The Detonators

The coffee shop I'm sitting in closes in 9 minutes.  I look around and I don't want to be one of those people, you know the ones, but honestly this place is packed and there's no way the employees are getting out of here in 15 minutes anyways and for the most part, I just feel like being a little bit defiant right now.  A little bit inconsiderate.  I kind of just feel awful.

My throat is starting to ache and my head feels unfortunately fuzzy.  I'm working on re-writing my resume, now that I actually have legitimate work experience to sell, because I have spent too much money the past month on coffee and groceries and I am painfully aware that if I want to maintain my emergency savings fund, I need to get a J-O-B.

I do actually want to get to Ireland mildly soon, people.  I'm sure you know this by now, but just in case you didn't, my grand plans of Ireland Christmas 2012 just aren't going to happen.

I've only been planning on those since summer of 2010.  Oh well.  Life gets in the way sometimes.

5 minutes.

I haven't slept much the past week.  Or maybe my new schedule is just finally catching up to me.

Or maybe I'm just mildly homesick.

I used the word mildly twice in the past 100 words.  That's a big no no.

I fail at writing.

I fail at cooking.  I fail at writing.  I fail at keeping up with yoga.  I fail at all the things I really want to do in life and I am wishing right now I could be one of those people who get genuinely excited about paper-pushing.    Because then I could at least know that I had a job for the rest of my life that could support me and doesn't take any real talent.

Because talent equals failure 99% of the time.

You're also not supposed to start sentences with 'because.'

Grammar Nazi.  Grammar Nazi.  Grammar Nazi.

Heil, General Punctuation.

I salute you and your semi-colon swastikas.

That is a horrendous, ugly metaphor and I sort of hate myself for it a little bit right now.  Who do I think I am?

Sylvia Plath?

Zero minutes.

I can't believe this.  I'm looking around and I'm actually finding myself upset at the rudeness of all of these people who are just sitting over their empty milkshake cups, discussing, waving, coughing and masticating and drooling and blinking stupidly.  Delaying the employee's chance to clean and sweep and put away and go home.

Yet I also am one of these rude people.  I masticate and I cough and I drool and I wheeze and I droop.

Negative one minute.

Nyquil.  Tonight requires much nyquil.

Saturday Morning

It's 10:27 on Saturday morning and I'm still lying lazily in my warm bunkbed.

My stomach is grumbling, making the disapproving sounds of an old sea captain, and I know that the moments I have left lying in this world of comfort are severely numbered.

We had a windstorm to rival many windstorms here during the night, I woke up several times and thought either the roof was going to fly off, or the glass was going to shatter in the windows, or that in some apocalyptic, dream-induced mindset, the rain had turned to diamonds and was pelting the sides of the building like arrows chinking into plates of armor.

It seems to be intensely quiet outside right now.  So quiet that as soon as I figure out what to do for breakfast, I think a walk on the beach just might be in order.

Speaking of breakfast, I'm quite conflicted.

The Frugal Royale in me is begging me not to go anywhere, or buy anything for breakfast.

The Thriving Artist in me is pushing me to take a few steps into the world and let the road sway me as it will.  I am heavily tempted to return to Lazy Susan's Cafe for breakfast, but fear that would be heavily unwise for my pocketbook, and therefore am deeply considering either a run to Bella's for coffee and a muffin, or maybe to the bakery.  I know the bakery would be cheaper.

It's also closer to the beach.   I could walk with a cup of drip coffee and a maple bar in my hands and watch the waves beating the earth into quiet submission.

Mayhap I'll bring a book along with me.  And a banana.

It's moments like these when I wish I had a kitchen and a dog.

Happy Saturday, lovers.

May you all find inspiration and beauty in the most unexpected and quietest of places today.

Xx,
Hannah

Eeevil.

I've reached my limit, lovers.

Overload capacity has been breached.

It took one whole week and a half of nonstop social activity for me to reach my breaking point.

I'm not sure whether to be discouraged over my failure or proud of my ability to last for an entire week and a half before loosing sanity.

