Tea Talk

A good friend came over last night. I had just fallen asleep on the couch and was a bit disoriented but since he brought both tea and good conversation I forgave him.

We ended up talking about relationships and the spirituality of sexuality. I told him things were not as cut and dried as I had once naively thought they were, and he agreed. He said it was scary when you thought about it, because the spiritual aspect lifted sexual behaviour beyond self-gratification and brought a bunch of responsibility to it...and that the lines that people lay out for you in Sunday School aren't neccesarily the way things work in real life.

"You are in a moment, and you know not to go any further, and then the next time everything feels right, and you push against the boundaries and they are still there, but they are a lot further out than you expected them to be. Suddenly you're swimming in water that is far deeper than you thought it was but you aren't drowning and it is all still right and you are still okay."

I kind of butchered what he said, but I think I got the spirit of it. It stuck out in my mind because it put into words exactly what I have experienced. It was good to hear that I am not alone in this strangeness...and I always appreciate it when others can put into words something that I cannot.

We also talked about God, and how life is a gift. That everything in life is a gift, and some parts of life aren't meant to be explored all at once, but that the gift itself is still good even if the moment isn't right. That hope is always there and is so hard to kill. That as long as you are alive there is equal potential for good or evil. That the body is a strange thing. That the spirit is unexplainable. That acceptance of pain can be good or so wrong. That it is a miracle that pain can not only be healed but that great beauty can come out of it. That sometimes it is supposed to hurt, and that when we stop fighting we can find a way to heal.

We didn't talk about it, but good friends are gifts too.

I thank God I have so many of them.

Adulthood

I have really good friends. I have been reminded of that this week, and I am very grateful for them.

One of my best friends, R., and I have spent a lot of time talking this weekend. I needed that more than I knew. I’ve been dealing with some big things – my sexuality, boundaries, living with the old girlfriend, my changing relationship with my parents – and it is so good to have someone to talk to who can relate and listen and share my life. R. is very good at helping me to articulate things I am feeling but have no words for, and at listening and giving me perspective on things that seem overwhelming.

I thought that I had licked this whole parent relationship thing. I really did. I thought I had figured out what it was supposed to be now. I’ve started figuring it out, that much is true, but it is still in process. It’s not easy. The problem isn’t my parents. It’s me and my response to them, my perception of them and of how they think of me, even though that perception may be skewed. I don’t know why, but it is so easy to fall back into habitual behaviours, the way I was when I was 16, and so hard to be my adult self around them. I am still trying to find out what it looks like to be the adult child.

It’s hard because I am still learning which voices in my head are my own and which ones are theirs. The hardest thing is that sometimes when I do figure out which messages are coming from whom, I can’t trust my own voice because it is in direct contradiction to the voices of my parents. And maybe my voice is naïve, but I just can’t follow their voices anymore. Even if I’m wrong, I have to figure that out myself and I can’t until I listen and am honest with myself.

Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck in a big sticky web, with my parents and mentors as this big spider trying to keep me there despite my fighting hard to get out, to breathe, to become my own person and get the web off of my skin. I know that it will be a good thing to get free – and I know that yes, that will mean that I can get hurt and yes, that will mean that I might make mistakes in a big-person’s arena, but dammit, I am a big person now. If I can’t make adult mistakes than I will never become an adult. It sounds terrible to put it that way, but it feels true. I cannot become an adult if I’m being protected from adulthood. I need to be able to make adult choices, to have adult freedom, and yes, that means I’ll have the potential to make adult mistakes that will leave adult consequences.

My parents love me very much, and I know they just don’t want me to get hurt. I can respect that and at the same time I don’t want protection anymore. I am an adult and their time to protect me is over. If I haven’t gotten the tools to survive in an adult world by now, it is too late for them to give them to me.

I love my parents very much as well, and I respect them very much. They have been through a lot, and have been faced with situations and decisions that I have never had to deal with – and hopefully never will. That makes this hard too. I don’t have a map for this. Relationships would be so much easier if they came with maps, but they don’t and all I can do is trust God and go forward in the way that feels best.

I just want to tell them – You have to let go of me and my choices and my life and let me live, breathe, make mistakes, get hurt, find love, create joy and learn my own path. I will be okay. You are my parents, yes.

But I am not a child anymore.

Social Mixer

As I sit and type I feel like I am on the ocean – the wind blowing the leaves of the trees outside, the sound like the tide lapping, my stomach quivering as if it is going to leap into the sea with or without me.

I am not really sick. I don’t have any good reason to feel like this – no flu, I’m definitely not pregnant. No, instead my reason is that I am inexperienced in the ways of drinking and thus mixed three different kinds of wine last night.

Yes, friends, I am currently experiencing my first hangover. It’s quite mild, just a little bit of an upset stomach, but I’ve been told it still counts as a hangover. I’m not sure what I think about it. I didn’t get drunk, so I feel like I’m being punished for something I didn’t even do. I only felt a little off balance last night – which is apparently known as tipsy – and I was coherent enough to stop when I noticed I could get out of hand. I wasn’t coherent enough to follow my friends’ advice and drink tons of water before going to bed, though, so I woke up feeling like if only I could empty my stomach my life would be wonderful again. No headache, thank God, but definite waves of nausea.

A sign of my naivety is that I didn’t even know what was wrong with me. I mentioned that I felt a bit sick and L. calmly informed me that I was a little bit hung-over. Well, she actually laughed at me. She thinks it's quite funny. I was shocked. A little bit of dizziness last night and now I want to puke.

I haven’t thrown up. I’m kind of proud of that fact. Of course, I didn’t drink very much either. I avoided the tequila, for instance. I don’t understand why anyone would want to drink something that vile. And I knew enough not to mix different kinds of liquor anyway – but why didn’t anyone tell me that you can’t mix different wines? I was in a very experimental mood and tried a dry red, a sweet white and a raspberry merlot that went down like candy – and all within an hour and a half.

Huh. When I think of it that way, I'm really quite lucky. I should feel much worse.

And no doubt it helps that I left before they got out the spiced rum…

Dad

My relationship with my father hasn’t always been a good one. It hasn’t been terrible. For most of my life it just wasn’t much of anything. Growing up, my memories of him are mostly of where and when he wasn’t. He worked away from home or on shifts that made him sleep the day away. It seemed to me that money and bosses were more important that I was, and for a long time I accepted that as the way things were supposed to be. When I realized that was a lie, I got angry. I spent several years being quietly very angry at my dad. Angry that he wasn’t there. Angry that I wasn’t a priority to him. Angry that he thought he knew me when he didn’t.

Several years ago my dad injured his knee and was unable to work. He spent a year and a half, pretty much, staying at home and completely changing the schedules and lives of the rest of the family. It was quite disruptive at first. At first I didn’t like it one bit. I had my life organized, thank you, and this was upsetting all of my carefully built walls and orders. But, like many things that I find upsetting, it was the beginning of something necessary. Something good.

I was forced to decide whether or not I wanted a relationship with this man who had helped to give me life. I had to decide whether I wanted him to know who I was now, the woman I was becoming. At first I wasn’t sure. I didn’t trust that he would stick around – he hadn’t before – and I didn’t want to invest in something that was going to end in me being abandoned yet again. I was angry and resentful and had more than my fair share of grudges.

I’m so thankful that I chose to begin a relationship with my father. I have discovered so much. I knew that he didn’t know me – but I didn’t know how much I didn’t know him. I had been told all my life how much wisdom my father had – but I had doubted or simply taken it for granted. I didn’t know how much I need his voice in my life.

When my dad taught me how to drive, he sat in the passenger seat and cleaned his fingernails. He was so certain that I knew enough of what I was doing to keep us both alive and on the road. His calm was infectious and gave me the confidence I needed to remain calm and relaxed myself. He’s still like that about the things I face in life. When I first realized that I loved S., I freaked out. I called to talk to my mom but she wasn’t home, so I ended up talking to my dad. His voice was the one I needed in that moment. I needed to hear that I wasn’t crazy, that there was no such thing as a time schedule when it came to love, that love was scary and that it wasn’t all supposed to be rainbows and pastel clouds…that me crying about being in love was okay. He told me that emotions can be overwhelming and can come out in bizarre ways – that crying for happiness wasn’t stupid. He told me that my instincts for physical lines were good, and put into words the things I am trying to achieve in the physical aspects of my relationship.

He is so calm, so trustful that my own instincts and abilities will kick in when I need them to. He is so sure that I will hear God’s voice and obey it. That he doesn’t need to be God’s voice for me. That I will figure out this crazy thing called life and love on my own. And at the same time, he doesn’t take a backseat to my life and keep his wisdom to himself. He still wants to be involved, to know where I’m at and what I’m dealing with. He wants to share his life with me.

My dad has been so open with where he screwed up as a father. He has heard my pain and anger and accepted that it is his fault – and cried with me. I have seen my father cry with regret at the things that he didn’t do. I have seen my father cry with the pain of loss, the pain of being hurt. He has shown me that it is okay to cry. It takes strength to cry.

