters. (And joined it with ‘humility’.)

What is it about transition that always seems to bring me back here? Whenever my life has reached cruising altitude for any particular slice of the year, it becomes incredibly easy to pass by both pen and keyboard without bothering to reflect on anything except the daily busy-ness that fills my thoughts.

But there’s something about times like these—times between times—when my heart is creeping back to school but my belongings and responsibilities still lie largely at home—when I feel, quite literally, neither here nor there. At these times I feel the need to steady myself—to get a grip on something other than the land ripping in two beneath me—and so I grasp at words and pictures in an attempt to see both where I’ve been and where I’m going.

Of course, times like these also force me to examine the staggeringly-many (it seems like millions of) posts titled-but-not-written, canvases collected-but-not-painted-on, emails received-but-not-answered—all of them planned-but-not-realized episodes in this rapidly-ending season. For someone to whom completeness appeals so deeply, I have opened an awful lot of books I haven’t closed.

I am dwelling on transition and my life’s so-far accomplishments (or lack thereof) in part because I just celebrated my twentieth birthday. It was truly a lovely day—an opportunity for me to be reminded, once again, of how blessed I am to have the family, friends, and community that I do. I am very glad that I turned twenty.

But twenty is such a singular age. Teetering on the brink of adulthood, it is a number brimming with both promise and regret. Promise because, at twenty, my soul still insists on looking ahead, anticipating the excitement and fulfillment which it believes will no doubt characterize the rest of my life; regret because, at twenty, I have already experienced enough to know better.

It’s a humbling thought, the realization that this world is going to let me down, and it’s one I hope I can hang on to as I navigate this particular time of transition. Not so I might throw my hands up and say life is not worth living, but so I might sit calmly through the turbulence I will undoubtedly encounter, and remember that what is truly important cannot be shaken by those small bumps and jostles.

With all that said, here’s to the new school year: may it be meaningful and character-building for us all.

Songs that are currently haunting me (please ignore the associated videos):

• Richard Thompson – Beeswing
• The Flaming Lips – Do You Realize?
• Sun Kil Moon – Carry Me Ohio

GROUP A: Well-intentioned, amiable folks who are truly kind and loving. They’ve got it going on. Safe.

GROUP B: Bitter, self-deluded ne’er-do-wells who make bad decisions that hurt those around them. Unsafe.

Why must the never-tiring sorter that sits hunched up in my brain find a way to cram every single person into one of these two boxes? With the exception of a few fortunate individuals who have not interacted with me enough to be assigned to either category, I pass this judgment so subconsciously and instantaneously that almost no one I know is immune from its verdict.

Why am I always taken aback when someone from Group B extends me kindness? Why am I so quick to let them switch places with someone from group A who has grieved me? Surely, even the corroded, gnarled-up, ugliest part of my sub-conscious must realize that human beings are more complex than any on/off switch can account for.

I should not be surprised at the members of Group B who demonstrate Group A tendencies—because, you see, Group B does not exist. And neither does Group A. We are each of us a special blend of the two—a treacherous cocktail so equally capable of love and hate that any attempt to see which rules in our hearts from our earth-bound vantage point seems futile at best. It’s like trying to judge someone’s driving by looking at a snapshot of their car.

I am honestly ashamed that this truth has not yet sunk in—especially when all the evidence I could ever need beats in my own chest. Have I not embodied the “Unsafe” so well and so often that any fellow sorters must have me pegged there? How can I look down on others for speaking what flows so naturally from my own lips?

I can’t, of course. But I do. Every day. Every encounter. Every opportunity for my sorter to sort. How I wish I could send that sorter packing—or at least, force myself to realize that just as I sort others, so I will be sorted.

Please, Lord, forgive me for sorting.

The amount of worry that I can put into looking, acting, and living a certain way is truly dizzying.

It’s like spending twenty-four hours a day trying to wind the details of your life up into neat little skeins and arrange them on color-coded shelves (and convincing yourself that if just one of those skeins were to come unraveled, life would simply not be worth living) only to discover they are still a tangled mess of yarn on the floor—and what’s more, that these threads have been distracting you from what really mattered all along.

Sometimes I think that all of my anxiety in life can be traced back to that intense desire to be other than I am. Better, in the world’s eyes. Perfect, in my own. I know it’s wrong. But I also know I am not alone in this.

So, please—forgive everyone for not having their skeins neatly wound up and sorted. And even more, have mercy on those of us who are still trying to pretend that we do.

Both of my windows are looking out on gorgeous flowering trees right now. Despite the fact that it is bizarrely cold here, spring truly has arrived.

I am sorry for my absence. It turns out that life is not always easy to bottle up, classify, and set on a shelf for scrutinization. Because of this, and because said life has been incredibly busy, blogging of all kinds has had to take a back seat of late. But I am still here.