All it took was one last meal to put me over the edge.  Breakfast for dinner.  One simple serving of corned beef hash that tastes so completely opposite of what you're used to can, apparently, completely disintegrate all your defenses and leave you utterly wasted for resources.

As if that wasn't bad enough, they made two more fatal errors.  Bisquick pancake batter and powdered eggs.

I tell you, I almost got up and threw my plate across the room.  I could feel a tantrum rising up.  Dissatisfaction and rage began to sizzle, and then gurgle, and then bubble and boil inside of me and I was sick with passive-aggressive thoughts.

If only the eggs weren't powdered may I wouldn't want to DIE so much right now.

If I had maybe had a real homemade batch of pancakes I wouldn't be considering marching in there and SHOVING THIS NASTY CRAP IN YOUR MOUTH AND SEEING HOW YOU LIKE BEING FORCED TO EAT FAKE FOOD ALL DAY LONG.

Gee, I know it's not your fault, and you're just working with what you've been given and I shouldn't be this angry but I CAN'T HELP YELLING AT YOU IN MY BRAIN FOR ALLOWING THIS SORT OF EVIL TO PASS.

Okay.  Okay.  I know.  I'm an awful human being, and I do feel genuinely sorry for thinking those thoughts.  But at least that's all they were, thoughts.  I didn't voice them, right?  That's only partial sin, yeah???

Unfortunately I still have a lot to learn here, obviously.

But honestly, that was the most depressed I've been over a meal in a long time.  I want to cook my own food.  I miss my kitchen back home.

I miss my bedroom with it's privacy and space and neatness.

I miss my best friends who I don't have to explain myself to because they just know me so well already.

I miss my guitar.

I miss Netflix.

And the last thing I want to do is march my butt in the wind and the rain over to the classroom and sit listening to lectures on Marriage and Family for the next two hours.

Pity Party Officially Thrown.

Bedtime needs to happen right, and I mean right after class.

Xx,

Hannah

Can't Let It Go

Song of the day:

You said you'd light a candle
And you'd say a prayer for me
I feel the light has dimmed and gone
Half the world is begging
While the other half steals
Where did everything go wrong?

Some days I can't believe
Others, I'm on my knees
Trying to be heard

I was your anger
And you were my fear
Now that it's over
Of course it's so clear
But you were no angel
And I was no sin
Somehow I can't let it go
I can't let it go

And half the world is sleeping
While the other half dreams
You close your eyes
And then you're gone
And maybe my intentions
Have been misunderstood
I know you feel so beautifully wronged

Some days I can't believe
Others, I'm on my knees
Hoping I belong

I was your anger
And you were my fear
Now that it's over
Of course it's so clear
But you were no angel
And I was no sin
Somehow I can't let it go
I can't let it go

And laughter is my soul's release
But we're not smiling anymore
And can't we try to win this peace?
'Cause we're never gonna win
Never gonna win this war

I was your anger
And you were my fear
Now that it's over
Of course it's so clear
But you were no angel
And I was no sin
Somehow I can't let it go
I can't let it go
-Can't Let It Go- The Goo Goo Dolls-


Quote of the day:

"In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer."
-Albert Camus

Photo of the day:

Chocolate chips and Barbra Streisand fashion inspiration to each and every one of you, lovers!

Love always,
Hannah

Xx

Nights Like These

Nights like these are meant for hot showers after dinnertime, and before evening classes.

Nights like these are meant for sweatpants and uggs while listening to a great lecture about 1 Thessalonians.

Nights like these are meant for freezing walks to Mariner's Market, only to find they're closed after 9, and then returning to the on-campus coffee shop for ice cream.

Nights like these are meant for having great conversations about literature and pugs in the rec room with new friends of the opposite sex.

Nights like these are meant for snowmen pajama pants, matched with your treasured flannel shirt that reminds you of your favorite person on the planet.

Nights like these are meant for eating cinnamon apple granola sprinkled with blueberries and served with almond milk in a square, orange, plastic bowl.

Nights like these are meant for eating said granola crossed-legged in the hallway of your dorm and laughing with passing dorm sisters about the less-than-impressive dinner none of you actually ate.