My dad left a safe job and followed a calling. He didn’t give up when every logical voice told him his dream was unattainable, that he was causing his family hardship. He didn’t give up even when he began to believe those voices. He stuck it out – and is now working at a job he loves. He has been such an inspiration to me. When I could have followed the safe path, chosen a career that would have promised a steady income and constant work, his example helped me to take the scary leap of faith and jump headlong onto a path that I love, a vocation instead of a job, a journey that will be hard and won’t make me rich but that feeds my soul like nothing else I know. His example and his support have made it possible for me to do this – and have kept me from quitting when it all seems impossible.

I love my dad so much. He has shown me how not to live – money isn’t everything and family is so much more important. He has shown me that anyone can change – it is scary and it does hurt but the rewards are great. He has shown me how to love. He has shown me how to run. How to fight and how to laugh and how to cry. How to see God and that it is okay to rage against Him. His journey has been so integral to my own, so influential and eye opening and humbling and joyous. I don’t know how I would be able to live without him there, quietly and proudly supporting me, his daughter whom he loves.

I love you, Dad.

Don’t you dare go away from me yet.

Long Time, No See

It seems like an eternity since I last posted anything here. I've been busy - the usual excuse - and now that I have a moment of time I'm not sure what to write. There was something I wrote almost a month ago that I think I'll post here now - something that I intended to put here and then chickened out on and never did. I believe I wrote it August 15th.


Discovering that you have fallen in love is probably not supposed to be a horrifying realization. Most people, upon realizing that they love someone, probably don't stare blankly ahead and say 'Holy shit'. Most people probably don't wonder what the hell is wrong with them when they realize they're in love.

I'm just guessing though. Perhaps I am a completely normal person, experiencing completely normal responses to a completely normal phenomenon. Perhaps the vast majority of people out there are scared shitless by the mere suggestion of something more than 'like'. Maybe most people fall in love because of absolutely ridiculous things, too.

In case you missed it, I have now experienced the marvelous sensation called Falling In Love. Like any other kind of falling, there seems to be a feeling of weightlessness. A lack of air. A startled feeling in my chest where my heart should be beating. Unlike other kinds of falling there is also happiness. A certain delight. A settledness.

I am scared too. What else is new, really? When I read my journals and blog posts I am astounded that my nickname isn't Chickenshit. I love someone who doesn't have to love me back. He's not like my family. He can cut and run at any time. He isn't neccesarily there for good.

People aren't supposed to fall in love after only 2 months, are they? I've never fallen in love before but this seems so quick. Granted I've known him for 2 years. But still - this was so unexpected.

Especially because of what pushed me over the edge. He was drunk at a party and he turned to me and said, "This is why that song (Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace) describes me so well. It doesn't matter where I am, what social situation I'm in or who I'm around, I'm the same person inside. This is who I am." He looked so hopeless. I saw through masks that I hadn't realized were even there and saw hurts that I hadn't known exsisted. Why on earth would I fall then? Why did that get me when all the sweet things he's done, all the respectful, romantic, charming stuff didn't? I don't understand, but I suddenly loved him. In that moment. Even as I fell, I was thinking I can't change him. Loving the shit out of someone doesn't work. I know this and I fell in love with him anyway. In spite of that. Because of that.

It doesn't hurt that he treats me with respect. That he asks where my lines are and doesn't cross them. That he wants me and wants to spend time with me, that he likes talking to me and listening to me. That he looks like an angel when he sleeps...when all the masks are down and he looks like he is at peace. That he holds doors for me and cooks for me. All of that certainly doesn't hurt.

Not like this could when - if - I hit the bottom.

Holy shit.

I've fallen in love.


I still love him, I still don't understand why. It still causes me pain and makes me very happy. It is sobering to realize that I love someone and I always will, even if I don't end up making my life with him. I didn't expect this to happen - this relationship went from a fun thing to have to something I care deeply about in a heartbeat. I went from a 'me' to an 'us' and I don't know how.

I'm not as freaked out as I was when I wrote this. I'm not as worried that I'm moving too quickly - I've learned that things happen in their own time and that there is no normal. I'm not as scared, even though I'm realizing that I've opened myself up to a whole new level of getting hurt. What fun.

It has been interesting to see what is true about love and what isn't. Being in love does cause joy and distress at the same time...those young lovers who wail and moan and complain about love while they are obviously not going to leave it behind are being honest in a very dramatic way. Love isn't blind, though. I can still see all the things that irritate me about S. quite well, and they still irritate me too. I just have more patience. Love is patient, kind and long-suffering. Love is a mine-field. Love is very complex, wonderful, and confusing.

Those of you who read this and pray, keep me - and S. - in your prayers. Guidance seems like the thing that we both need in this new landscape, this new world I've fallen into without a map.

An Unofficial Poll

About five weeks ago I began asking people in my town, “What is your definition of making out?” I started asking because I figured this was something I needed to know, and I’ve continued asking because I’ve been getting such great answers and besides, I’m extremely curious. I’ve decided to post these answers for your enjoyment – and I’m extending an invitation to join in and post your definitions too.

Here are the answers I’ve received so far.

• 
  Anything more than normal kissing – French kissing is making out.
  
• Kissing from the neck up. Heavy petting, although it may be simultaneously occurring, is a completely different (and wonderful) thing.
  
• Anything the girl is comfortable doing that isn’t sex.
  
• Kissing – people should keep their hands to themselves until they’re engaged.
  
• Hands under clothing.
  
• Kissing with hands over clothing, and grindage of bodies. Underwear doesn’t count as clothing.
  
• If time has gone by without you noticing, you’ve been making out.
  
• Horizontal kissing.
  
• Involved kissing.
  
• Intimate physical contact with intention.
  
• Full out making love.
  
• Really intense kissing.
  
• Anything that you wouldn’t be comfortable doing in public.
  
• Kissing, primarily. Heavy petting belongs to a different commitment level.
  

I’ve asked 16 people so far, and although I cannot remember every single response, these are the ones that stand out. As you can see, there is a common idea but there are some extremes too.

As for my definition? [a delicious smirk and a giggle…] Well, I think I’m going to have to conduct a little more research before I know that for sure.

Sudsy Mouthwash

Yesterday I wrote a brilliant post, all about my weekend at my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, seeing cousins I hadn't seen for 10 years, and how I felt about not being cast in the Christmas show. I agonized, laboured and gave birth to a beautiful assortment of letters and punctuation marks. And, as I clicked "Publish", I saw the little, tiny notice that said, "I am not working properly today and so your post, your lovely little word-baby, will get lost in cyber-space and eaten by ravening dotcoms. Kiss it goodbye now, because you'll never see it again." And it was right. No amount of groaning, hitting the desk, searching through my internet history, or swearing brought back my perfect post. And trust me, I did a lot of swearing. I don't think I've sworn that much, ever. I almost cried, I was so upset.

So now I get to try to recreate a post. It is impossible to rewrite something like that, something that was just that wonderful, but here goes.

My grandparents have been married for 50 years. At the festivities, I saw two cousins I haven't seen for 10 years. I realized that their world view and mine are radically different, but we both create art from our world views which fascinates me. I found out, upon my return, that I am not in the Christmas show. I am both disappointed (of course I want to be cast) and relieved (in that now I know at least). I might audition for the smaller Christmas production but there are a lot of girls auditioning so my chances are diminished. And, in conclusion, acting is hard.

See? So much was lost because of technology. The original was a work of art - this was just work.

On a much nicer note, I am housesitting for one of my teachers this week. Her house is adorable. It used to be a one car garage but is now an absolutely fantastic house for one person (or two, if they're cozy). I covet it - I would love to live there. She has a cat, Portia, and I'm glad she's a house cat because I've missed having a cat in the house. Plus there's a garden I can eat out of, a gas stove to cook with, books to read, pretty curtains, movies, and some space to myself. It will be a nice week.

It'll give my mouth a chance to get the soap taste out, anyway.

Open Hearts

Yesterday I found out that my boyfriend's ex might be our new housemate in September.

My initial reaction to this was not one of joy, understandably. I don't particularly like this girl. I don't think she made a very good first impression on me when I first met her on her scout week. Even without the complication of her history with S. I wouldn't be thrilled to live with her. She is young and headstrong, dominant and loud - none of which are traits I would choose in a housemate.

However, I have no choice in the matter. That is one of the joys of living in student housing, a joy that I think I was well prepared for by living in rented houses all of my life. Everyone else in my house, all of whom feel vast reluctance to live with M. as well, have the impression that they can simply put their foot down and not allow her to live in 'our' house. None of them are life-long renters, and the notion of simply submitting to this is not even in their minds.

Surprisingly, I am the most receptive to the idea, which makes me laugh a little. I have the most reason not to want to live with her, after all. I think knowing that I have no say in the matter means that instead of a mindset of fighting M.'s inclusion to our house, I immediately go to a place of 'how can I deal with this?'. Well, not immediately...my first thought was something more along the lines of "God, make another solution present itself. Make her live with first years - they don't know any better."

Because part of the problem is that none of her class mates from last year want to live with her either. She has not made a reputation for being easy to get along with, and on top of all of her grating personality traits, she's a messy person. There's just not a lot of incentive to live with this girl.

After brooding on this for an hour and then writing furiously for a while during the show, I was able to ask God for grace, love, courage and trust that this would all work out somehow. Either that another house would be found for M. to live in, or that her living with us would be a good thing. Somehow.

