Month: February, 2010


I made a mistake yesterday.

It wasn’t huge. No one was physically hurt or injured. Nothing permanent.

But I was embarrassed. It was a silly mistake that looked to be so much worse than it actually was. It had the appearance of evil. Neigh, the potential of catastrophic evil.

As my roommate and I were talking about the issue, I found myself getting so angry. I felt like she was holding me to such a higher standard than anyone else. Like she expected too much out of me.

And it hit me: She didn’t expect too much out of me … I expect too much out of myself.


And maybe this isn’t a bad thing, if you’re striving to be the next greatest American citizen or planning to become an astronaut, but if in general, you just want to live a life of peace, it is a BAD THING.

When you expect too much of yourself, the ramifications can be incredibly negative. Pleasing oneself can be impossible. And while it’s good to strive and set goals, it’s also so important to be REALISTIC.


AND LIFE STILL GOES ON. We get forgiven and God starts life all over again the next day.

So while today started for me with a bitter taste, it has far surpassed that feeling. I would almost go as far to say it was a bit of a born again experience. I felt (and feel) as if I had found the secret to life.

Maybe I have.




“And I realized that then you were perfect
With my teeth ripping out of my head
And it looked like a painting I once knew
Back when my thoughts were not the leak intact”

-Manchester Orchestra.


I have always loved this poem. It’s such a paradox, isn’t it? To love and let go. ┬áThe oxymorons, the imagery, the personification, this is a POEM. It gets my english blood stirring!

To Have Without Holding
Marge Piercy

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can’t do it, you say it’s killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor’s button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.


When I was a little girl, like other little girls, I thought my babysitter was the coolest person in the world. She was beautiful, smart, had the best barbie collection, listened to Backstreet Boys in the car, and took me to get rainbow ice cream at TCBY.

But as I grew, she grew too. When she became a junior in high school, she didn’t visit much anymore. She started having problems at home. But this didn’t register with me. All I knew was that she didn’t spend time with me anymore.

A few days ago I was at the gym and she walked right past me. I know she saw me, but she chose to keep on walking.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. It used to bring me to tears. I am twenty-one, and seeing my old babysitter walk past me can still bring me to tears.

But over the years, as these encounters (or lack thereof) have built up, I realized that instead of pining away about it, I needed to take that experience and DO SOMETHING with it.

You see, there is a little girl whom I love. Oddly enough, she is exactly eight years younger than me, the same age difference between me and my babysitter. I decided a long time ago, that every time I see my babysitter, I would call my favorite little girl and tell her how much I love her.

So maybe that bad experience has this purpose: to teach you what NOT to do. To help you make someone else’s experience the opposite of yours. Sometimes the best parents are the parents who had the worst examples. I believe that this world is a world of cycles, but we are the cycle breakers. That power lies in each of us.

So what cycle will you break today?


“The function of the society is to cultivate the individual. It is not the function of the individual to support society.” – Joseph Campbell