Nights like these are meant for listening to The Avett Brothers on repeat.

Nights like these are meant for green facial masks, going to bed early, and snuggling up with a battered copy of Mere Christianity before nodding off to dreamland.

Sweet dreams, lovers.

Xx,
Hannah

Tidbits

Snowy morning here at the Coast.  I woke up to engorged snowflakes quietly cascading from the sky.  They came and went, and the blue sky broke through, and then was overtaken once again by grey.  Now outside is a dismal parade of dripping branches and silent puddles.  In the distance, the sound of waves.  Always, always the sound of waves.  I'm not complaining.

Yesterday I found myself seated at a compelling restaurant called Lazy Susan's Cafe.  I went by myself at my roommate's urging, and as soon as I walked through the door I knew I had made a very wise choice.  I was greeted by a beautiful Indian woman with a vibrant smile and ushered up a small, narrow staircase to a quaint upper level large enough only to support four tables. I sat at a table overlooking the lower level through age-old oak spindles.  There were teacups and seashells and pioneer bonnets all over the walls, along with art festival posters from years long gone by.  There was housemade jam in small glasses on every table, and small bowls of sugarcubes in place of the usual splenda assortment.  The carpet was a faded cerulean blue.  Rain splattered and greeted the windows.  The smell of fresh coffee, oranges and sliced mushrooms sauteed with spinach greeted me and made me feel so quickly at home. I took a deep breath in and felt an overwhelming rush of thankfulness surround me.

I ordered the plain oatmeal waffle, served with a side of fruit and topped with housemade orange syrup.  Also, a side of thinly sliced fried ham.  I sat and I read Writing Down The Bones and had a quiet conversation with the waitress for a few moments.  She asked if I was part of the writing group that was currently in town.  I told her sadly I was not,  instead I was a student at Ecola.  She smiled and said, "Well at least for you, the teaching at Ecola is much more theological, rather than epicurean.  That writers' group is from a much more worldly background."  I smiled at her usages of the words theological and epicurean in literal everyday conversation.  I thought to myself, "These are my people."  In my quiet contemplation and observation of the couples seated around me, I heard the word decadent used by two different men, seated at two different tables.  Wonderment.

I can only recall all of these details because I wrote them down as they were happening.  Writing Down The Bones has officially penetrated my entire being.  In a frenzied desire to improve and rehearse my writing skills, I have taken to writing down almost everything that has been happening to me since I arrived here a week ago.  I love it.  I haven't written this much by way of practice and habit in a long, long, long time.  It feels good.  It feels good to remember that I don't always have to be working on a project or a blog in order to write.  I can literally just write down experiences, remembrances, moments,  thoughts as they're happening, and open my eyes to the world of infinite detail around me.

I'm experiencing a lot of conviction, here.  Conviction in my character,  with the goal to improve my personal desires and habits in my walk through life.  Conviction in my faith, with the urgent need to become more responsible and active in a working relationship through prayer, trust, faith and reverent fear in God with my Holy Father.  Also, a conviction in my writing, to deeply challenge myself to new heights and new depths, and to be okay with the process, even if it produces some seriously bad writing results.  That's okay.  Be gentle with yourself, Hannah.  It all takes time.

I read something in Writing Down The Bones that hit me pretty hard.  With a newly found conviction to be less prideful, I'm going to share it with you, even though I don't want to admit my weaknesses.

"Writers get confused.  We think writing gives us an excuse for being alive. We forget that being alive is unconditional and that life and writing are two separate entities. Often we use writing as a way to receive notice, attention, love. 'See what I wrote. I must be a good person.' We are good people before we ever write a word."

Ouch.  I've been there.  I was sort of the mayor of there.  In fact, I don't think I've even left yet.

Hopefully in my time here, and with this amazing book beside me, I will gather the courage and the pluck to pick up and settle somewhere new, far away from this place of confused excuses, and the pathetic desire to find love through scripted words.