And somehow, when I fronted the concept to my housemates that night, I was the least venomous towards M., and the most accepting of the idea of her living with us. I guess God had already started giving me that grace and love that I'd asked for.

Since it is really likely that M. will live with us, I hope that God can open everyone's hearts in our house towards her. She is going into the busiest year of her life here, and the last thing she needs is to live in a house full of hostility and judgement. And, quite frankly, I don't need to live in a house of tension either. I like that our house is a sanctuary, a place where we can all come and be safe. Right now I trust my housemates and they trust me - and regardless of who comes in, they are going to upset that for a while, at least. I really desire for us to be able to bring M. into our sanctuary instead of having her destroy it.

In a way, it might be good that M. comes into our house. I can see that some other people could have been too quickly and easily integrated into our circle of trust without having to prove that they belonged there. At least M. will not be accepted into our confidences without good, good reason.

It's a gift that I can see how good it could be for M. to live in our house, if we can get rid of our walls towards her. She has enough walls of her own, which will need to come down if she is going to succeed here, and they won't come down if she isn't somewhere that she feels is safe. It could be really good for us too - I can see that it will make me learn all kinds of things that I would be able to ignore otherwise.

Pray for us, please. Where ever M. lives, it will not be easy for her or her housemates. If she lives with us, I anticipate a stretching, growing, painful experience - and yet I have hope that good will come out of it. But pray for us anyway...we will need all the love God can embellish us with, and very open hearts.

The World is Too Large

I just finished reading "My Name is Asher Lev". It has taken me a long time to read this book. I've gotten distracted with other books, with other occupations, with people, with things...but this book has won out and now that I'm finished it, I can see why it is a must-read on so many people's lists.

If you haven't read it, please do.

The artist's struggle - the internal debate between honesty and safety - just read the book.

Out of curiosity, what books are on people's must-read lists? My list is so long...it really depends on who asks me. I have a list of children's books, a list of fantastic fiction, a list of books that really impacted my beliefs, a list of not fiction...lists of specific authors...it is very difficult to narrow it down to 10 books, but in a fit of spontaneity I'm going to try right now.

These are in no particular order because that would just be too much hair-pulling strain.

1. The Five Children and It by E. Nesbit
2. The Narnia Chronicles by C. S. Lewis (please don't make me narrow it down to one)
3. Walking on Water by Madeleine L'Engle (while you're at it, read all of her other books too)
4. Children of the Mind by Orson Scott Card (but you have to start at the beginning of the series to understand this one)
5. The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell (and then you can read the sequel!)
6. Tom's Midnight Garden by Philippa Pearce
7. The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien (if I can only have one, then The Return of the King - but ha! You have to read the others for this one to make any sense!)
8. Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls
9. The BFG by Roald Dahl
10. Oh, I can't decide! [insert wail of despair.] I ended up remembering so many wonderful books from my childhood (like "The Cricket in Times Square" by George Selden) that books that I am reading now and quite enjoying (like Chaim Potok's "My Name is Asher Lev", or "Thief of Time" by Terry Pratchett, or "The Hitchhiker's Guide..." by Douglas Adams) got quite swept away in the flood. A top 10 list of books is actually a ridiculous idea. There are far too many good books out there. Far too many! Even a top 10 list of authors would fill me with regrets for the ones I had to leave out.

However, this list will do for now. I realize I've cheated by really listing more than 10 books, but any effort to change that will result in me throwing a mighty tantrum. Trust me, you do not want me to throw a mighty tantrum, so just leave my list alone.

Unless you want to add to it by telling me your favorite books...because however huge the world of books may be, I really don't think it can ever really be too large.

A Really Quiet, Persistent Voice

I really like how Microsoft Word puts that little red line underneath words that are spelled wrong. It's like having a very quick dictionary right at my fingertips - when I'm writing an email, or on here, I can easily check my spelling without waiting for the spellcheck option to load online. If it wasn't for that wonderful red line, I would have misspelled 'persistent' and that would have been embarrassing.

All summer in this lovely little town we have chapel services every Friday. I really needed today's chapel. We met together, sang some songs, and then went on a Sabbath walk, which was an amble to simply be. To really see the world around and to just be without having to do something or get anywhere. That is how I like to walk, but even I don't take the time to simply be alone, to see the world. This day was really no exception, as I was battling in my head. Unrest is not fun.

I have been in turmoil because my boyfriend and I don't see eye to eye when it comes to sex. He respects that I have chosen not to have premarital sex - he is very respectful of me and my physical boundaries. It's our viewpoints on sex that don't line up.

To me, sex is sacred. It is an extremely meaningful act of love and intimacy that cannot be treated lightly. To him, it is simply a physical act. Sure, it's intimate, but he doesn't see it as meaningful. That bothers me a lot. To the point where, on my walk, I was asking God if I should break up because that is something that I can see as being a problem if we ever got serious.

This is the kind of thing that I think is irresponsible to simply let go of but that is what God told me to do. "Let go of it. It isn't your problem to deal with right now."

That was not what I was expecting to hear, and I was speechless. It was surreal. And I was given peace about the whole thing. Peace that being with S. is still somehow a good thing. Peace that this bridge doesn't need to be crossed right now and when it does, I will know how to and it will be led by God.

I will never understand God if I live to be 1,000 years old. I seriously doubt that I will understand God even after I die and am in His presence. Instead of being upsetting, that thought makes me smile. He is so much bigger than I can cope with, and His ways are so confusing and yet I can still trust Him, and give Him my worship and love in a way that I have never been able to do before. My relationship with Him is a gift from Him and somehow I am calm in it.

The Sabbath walk made me realize that I need to take my turmoil to God and go for these quiet walks more often. Even when my mind is going a thousand miles a minute, His voice can still be heard. It's a good thing He's so damn persistent because otherwise the quietness would be overwhelmed and I'd never hear Him - and I probably wouldn't be a Christian right now.

I have gone through many periods of time where I thought I was a bad Christian because I don't read my Bible very often and I don't pray much unless I'm asking God for something. You know what? I am glad that I haven't ever managed to do those things. I am glad that I haven't ever managed to keep up with daily devotions. I would have been doing them out of a feeling of obligation and may have never realized that I actually need to find some time every day to simply be with God. I actually need to spend time with God every day, just the two of us.

Huh.

Well, my mom can rest easy now. She sometimes expresses a fear that not having raised us with the mindset of doing daily devotions, memorizing lots of scripture, and going to Bible College has somehow impaired us spiritually. Maybe it would have been a good thing, but I question whether it would have been an honest thing, looking at where my parents were at. I think that this way worked out well. God is bigger than whatever misguided efforts my parents did or didn't make, and He has found His own way to tell me what my spirit needs.

Now my mom can focus on her guilt for not teaching me how to spell.

Innocent Presumption

Last week a girl stayed at our house. As part of the application process for the school, applicants are required to spend a week here, taking classes and getting to know people. It's a good idea. This place is so unique, and a person really needs to get a taste of what they are getting themselves into before they commit to being here for 8 months.

This girl was the oldest scout we've had so far and I really got along well with her. My parents were here too, and while I was doing other things my mom talked to the scout and got to know her a bit. We all ended up going out for dinner which was nice. Because my mom was here, blogs came up and mine was mentioned in passing.

When the scout was leaving, she asked me for my blog address. Actually, what she said was, "Oh, you'll have to give me your blog address!". I laughed. It wasn't a laugh of happiness, it was the kind of laugh that happens when someone does something that displays their ignorance, that shows how little they know about you. It was a 'wow, are you ever presumptuous - I haven't even given my brother my blog address yet' sort of a laugh. I thought it was funny that this stranger would assume that I would give this almost-secret to her. I suppose that to some people a blog is just a way to share some thoughts with the world, but to me it is a vulnerable space. I said something non-commital and then went to my room and thought furiously for a few minutes.

Did I want to share this part of my life with a stranger? Granted, a stranger that I like and that I wouldn't mind getting to know better, but a stranger? Did I have the guts to say, actually I don't want to share this with you, sorry? Or did it matter that much to me?

I eventually decided to give her the address with the by-now-customary "I alone can give this address to people so don't share it" tag line. It might seem a little strange to be so tight-fisted with this site address when it could randomly come up when someone hits the 'next blog' button on another site. I know that some would argue that I spread this site around by posting comments on other blogs (I would argue that I could choose to anonymously post comments, so that is a choice). For some reason, to give this page of thoughts to someone I know is a different thing than to have someone I don't know reading it. And H. scout is someone who could possibly be involved in my life here next year.

I am realizing that regardless of who reads this blog, I have to be honest. I am realizing that I cannot censor myself so that I won't hurt someone who reads my words. That is not what I want this to be. And I am realizing that neither is this a place where I want to vent - that is what my hardcopy journal is for, because while I will not censor myself, I do not desire to harm people either, especially if it serves no purpose but to get it out of my system. I have less harmful ways of doing that. But overall, this is my blog. These are my thoughts, and sometimes they will hurt those who read them. Sometimes they hurt me, writing them. But I know there is a huge difference between hurting and harming, and I never want to harm with my words - ever.

These are all things that I would not have realized as quickly if H. scout had not been so innocently presumptuous, so I really ought to thank her.

Perhaps I already have.

Nothing Really Profound

After the last few posts on here I think I'm giving myself a complex. I do this sometimes, where I write or draw something really beautiful - something that comes from that place beyond self, where time has no meaning and things are simple and ordered and chaotic and perfect - and then I stop, amazed by my own creation and the truth that shines through it. I know that my next attempt won't be that inspired so I don't try again. It's not a good thing. I did that with an art class I took 18 months ago, which frustrates me because I was getting consistently good...so I am not going to do it here.

I don't really have anything profound to say today. Just that I am supposed to be writing a scene for my playwriting homework, I spent the day in a pissy mood for some reason, I worked all day and what I want to do is spend time with my boyfriend but I am determined to finish here first.

Today is two weeks since I started going out with S., as I shall refer to him here. It came out of the blue but has been really - nice, fun, comfortable, exciting, scary. I think it's funny really. After walking the labyrinth, I realized that if I was single and childless for the rest of my life I would be okay with that. For the first time, I could honestly say "God is enough". And then two days later S. asked me out. I spent two days deciding whether or not to do this whole dating thing. I talked to God a lot. I laughed, I fretted, I cried, I had moments of angst and fog and clarity and sobriety and giddiness. I obviously decided to go ahead and give it a try, but there were moments where I wasn't sure that I was ready to 'give up' the new feeling I had just found of actually being content alone.

It blows my mind a little how much of my thoughts are taken up with S. I didn't anticipate that. I also didn't anticipate how much I am afraid of getting carried away and doing something physical that I'll regret, which is not a very valid fear (so far) because we've never been in any situation that would lend itself to getting carried away. I didn't expect to discover that I detatch from postive, happy emotions because I can't cope with them. I knew that I seperate myself from things like pain and sadness and fear - but happiness? Apparently it overwhelms me as much as pain does.

I am connecting dots that were invisable to me several months ago. I don't express emotion physically in real life, which has meant that I don't use my body fully on stage either. I am just starting to notice physical impulses when it comes to expressing emotions, and I am still supressing them half the time - but now I am aware of them, which is a huge step forward for me. I have done some crazy things to cope with 20 years of emotions that I didn't know what to do with. I haven't had a lot of examples of what to do with feelings, unless you count watching someone throw things in anger or run away from pain, or invade other people's space with joy and happiness, or rationalize feelings away all together.

My whole life is going to be one discovery after another. I am beginning to realize that this is never going to end - I will always be finding out new things and learning new things about myself, about God, about those around me.

That might not be really profound, but it is really, really cool.

Broken

I originally wrote this June 5th. I was going to post it then, but the times after that there were other things that needed to be said instead, so I am writing this here now.

I was talking to my mom about faith, grace, God and our difficult journey, our difficult fight to deal with our baggage. I am consistantly overwhelmed with how gentle God is with me. How can He keep forgiving me my trespasses when I am arrogant and selfish and unmerciful and mean and sinful and corrupt and tainted, and deliberately so? Why is there no limit to His love and forgivness, and why do I feel the need to find the end of His patience? It frustrates me that God will never stop loving me and forgiving me. It humbles me and breaks me. I am not worth this. Give this love to someone who won't throw it in your face as if it were so much garbage. Please stop breaking my heart with your endless love. And yet I cling to it with all my soul because I'll die without it. I adore Him and hate myself for my pathetic snivelling weakness. I hate that I will betray Him again. I hate that He will never give me what I deserve, only what He deserves. How can I be so broken, needy, adoring and full of hate? How can I hate the One who loves me so unabashedly, the One I long to love completely?

How can my brokenness be all that He wants? When all I can say is "Help thou my unbelief", how come that is enough? When all I can do is beg for faith, that is all He wants from me. When all I have in me is a tearful cry to be open to Him, He requires no more of me. That is somehow enough even though to me it feels inadequate. How can I have the balls, the nerve to come before the Creator with nothing more than a plea for His grace, His mercy, His faith and His love because I have none of my own and I come to the Lord and Master of the Universe with only the hunger for love and the longing to be filled. Muddy, in rags, filthy and bedraggled I come before Him with grasping empty hands and He says "Come closer, my child". And He gives me more than I can comprehend. He gives me things I can't even appreciate and I throw them away untasted. He calls me His child and He holds me, dirty as I am, and keeps giving until I cannot hold anymore and His gifts spill around me and I'm surrounded. And I don't understand why, or how, He can love me at all. I've never loved Him with the love He deserves. I didn't love Him at all before this year. Such a faulty, pathetic excuse for love, adoration, worship - that's all I bring. The bent and twisted remains of the least of His handiwork, destroyed almost past recognition. And He accepts it with joy as if it were the most precious thing I could ever give Him. Because sadly it is. But that is somehow enough for Him. And it blows my mind and overwhelms my soul until I weep because there is nothing else I can do.

Through writing this the anger and frustration at God's eternal unconditional love subsided. I am now simply grateful and okay with that.

I am still broken by it but I think it is a good kind of broken.

Something My Parents Got Right

I am so thankful for my mother.

I was almost 13 when I got my period for the first time. I was over at a neighbour's house with my brothers and my dad. However, it was okay because I knew right away what was going on. I didn't think I was dying or deathly ill. I knew that I had just made the transformation from girl to woman, and I knew because my mother had told me all about it long before.

I didn't realize that some girls still, in this day and age, weren't warned. I didn't realize that some girls are left in fear, thinking that they are bleeding to death and too ashamed to tell anyone that they are bleeding 'down there' because privates are such a taboo thing to talk about.

That seems medieval in my mind. It's wrong. It turns something that should be beautiful and celebrated, a rite of passage, into a time of fear and shame.

My father bought me a yellow rose when I first got my period, to mark that I was now a woman. It was a time of shy celebration. It was recognized and respected.

It grieves me to know that not every girl has such a beautiful memory of that overwhelming transformation.

My parents were equally upfront when it came to explaining sex to me. I have never had a question that either of them couldn't answer. My mother handled most of the explaining, but there were questions that my father answered, with hardly any hesitation. I am beginning to realize how difficult that must have been for them both, and especially my dad, but it taught me that I can ask any question and get an honest answer. It taught me that my body is not something to be ashamed of, that sex is sacred and joyful. I think it gave me a much healthier view of sexuality. I think that makes it easier for me to set boundaries now, because I'm coming from a place of knowledge and not a place of fear.

I've heard stories of Christian kids who never thought they would stumble in their sexuality and who ended up pregnant. I've heard stories of kids who never thought it would happen to them and then weren't prepared to deal with the rush of everything that interacting with the opposite sex can be. I'm so thankful that my parents were so honest with me. They told me that you think it will never happen, and then you get carried away. They told me that everyone is capable of anything. They encouraged me to make my own decisions, to think through my own choices and accept the consequences and responsibility.

And I wouldn't have known how extraordinary my parents are unless I had talked to my friend, who wasn't told anything about her body or sex by her parents and had to figure things out on her own.

I thank God for the parents He gave me. They aren't perfect - but they did get some stuff very right.

Thank you, Mom and Dad. I feel like I can walk into this new thing called dating with both eyes open because of you.

Thank you.

Labyrinth

Today I walked a labyrinth. I have never walked a labyrinth before, and I had no idea that a labyrinth was something that could be used for prayer and meditation.

I will never forget that now.

Unless I get Alzheimer's or something dreadful.

This was all very timely. I have been pondering on my spiritual life, and my relationship with God. It is something that is becoming more important to me, and I feel like I'm becoming more aware of my need for God in the last two years - especially in the last five months. Even since the beginning of May. In the last week, I was having a conversation with two of my close friends about our future-husband-wish-lists and I realized that for the first time, 'has a deliberate, considered, deep, sincere relationship with God' was on the list for real instead of being on there in a 'oh, yes, I'm a Christian and I suppose I need to marry one too' sort of way.

Today I walked the labyrinth and I had so many things that I could walk it thinking of. I got to the opening and decided to not take any of that in, and let Christ instead lead me where he wanted me to focus. I removed my socks and started. I was so afraid, I was tense and not breathing. I tentatively walked the first quarter of the labyrinth unsure of what was happening. Then I got to a candle that had little glass stones around it, the round ones that you can put in fishtanks. They were all blue and so was the candle. It reminded me of the Holy Virgin. I stopped and looked, and picked up a blue stone. Then, just before I was about to continue, I saw a green sparkle. I put down the blue stone and picked up the only green one. Green, the colour of new life and hope.

These are the thoughts that came to me during my walk.

My mother's chosen name is Hope. My middle name means Grace. These names are not coincidence.
There is trust in you. You do trust Me, when you let go of the fear long enough to see that I am there.
You are loved. I love you more than you will ever realize, and you don't need to run away from that.

When I got to the middle of the labyrinth I sat there and closed my eyes. I held the green stone between my fingers and thought without words. I suddenly had an image in my mind.

I was clothed in white, looking upwards, hands down at my sides. I had just let go of this thick, heavy black stuff that was clawing at me. I had let go of it, and I was now able to fly upwards into the yellow glow of light that was above me.