Being a writer doesn't define me.  It doesn't make me a good person.  I can't hide behind it, even though I try so hard to let it tower over me, protect me, hide me and give me excuses to be full of deceit, ignorance, pride and instability.

I am not to be defined by anything of this world.

How deeply I have fallen from my roots, and how much I have forgotten by way of convictions.

I can't be defined by love, either.  I can't be defined by relationship status or by the amount of people who are tripping over their shoelaces to come and visit me.  I can't be defined by my possessions, not even my banjo, or my typewriter.

I could be defined, possibly, by forgiveness.

Something I desperately need to ask from God for my slothfulness, my wickedness, my many attempts, subconscious or not, to run far, far, far away from His sheltering care.

I've come here with many preconceived notions and selfish purposes and I'm finding out very quickly that I  have come with all the wrong intentions.  But I am here, and with God's help, I will remain.  I will learn and grow and repent and seek and fall again and again and again, but at least it's happening.

It's happening, and I'm aware.  I'm quivering, I'm luminescent, I'm fearful and I'm radiant all at the same time.  I'm terrified of what it all means, but I know it's the best possible place for me to be right now, or else I wouldn't be here.  I wouldn't be going through these things.

I am not a fan of transitions, we all know this, but I am a fan of changes, and I am also a fan of processes, no matter how long they take.

And this process, scary and tumultuous as it might be, is loved.  I love it.  I welcome it and I accept it.  I thank God for bringing it into my life, and to my blurred attention.

"A Christian is not a man who never goes wrong, but a man who is enabled to repent and pick himself up and begin over again after each stumble- because the Christ-life is inside him, repairing him all the time, enabling him to repeat (in some degree) the kind of voluntary death which Christ Himself carried out."

Thanks for being here for me, lovers, day in and day out.

Wishing you all the caressing sea breezes, vanilla soy lattes and inspiring C.S. Lewis quotes in the world,

Love,
Hannah.

At The Water's Edge

If I could paint a picture for you,  I would paint it only in shades of ocean blue.

If I could sing a song for you, I would sing it only in lulting, hushed tones.

If I could take your hand and bring you anywhere, I would take your hand and bring you here.

If I could write a story for you, I would write it only in the language of hope.

If I could close my eyes and see anything, I would see you standing in front of me.

If I could know anything for you, I would know only what you need to share.

If I could be anything to you, I would be only a refuge and a safe place.

If I could carve a tree for you,  I would carve it only in the shape of a diamond.

If I could do all of these things, I would do all of them only for you.

Only for you.

If I could learn anything from you,  I would learn you only from the inside out.

And with the knowledge I would gain, I would give my only world  to wrap around only you.

And these are the thoughts that play here at the water's edge.

The Banjo Girl

Well, lovers.  It's finally happened.  I'm officially a beach-town resident.

I had wanted to do a pre-school post the night before I left, to sort of sum up all my thoughts and feelings and apprehensions about the upcoming months and what they might hold for me,  but time got away from me.  I was tired, exhausted more like,  I was emotional, and I needed a best friend skype date more than I needed to update a blog that hardly anyone reads anyways.

So, without giving myself time to process,  I closed my eyes, held my nose and just jumped right in.  Geronimooooooooo.  

Yesterday seems almost like a blur.    But then again,  I can remember everything about it in a very vivid manner.  I just have to say that I was not in any way expecting the overwhelming welcome that was given to me when I got here.

Everyone I've met has been lovely, and warm, and welcoming, and inviting, and involved.

I  have two very cute and bubbly roommates, both of whom are very, very outgoing and social.  I think it'll be good for me to be around them.  I've turned into a quiet little recluse over the past year and a half, and  I think God's trying to tell me something.  ;)

I've met what seems like hundreds of smiling, lovely, funny people already, and had my first two classes this morning, which I enjoyed and would have enjoyed much, much more if I had been 100% awake and coherent.  I was not.  Hence the two hour nap I took this afternoon.

My parents took me to lunch today, and then afterwards they packed themselves into my Volvo and drove away.  I was so tired, I didn't even have time to process them leaving, really.  I just tumbled up the stairs and climbed up into my top bunk and passed out.  After replacing my jeans with sweatpants, of course.