I saw that and I cried. Deep crying. One of the people in the centre handed me a box of tissues. I appreciated the gesture and accepted the tissues but it made me realize that I need to learn to cry without any way of wiping the tears away. I need to validate my tears, whether they come from a place of pain or a place of joy, and let them fall from my face. I need to let my nose run and be messy because that is the honesty of tears.

After a while the tears subsided and I stood and left the centre. It reminded me of being born. I walked out with my head up. Everyone I met had their heads downcast, as mine had been on the way in.

When I got back to the Virgin's candle I stopped and thanked her and Christ. My head was ringing with the words, "Remind me of this". Over and over and over. After a while I put the green stone back. It felt important to leave it there for the next person to find.

I left my tissues too.

I left the labyrinth lighter than I have been for a while. This strange feeling...I think it is called Peace.

My name is Hope. My name is Grace. My name is Peace. My name is Beloved.

My name is Rebecca.

Stealing Time

May 27th 2006:
No one likes crying, but tears water our souls. - Xinran, author (1958 - )

These words seem so important to me that I feel like I need to write them down everywhere I go, like prayer stones on a Tibetan mountain side. I just finished reading "Sky Burial", which was one of those books my mother thrust at me and I reluctantly agreed to read, rolling my eyes until I got sucked in and found myself watering my soul.

It reads like a fairy tale. It shouldn't be real, but it did really happen. It's heartbreaking. Like Sofia Mendes says, "Love is a debt. When the bill comes, you pay in grief." That quote is from"Children of God" by Mary Doria Russell...another author my mother introduced me to. While I don't know if I fully believe that, there is a fragment of truth to it.

May 29th 2006:
I haven't had a good chunk of brain aware time to write here, but I have been writing - snatching moments of time to put down a few scattered thoughts on whatever tree pulp product is nearest. Thoughts like - why my fellow ASM (assistant stage manager) is almost always late. How the thought of losing my father is enough to make me physically ill.

I recently read on my mother's blog that they think it might be hepatitis. It might only be hepatitis. I laughed. It felt like the kind of laugh you laugh before swallowing a bottle of aspirin, a harsh grouse laugh. No mirth at all. Then I went to rehearsal feeling sick and bitter and relieved and angry. Such a wild mix, no wonder I wanted to throw up. There are too many feelings all rumbling together in my stomach.

That, and I'm tired and Vietnamese is not a food I will ever eat again. Last night I went to Calgary to see a movie and eat with about 18 friends. We ate the afore mentioned Vietnamese which hit my stomach badly (though the bubble tea was cool). The movie, X3, was good. I ended up sitting next to a stranger named Michael who used to do musical theatre in high school and was very interested in my current occupation as ASM of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. He memorized the score for Jesus Christ Superstar, and listens to Andrew Lloyd Webber while he studies. He noticed the wasp land on Wolverine's leather jacket; he gave me a piece of gum which was nice until my jaw locked up on one side. It is still tight today. Chewing is an option I try not to exercise when my jaw does this - no chewing (well, limited chewing), lots of massage and pressure point stuff. The muscles will eventually release and I'll forget it ever happened.

Forgetting. Right now in order to simply function, I don't know if I need to forget everything or scream everything out to the world.

At least I'm struggling with a legitimate fear.

May 30th 2006:
These are the thoughts of the past few days.

Today was the first day in a while where I woke up rested. I woke up happy, and then I remembered that today I will find out the first step of my dad's health - probably a 'this ultrasound was inconclusive, we must run more tests' but still, the first step. That made me solemn in a hurry, which sucked because I was full-of-spring-happy before. At least I don't feel like bawling right now, which is how I felt for vast chunks of yesterday.

Please remember me and my family in your prayers. I for one feel the need for God pretty badly right now.

This is something new for me...

...by which I mean pasting technical jargon into this writing space and hoping it works. Many thanks to troll.

Your Inner European is French!

Smart and sophisticated. You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so.

Who's" Your Inner European?

La la la la la, la la la...

Tonight as I write upstairs in the office I have a tune from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" in my head. The lyrics are, as you may have guessed, "La la la la la, la la la..." ad infinitem. At least, it seems that way since they are stuck in my cranium with little hope of escaping or replacing themselves with something different.

I suppose that is my fault, for choosing to be involved in a musical where there are no spoken words at all. Every morning, every evening, and sometimes in my dreams, the music is present and ready to spill out in an inadvertant hum.

I have learned that I absorb music at a much faster rate than some of the people I live and work with. I had been told that, but now I have something to compare against. After hearing a piece of music three times it is almost perfectly in my head, and if I set out to learn it, I only have to hear it twice and it (almost always) will be settled in to stay. The lyrics are what takes the most effort to learn. If someone sings the wrong words, I can understand that. I do not understand how people who have heard a piece of music can sing the wrong notes.

Today I set off the alarm while entering the office. I walked in and the alarm didn't make that little beeping sound it makes when you trigger it, the sound it makes to let you know you have to disarm it, and so I kept on going. Suddenly there was noise, and I got rattled, and then couldn't turn it off, and in a panic I left the office to stand outside until the local fixer-of-all-things-broken arrived to turn it off. He thought it was very funny. I'm still a little jumpy. Someone just laughed outside and I flinched.

It is late, and I am suddenly tired. I have a full day of rehearsal tomorrow, but I feel better knowing that I have given a sign of life here.

If any of you pray, please pray for my dad. He is going for an ultrasound for potential pancreatic masses. There are people I work with who have recently lost people to pancreatic cancer, and this scares me more than I have admitted to anyone. I do not want to lose my dad. Not yet.

As soft and sudden as a red rose

I just realized that it will be 8 months before I am back at my parent's house. That is 8 months of school and summer...and though it seems long right now, I just got the overwhelming understanding that it will be gone in the blink of an eye.

Time goes so fast. I'm sure tomorrow I'll look in the mirror and I'll be wrinkled, 80, and hopefully happily married with healthy children and grandchildren.

That's okay. As quickly as I was overwhelmed with all that will happen in the next year, I was filled with peace about my life. It will be well with me, I somehow trust that.

My eyes, the window to my soul

I started writing about watching a movie last night with my youngest brother, and realized that I haven't made any mention whatsoever of his newest escapade. He is now introducing his girlfriend as his fiance. They came to see my last show and he just casually dropped the word 'fiance' in conversation. I had a very controlled fit so as not to hurt anyone's feelings. I was so glad for my friend L., who, when she found out, yelled "Fiance?" before regaining control and congratulating them.

By the fourth time of introducing them as a couple I managed to get the word fiance out without it sounding garbled, which I think is important. I don't know - I think they are far too young (18 and 15) and at the same time, a little part of me keeps saying that it is their choice, not mine, and all I can do is be supportive.

I don't like her family. I like her, for which I am thankful. I realized one day that it was entirely possible for the boys to choose mates whom I would despise. Thank God, that hasn't happened. I like the girls they have chosen. I just don't like Youngest's future in-laws. They are so chaotic, so rude, so oblivious, so stupid - so different. They are soooo different from us, I don't know how he can stand to live there. Her mother doesn't seem to realize how rude she is, and she seems to derive some sort of sadistic pleasure from tormenting her daughter. The older sister gets on my nerves. Their world view is miles away from my own. I don't feel like I have any common ground, both with future-sister and especially with her family. They aren't into the books I'm into, they don't watch the movies I watch...or if they do, it is in an infantile way and from an immature perspective. How am I supposed to bridge that gap? I really don't want to have anything to do with them, which I thought wouldn't be a problem to achieve, except that somehow every time I come home I end up spending some of my precious time with them.

Yesterday, when I was planning on watching a movie, Youngest Brother came over with his fiance. Okay, that's fine. I like them. But they brought her sister, without telling me in advance. I don't handle surprises very well. My thoughts read on my face and I can't hide my initial reaction quickly (which is great if it's a good surprise but not so wonderful when my reaction is "What the hell did you do that for?"). Oh well. Either she didn't notice or she graciously ignored it...which, despite the picture I have painted, probably isn't out of her grasp.

I suppose that I could be much more gracious towards them. I somehow end up feeling like the upper class person in a gathering of hoodlums. I hope I don't communicate condescension when what I'm feeling is confusion.

On top of all of this, I realized today that my brother has changed and I don't know him like I used to. That filled me with grief. I feel like I'm losing my brother and I don't know what comes next or how to stop it from unfolding in front of my eyes. He's becoming more like them, more like his fiance's family, and less like the brother I had a year ago.

That certainly doesn't endear them to me. He's started playing mind games and he doesn't see it, even when I point it out to him. He's thinking in an-eye-for-an-eye terms when what would work a lot better would be removing the body attatched to the eye altogether.

Pray for him, please. And for me.

Thank you.

Time to Breathe

I am sitting at my parents computer, wondering what to write. I arrived last night after a long day of sorting out last minute details and driving, lots of driving. I managed to get home in one piece, although I forgot pajamas and my toothbrush. I had a dentist appointment today, to get my beautiful, strong teeth cleaned and they gave me a toothbrush, and since I was in town I went shopping and bought pajamas among other things. Life would be simpler in a way if I just bought what I needed whenever I went somewhere. All I would have to bring with me would be money. It would be too expensive for me though, and that would get complicated quickly.

I learned that I am like my dad today. I already knew that we had things in common - our unnaturally long fingers and toes, our lips, our sense of humour - but now I know that we both get flustered in situations where we have to think quickly around strangers. At the dentist, I suddenly had to decide whether or not to pay right then or wait. Instead of taking a few moments to figure out what worked best, I frantically took the lady's suggestion to send the bill to my mother and I left. In retrospect, I think I am a little bit like the man who has a terrible banking experience in a Stephen Leacock monologue. I get so crazed that I just do whatever seems proper at the time, only to kick myself afterwards for being so phenomenally ridiculous. Although the dentist situation actually does work out pretty well for me. My mom might have a bit of a heart attack when she gets her mail in the next week or so.

I bought a really cute sundress today. I realized when I was in Toronto last February that I like sundresses, so am now bringing them into my life. Tomorrow I think I will start to sort through all of my possesions that my parents are storing for me. There is no way that I'll be able to bring them back to my cell of a room at school, but there are a few little things I need. And I have some cloth that I'm going to make into either skirts or dresses while I'm here.

This week is supposed to be a sabatical. In theory, I'm only doing what I want to do. That isn't the reality. I'm going to visit my grandparents. I always feel a little bit weird going over to their place by myself. In advance, I don't know what I'll talk about. While I'm there, the time flies by and before I know it I have to leave. Lo and behold, I end up having a great time.

The second person responsible for this blog's existence knows about it now. I told him before I left for my break. It kind of blurted out. So much for being afraid and 'mincing words' about it. I guess that is a good thing, but it does take some getting used to. At least I didn't proceded to send him a panic email like I did when I told my mom - 'don't tell anyone else, I want to tell the boys in my own sweet time, you can tell Dad but no-one else' - it makes me smile now but at the time I was petrified.

I'm a little aprehensive still about having people I know in real life read my thoughts here, but the fear is no longer so strong that it rules my life. This is going to be a week of letting go of the tensions that fear brings - breathing deeply and relaxing my muscles and letting my mind drift where it will. I have earned it.

One side effect is that I really don't have anything else to write at the moment, but I'm sure I'll write again before I leave for a crazy hectic 3.5 weeks of rehearsal. Once it begins, I might not even have the energy to brush my teeth.

Provided I remember to bring my toothbrush back to school with me.

Inspiration

I just looked at the hit checker at the bottom of the page and I have almost had 100 hits. That is pretty amazing to me. When I started I didn't think anyone would read what I had to write. In spite of that thought, I was so afraid that people would read my thoughts, and judge me...and that those people would be people I know in my 'real life'.

I remember when I started this blog. Fear was such a big part of my life and I hadn't even named it yet. I was so unaware of it, and it ruled me so much. I think I want to write about the people who inspired me to start writing here where others could be privy to my thoughts. Those two people helped me let go of that original fear, and are still helping me now.

They are directly responsible for the creation of this blog, and only one of them knows that it exists. My mother, who writes her own blog, brought the idea into my head. So many times last summer I sat at the computer when no one else was home and wondered if I could manage to write a blog without her finding out. So many times I left the desk just a little bit disappointed with myself for caring so much, and just a little bit relieved that I didn't have to worry about being discovered.

(Now I find it just a little bit ironic that I am at a theatre school whose tagline is "Do You Want To Be Discovered?" - just a little.)

My mother is an amazing person to me. She has made so many big choices, with big consequences. Her journey had been so bizzare and curvy, and wonderful and scary. To come from an alcoholic household, a house of secrets and abuse, and end up in a place of peace, joy and hope, always hope... My mother broke so many cycles that wounded her so that I wouldn't have to feel the same pains she did. I have my own wounds, as is inevitable. But my mother has been sober since I was three. My mother never read my diary. My mother accepted the fact that I would have my own opinion and that I could see hypocrisy in her own life - and call her on it. My mother didn't allow me to be placed in situations where I would be preyed upon. My mother protected me, even sometimes from things that weren't really a danger (The Indian in the Cupboard isn't really going to lead me down a path to Hell, after all). My mother showed me that it was okay to go to a counsellor and ask for help. My mother has shown me that a person can be in one place spiritually and as little as one year later be somewhere radically different. And that's okay. She has shown me that it is good to be strong, pulled together and in control. She has begun to show me that it is okay to be weak. It is okay to be broken. It is okay to give the steering wheel to God.

The other person, the one who tipped me over the edge into this fearful realm of sharing my thoughts with vitual strangers, is a teacher of mine here. I met him when I was 16, and I was fascinated with him right away, although I was intimidated by him too. I worked with him for three weeks the next year, and since then have looked up to him, respected him and cherished his involvement in my life.

He is an artist. A story teller. He loves the same authors as my mother, but shares my perspective and love - and belief - in the fantastical. He has helped me to shape some of my thoughts on God and art and serving both. He has reminded me that I am gifted when I thought I was most worthless as an actress. He has helped me to find the beginning of my way on this shaky path that acting can be. He has listened when I have been upset and lost, and he has laughed with me when I have found the light in the dark passage. He has surprised me with his bluntness and comforted me with his blessings.

Yet I haven't told him about this blog. I remember clearly when I actually took the thought of blogging seriously. It was last term. I was in his car, listening to something on the radio. He was driving me home from one end of our small town, and it was dark. We were talking about blogs for some reason, and he said to me that he thought it would be a good thing for me to do. It would be a good thing for me. I was a little bit startled, and a great deal encouraged. I am a little like Mary, in that I store things up in my heart and ponder them, and bring them out like treasures, smiling at the preciousness of them but scared that others will see my treasures as gaudy trinkets...I don't show these things to people very much. That moment is one of my great treasures.

It was within a week of that moment that I started this blog.

Perhaps before this year is over I will give him the address to this place of mine. This is an even bigger risk for me than to give it to my mother, because I tell my mom my secret thoughts that I write here. And my mother is far away, and no-one that I live with now from day to day will find this secret from her.

Fear is a big, stupid thing. I suppose it must have a purpose. It must. But for the most part, in my life, it is a big stupid obstacle.

Little steps, little steps. Patience and understanding, forgiving myself every time I perceive failure. I am told to do these things by a lot of people in my life, particularly my voice teacher. Old habits are hard to break, new habits are hard to learn, and in the meantime I must have patience.

Perhaps by the time 1,000 people have read my thoughts I will be settled into the habit of freedom from fear.


Incidentally, the three shows I have performed since that one difficult show have been much easier - well, as easy as this show can be. I think having that one hard show served as a wakeup call to me that I cannot settle into and relax into this role, I still have to work and be present every moment that I am on that beautiful stage.
That is a good thing, even if it doesn't sound like it. Sometimes I wonder what non-actors think when I use acting terms, so just to be clear, relaxing into a role is a bad thing. It means that the energy I bring to that part is lower, and it lowers the importance of everything the character does or tries to do.
In retrospect, I think that is a part of what happened. Hopefully, lesson learned. Realistically, one more step on a vast journey.

Dry Eyes

Today I had a rough show.

I have a role that is an emotional roller-coaster. Usually I have no problem at all hitting the sadder spectrum of that emotion. Sometimes I don't know what to do with myself on stage when I'm happy, but sad I can do.

Today for some reason I held myself back. The emotion balled itself up in my throat and stayed there, tightening in on my voice and causing a lot of pain in the process. And giving me dry eyes when I'm usually a cascading fountain.

It scared me. A lot.

I don't completely know why I was holding it in instead of letting it out. It confused me at the time...it was a struggle for about half of the play. I hated it. I had a terrible 'inner dialogue' (actor speak for the tape playing inside of your head) telling me that I was a failure. Eventually I found the mute button and focused on relaxing my throat. Then I was better. I felt better, anyway.

In the long run, this was probably a good experience for me. It sure didn't feel like it though.

Afterwards, when I was 'debriefing' about my perception of my performance, one of my fellow actors asked me if I was in physical pain today. I said yes - yesterday in dance (which I shouldn't be doing in the first place with my knee how it is) I slipped and fell, barely twisting my knee but landing hard core on my wrist. My whole arm is sore today. I feel like I've been lifting weights and pulled muscles without all the added bulk and strength, but it's just my lovely connective tissue disorder coming to the forefront again. It was very interesting (and somewhat reassuring) to note that there could be a possible connection between protecting myself physically and protecting myself emotionally.

And I have made progress. I am forgiving myself for being less than ideal out there on stage and moving forward with my life.

It's good to know that I can have a rough performance and still have a pretty good day.

After the show has opened

Notes I wrote in church while I perhaps should have been giving Oz (the preacher) my undivided attention, April 9th 2006:

Oz said it is easy to be confident in God when we see him aiding us, easy to trust. When it seems we are alone trust comes hard with tears and moaning, weariness and anguish.

Why is it so hard to remember the good times, so easy to second-guess the things I know to be true? When I am struggling it seems that is all there is. When I’m flying it seems that the trust is so present and easy. The memories of tears and frustration fade away. Why? Human foible? I am beginning to think it is inevitable.