I've only had one of the meals here, so far, and have been thus unimpressed with the food quality, but I must remember that I am the worst sort of food snob, and should be thankful it's better than your average camp/cafeteria style food.  At least there was a freshly bagged salad with storebought french dressing for me to indulge in.  If you didn't catch the heavy sarcasm in that last sentence,  I'm losing my touch as a writer.

At least I haven't lost my sense of humor.  Although this infernally cold dorm might put a damper on my spirits.  I have to be wearing my wool socks, a fleece, and be under three layers of down comforters to be warm.

Still, nitpicking aside,  I really do feel that I'm going to enjoy my time here.  How could I possibly complain when the ocean lays at my front door, beautiful mountains decorate my backyard, and the people are truly friendly?
Truth be told, I can't complain.  So I won't.

Also, word travels faster than the speed of sound around here, as several people have already come up to me and said, "Oh, you're the banjo girl!" To which I just smile and reply,  "Yes.  Yes I am."

I think I'm going to like it here.

Hugs, cuddles and lots of chocolate chips lovers,


Xx,

Hannah

Madly Ricocheting

"I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad.  Or I can go mad by ricocheting inbetween."  -Sylvia Plath


2011 has ended, my dears.   It's bright, vibrant flame has been snuffed.  The doors have been closed on a room that will never open again; a room which held in its reaches many new experiences,  many chances to grow, and cartloads of vitality.  No, Alice,  2011 did not lack muchness at all.

In fact, 2011 was the year of muchness.  I am thankful for everything God brought into my life over the course of the past year.  I have learned irreplaceable lessons.  I have seen beauty.  I experienced vitality.

The time now has come for 2012 to ignite.  Let oxygen feed the fire!  

Over the past week, I've been thinking a lot about how to christen this new year.  Last year, the word vitality came to mind.   This coming year has been a struggle to pin down for various reasons.  Part of me thinks its because I can't see past the next six months, so how could I possibly foresee a theme for the whole year?

Mostly when I look into 2012, I foresee a lot of space.  A lot of stark, blank, wide open space.  There's no known familiarity to really clog the vision.  I'm starting off 2012 by throwing myself headfirst into a completely new and foreign experience.

An experience that will force me to stand on my own two feet and take responsibility for all of my actions.  I will be at the mercy of my own, solitary whims.  I will be at liberty to call a few of my very own shots.  In short: With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility,  and lest we forget:  Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.   Huzzah.  Huzzah.  Huzzah.


Oh, Please.

  Let's not deny, shall we,  that all of the whims and shots I'll be calling upon will have to do with such trivial things as complete control over the car stereo, walking alone on the beach for hours at a time  and whether or not the weather is good for a surfing lesson.  (Which I'm finding out doesn't really matter in the end, anyway.)

The theme for this year is not responsibility.  And it's not the pursuit of happiness, either.

The theme, or anthem, rather, for 2012 is freedom.

Freedom in choice,  freedom in faith,  freedom in ambiguity, freedom in the stark, open spaces that God will help me to paint with bold, vivacious colors over the next 12 months.

Freedom in starting over.

Freedom in expression.

Freedom in learning, from people and from life.

I didn't run a 5K in 2011 like I said I would.  I didn't take a bellydancing class and I didn't read my Bible everyday, either.  But I did travel, and I did yoga in places that you'd never imagine yourself doing yoga in,  and I caught fish.  I learned how to drive, I learned how to let things go, and I learned how to be hurt by someone without letting them walk all over you.

All because in the background of my mind, I knew that I had given myself the goals of learning how to savor every moment for its beauty and importance and of learning how to achieve vitality in the space of 12 short months.

I feel like I won.

So let's do it all over again in 2012, with that same thirst for life that vitality teaches you, but lets target it towards a deliciously ambiguous and unknown year.  Complete nakedness.  Freedom from the cages that our minds will desperately try to lock us in.


Take this journey with me.


Let's ricochet.



Xx,

Hannah