This rehearsal process has made me a different person. “I’ll trust God but I’m still going to cry about this.” - Oz just said this. I have started learning so much about myself. I hate being weak. I hate looking messy in public. Crying messily makes me feel like a huge loser. I haven’t seen anyone in my growing up handle pain in a healthy way. I have cut myself off from my body. I have pushed pain down into my deep self and I continue to do so on a subconscious level (though I am becoming aware). And by doing so I have cut myself off from my source of power. But I have begun to learn to change. I am beginning to know what being in my body is, what allowing myself to fail is. I am most afraid of failure and I didn’t know that before. Failure and being alone. Two things that started when I was so young the roots are almost lost to me.

I have begun to ask for help when I need it. I have begun many good things. I have prayed more this term than I can remember ever praying before in my life. I never would have believed that I could have survived something like this term. I didn’t think I would survive this term. I didn’t think I would find solace and comfort where I’ve found it.

Fear is a big thing, but unlike Oz I don’t think it comes from sin or un-dealt-with sin alone. It comes from lies you are told. It comes from lies you tell yourself. It comes from things you are taught as a child. It comes from unrealistic expectations you place on yourself, expectations you can never achieve.

Feeling broken has hurt so much, but I don’t think – I know – I would not have grown where and how I’ve grown without the breaking I’ve gone through. And I think I will always be doing this. Breaking and growing, scars being ripped open and healed anew. It will be a constant hurt and a constant renewal and peace.

March 29th 2006

Counselling. 4 out of 6 of the Dahlen house inhabitants have gone for counselling today.
I feel lighter.

Fear bunches up in my chest and then stops everything from getting any further out than my throat…and that tightens to hold it all in until I feel like something is going to break…and I’m choking on my emotions, pain in my throat until I could cry from that, only holding in my tears is the whole reason I feel the pain in the first place.
I let them out today. I don’t remember being able to let go once I start holding before, but today I did. Great wracking sobs. Pain pouring out like from a pitcher, overflowing onto the world. And then suddenly it didn’t need to pour out any more and it stopped. My breath slowed, I stopped gasping for air. I realized that I hate looking like a mess and I smiled. So quickly I went from pain and sobs to smiles and sparkling humour. Humanity is such a quick adaptive creature.
Murray tells me that letting myself be a mess, letting myself fall apart, letting my pain and fear become visible instead of hiding them away like a disease, will allow me to become one with my body – to be in my body, as Paul keeps telling me. It will allow me to accept myself and grow, and become mentally and emotionally healthy, to become a person who is able to have a healthy relationship and to be able to act.
It’s scary to be a mess in front of people. I hate appearing weak. I hate computers inability to understand syntax. There, at least that last one is taken care of. I hate crying, because to me it seems weak. The lack of tears is connected with strength to me, but to Maki and Tyler it would make me a cold-hearted bitch.
I never saw my parents deal with pain in a healthy way. Dad ran away, Mom grew angry and yelled and swore. I rarely saw them cry with pain. One memory of Mom crying in pain, when she spanked me in my taffeta dress and then saw me, crushed and hurt…and then she cried because she had done that to me. One memory of Dad crying in pain, when I told him how much I had wanted to be with him as a little girl and that I didn’t want to have to tell him…when he realized that I was right, that he should have known that I wanted to be where he was, that he needed to spend time with me to show his love.
I got the idea that strength is good from them. From what they didn’t tell me as much as what they did, from their inaction as much as from their action.
When I love and accept myself, flaws and all, mess and weakness, I will find it impossible to not be present in my body.
This is going to be a long fricken process. But that is okay. I feel peace at last.
I feel like it will happen, and God is in charge of the timetable. And I can accept that, right now, at least.

For a change, crying hasn’t made me headachy. I actually feel better for having let go of my tensions. Maybe because I actually let go of them instead of shifting them around to another part of my body.

I wish my knee wasn’t injured. I’m glad I know that I hate feeling like a ball of weakness. I am glad I know that I hate weakness. It gives me a starting point to jump off of, the discernable edge of a cliff from which to launch myself.

Maybe today I will be able to simply be, and not hold myself in judgment.

I'm too young to have grey hair

I have just recently learned that my brother is planning on moving in with his girlfriend's family.
My other brother is looking for a place to move into with his girlfriend.
My parents sound like they are visably aging when I speak to them over the phone.

How can three children hear the same message from the same people and interpret it so differently in their lives?

I was always given the clear impression that premarital sex wasn't a good idea because it wasn't a part of God's plan and sex is too important to engage in casually. Perhaps my parents made that abundantly clear to me, perhaps it simply hit closer to home because the consequence of pregnancy is more real to me than it is to my brothers, understandably. They don't have a monthly reminder of what the human body is built to do.

You know what? While I don't think that sleeping together is a good thing for them to be doing, that isn't what actually bothers me about this whole shenanigan. 2, looking for a place to set up house with his girlfriend...I can actually get excited for him. For them. It's strange to think of him as a 'them' but it's still a big step in his life, scary and exciting. But 3...why on earth does he want to move in with his girlfriend's family? They are so chaotic, and unhealthy...and I know he heard all those things from my parents when he started dating her. I know he doesn't want to hear that anymore. But dammit, that house is not a good place. I can't see how it will be a good thing for him to live there. At least, when he lived with my parents, he could get away from his beloved when she got on his nerves. He could distance himself from her sister when she annoyed him (which is more likely). He didn't have to be a part of their every crisis.

I wish he would listen to my parents advice this time. I wish he would stay at home - or if he has to move away (which I could understand if that's what this is all about) I wish he'd move somewhere alone where he could batch it for a while.

If he has to make a decision and learn from it, I hope it doesn't hurt too badly.

And who knows...maybe it will be a good thing for him.

Like Monday was a good thing for me.

I wish I knew what my role in this is. I am the sister. What am I supposed to do? Tell him what I think and back off? Keep my thoughts to myself? Try to change his mind? Love him, yes. But how? What does that look like?

Sometimes I wish my parents had better sibling relationships for me to follow.

I guess I can be ready with a hug, whatever happens. A hug and love.

And a housewarming present.

A Time to Cry

Today has been a good day. I woke up rested, if a bit confused. I shouldn't wake up to the radio. It makes me forget my dreams and wonder what is going on. My dad called to say good morning, and to tell me that he had bought a plane ticket for me to come home for Easter, and that he had sent me some money. I went to dance class and only injured my knee a little bit. I have had a long break in-between classes which is like water in a drought. My brother sent me an email telling me that he forgives me for ganging up on his when we were younger, and that he loves me. I have two hours of rehearsal and then - the evening off. Of course, that means I will be learning lines but that's okay. I have time to do that.

Monday was not a good day. I shall rephrase that. It didn't feel like a good day. In retrospect, perhaps it was a good experience. But waking up tired is no fun. Waking up to muscles so knotted I could puke is no fun. Waking up sick is no fun. Waking up realizing that only two days have gone by since your last break even if your body is trying to convince you it's been seven is really not fun.

I got dressed and went upstairs and ate breakfast. I bit back tears that had no trigger. One of my roommates asked me how I was and they spilled over. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to start crying on you. I just don't know how I'm going to survive."
She nodded. Apparently it was Mid-Term Meltdown day at the Dahlen house.

It was nice to know I wasn't alone. Three of us sat and commiserated for a while and then went on with our days. I didn't do anything school related at all. I went to the office, and for the fourth time someone asked me how I was and for the fourth time I burst into tears. He's a teacher and the director of the show I'm working on right now. He was very sympathetic. I didn't feel like talking much, but he gave me a shoulder massage and listened to all the things I was communicating without speaking. It was a really good thing. I didn't realize he was there for that, or that I could go to him with frustrations and stress.

Later that evening I watched a chick flick with my girlfriends. We ate chocolate ice cream and when one of our guy friends showed up with music to show us, we acquiesced and he gave me a wonderful, wonderful back/shoulder massage. I had heard about his skills in muscle relaxing. Now I believe them.

So, Monday started with tears and ended with laughter. Perhaps Mondays are like March - they come in like a lion and go out like a lamb (or vice versa).

Days like that really make me appreciate days like today. Maybe that is all that days like that exist for.

A Beautiful Day

Written March 9th, 2006

Today is the last day of my study break. It was so warm yesterday that all the snow that had fallen since we left for New York melted into beautiful slush…but today, the sky is throwing down wet, fluffy snow onto the dangerous ice. People driving by our house keep skidding as they try to stop at the stop sign. I hope my schoolmates who are at home can make it back safely before rehearsals start at 7 p.m.

I had the best of intentions this morning. I was going to be very productive and get stuff done – all I really had on my list was to work lines and work on costumes. So far, I’ve worked lines and make a gigantic snow rabbit with my friends. It is standing on an outdoor stage by the theatre and has great glowing eyes made out of orange slices. My roommate was going to take some of my Easter candy for some sort of decoration but I put my foot down. The idea of using perfectly good food for anything other than eating is beyond me. My friends say it is my Mennonite heritage coming out. It’s good to know I do actually have a connection to my roots.

After the rabbit was created (and it’s huge – it stands over 7 feet high, which meant bringing a stool outside to put on the ears, which were actually originally alien heads but the thing evolved…yeay, Darwin) we made a dress out of snow around Cari’s feet, and then buried Mel in snow and gave her Madonna cone-bra breasts. I became the official documenter of the morning’s events and took pictures with my camera. It was loads of fun, and wore us out enough to come inside and eat tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, and hot chocolate. A bizarre mix, perhaps, but we were watching Moulin Rouge, which is nothing if not bizarre. Plus we’re actors. Strange behavior is part of the life style.

I like just being able to sit and write about my normal day. I like that I am losing my fear of being ‘discovered’. For some reason, a part of me feels like blogging is a terrible secret and that no one must ever find out that I partake. I guess it’s because I don’t want people that I know to read what I think sometimes. At first I thought it was just that I didn’t want my mother to read my thoughts online. She writes a blog, and has for over a year. It’s very good, and I read it regularly. I am learning things about her that I didn’t know before. I get to see a part of her life that I would never see any other way. And for some reason, I don’t want to reciprocate.

And there are some people I live with now that I don’t want reading my thoughts, too. My friend who had the unrequited love (although he’s dating her now, so I guess the unrequited part wasn’t completely true) – I have a lot of thoughts about their relationship that I don’t necessarily want them to know. Yet. And I know I haven’t exactly written them down here. Yet. But I might. And there are people I deal with every day that I may want to vent about, and the thought that they could read my true feelings here scares me.

But being scared isn’t the end of the world. Having someone stumble onto the complete and utter truth isn’t the end of the world. Taking a risk is not the end of the world.

Just the end of my safe little construction that I call a world, although it is really just a cardboard box in an alley somewhere.

It is a frightening and exhilarating thing to have comfort zones stretched or removed. It hurts a bit but as one of my many friends would say, it’s a good hurt.

And there is more than enough snow around to slow the swelling.

Procrastination is the name of the game

Today is the first day of my study break. It is a beautiful day outside, sun shining blindingly onto the snow, animals running around or basking, according to their nature. I realize that I am a basker by nature. I wonder if I should try to go against type, or if that is a hopeless endevour? In acting school so much is about type. I have learned, for instance, that I am the perfect type to play Laura in "The Glass Menagerie". Whether that is a compliment or not, I'm not sure. I spend a lot of time and energy trying to not be that type of person.

I am supposed to be using this study break, not, as the name implies, to take a break from studying, but to catch up on all of the studying I haven't done yet. Instead I have baked buns, gone grocery shopping (and left some of my rightfully bought groceries in the store to my extreme annoyance - it's a half hour drive to go and claim them), cleaned my room and watched "The Godfather" for the first time. And I've done more sociallizing than I've done here all term. Oh, and I'm looking at the Red Carpet Gallery from the Academy Awards, which I didn't watch because I haven't got access to a television. I am not doing my research assignment, which my teacher already gave me a generous extention on.

I really like Diane Kruger's dress, and Nicole Kidman's isn't bad either. But what was Naomi Watts thinking? Ugh. I wonder if any of them knows anything about the Abbey Theatre in Ireland? Probably not...which makes me wonder about the importance, relatively speaking, of my research project in the first place.

Since my return from New York, I have been productive. I really have been. I went to class for a week. I spent over 20 hours in rehearsals for a play in which I have a main role. I turned 22, which believe you me, was quite an achievement, although some would argue it was a pretty passive one.

Oooh, I actually kind of like Salma Hayek's look this year. Reese Witherspoon, kind of cute. I like her hair. I wonder why so many of the stars are wearing big names like Armani instead of looking for new up and coming designers who (perhaps) have more creative genius and innovative ideas? Or at least, more initiative to make something stunning and unique? I'd like to think that's what I'd do if I was going to walk around the red carpet at the Oscars. And I'd like to think my smile wouldn't be as fake as Ziyi Zhang's, but who knows, it might just be the one bad photo in the roll. If they use rolls - they probably had a digital camera that they could delete the terrible photos right away - so perhaps her smile is just that forced, or she was having a bad day, or her dress was pinching?

See how good I am at procrastinating? I should get some sort of award for it.

I would have thought that as I aged I would get more responsible instead of less. I used to be the paragon of responsibility. A little part of me hated it, because my motives weren't very good. It was all about controlling my environment, and myself, to the point where nothing could go wrong or not according to my schedule or I'd have a mild and very controlled tantrum.

What is with Charlize Theron and big puffy bows? Good lord, woman - grow out of it already, and stop ruining dresses by adding two extra yards of fabric where they don't belong.

Anyway, I'd say I've gone the other direction now. I still wrote out the schedule for this study break, but I haven't followed it very well. In fact I am a day behind. Today was supposed to be blog surfing, email checking and line learning - which is what I have done - but I was supposed to have finished my reasearch project yesterday instead of spending the day cleaning my room, which I was supposed to have done the day before instead of spending the day chatting with the friend who unexpectedly dropped by.

Keira Knightley, good job! I heartily endorse that look.

I guess being flexible enough to actually take the time to socialize with friends is better than saying, oh, too bad you came today because I'm doing stuff. Go away now. Which a little part of me was saying in my head, distracting me from the conversation every once in a while as I thought of my list with longing. I'm sure there is a time and place to do that though. I know that if anyone tries to distract me (other than myself) today I am going to have to say, no, sorry, I'm learning lines today so I can actually be off book by Thursday and on top of that, I'm getting a cold and sore throat so don't even tempt me, goodbye - and the door will slam in their face.

And with that, I suppose I should slam the door in my own face by clicking the 'x' on the Oscars and beginning to care about theatre in Ireland in 1904. Yeay. Procrastination isn't really a fun game after all.

New York, New York

Well, not exactly. I'm actually in Massachusetts right now, alone. Most of my friends have gone to a local pub to relax before we head out early tomorrow morning. If I hadn't spent most of the afternoon either crying or trying to relax my cried out muscles I'd probably have gone with them, but cigarette smoke is the last thing that I need right now so here I am in front of a computer screen...because eye strain won't hurt me in the least. So much for that excuse.
I was in a Shakespeare workshop all day. It was wonderful, so much better than I expected...I made a break through with my voice and found a power I didn't know how to access before. I will be able to access it again. Thank God for Dave and Lady Anne's grief.
I'll be sad to leave here. The Shakespeare Company are situated in a lovely place. I can almost kid myself into thinking it's out in the country, far from vehicles and noise. Well, the noise part is true but there is a highway not too far away. But the trees! Ahh, the trees, they block most of the noise out. And Rico's cooking - far far better than the best New York hotdog. Nothing against the culture, but roast pork loin, blueberry pie, roasted seasoned potatoes...mmm. I don't eat this well at home.
But tomorrow we head back to the busy city of New York for a day, a day that hopefully I'll be able to get to Ellis Island on because last time I tried the wind had shut the ferry down. At the very least I'll be able to mail the post cards I bought for my family in Canada.
And now I really should go to bed. Breakfast at 7:30 seems retardedly early but for Rico, I'll do it.

At Long Last

February 6th 2006:

I am tired and should be getting ready for bed. Instead I have just spent half an hour trying to get my computer to recognize that it can indeed save information on my floppy discs. Argh. I had to restart it and then it was fine. No one try to explain why an inanimate object can have such a temperamental approach to various tasks.

I hear a man’s voice. Specifically a guy that I kind of like. I’m not sure what to do about it, or if I should. Right now I think being friends is important and good and when I logically think about it, going any further is a silly idea. So complicated. I’ve written on this before, and by all rights it shouldn’t even be an issue. But humanity would be dull if it kept to it’s own rules.

I think I will though. I have too much going on to add anything at this point.

I have a more relaxed week this week, which doesn’t explain why my neck muscles are cramping up and trying to crawl into my hair. Maybe I’ve been staring at a computer screen too much today – this makes 3 solid hours. Not consecutive, but that hardly matters to my muscles.

I should wash my face, brush my teeth, and lie down to the soothing strains of REM and “Night Swimming”. That song is really mellow. “Automatic for the People” has gotten me through the past week of insanity.

Class from 9 am to 10 pm…with lunch and supper breaks…six days a week. Either academic, like Theatre History, or studio, like rehearsals. Or a practicum; building 18th Century clothing from scratch, which I actually enjoy but it does take its toll on my sanity.

On the other hand, I made a really cool bag yesterday. It was an old pair of jeans but now it is a wicked cool bag that I will bring with me to New York next week when I go to see wonderful theatre and take part in amazing workshops for two weeks.

I can finish this whenever I want to, so I’ll go to bed now and let this ferment in my head while I sleep.


February 7, 2006
It is 7 pm on a Tuesday evening. I had a pretty relaxed day today – my acting coach started into rehearsals for a show today so I only had voice coaching. I did meet with my scene partner and we went through the scene and broke it into chunks (beats) for performance. It was fun and I’m glad we’re getting started. It’s been slow going.
In my voice lesson I had a good day too. I am trying hard to overcome a fearful, pinched off sound and today I only ‘yodeled’ one note (several times) and then I actually got it too. My coach is a very encouraging but demanding person but today it was all “That was good.” “That sounded great.” If she’s saying it, it’s true. She doesn’t lie about that sort of thing (which has been discouraging in the past but today was wonderful).
And for the morning we got to sit and listen to a read through of the up coming play. It’s called “Drawer Boy” (as in the boy who draws) and it’s a heart breaker. I love it and wish I could have heard the director’s vision because he’ll somehow pull hope out of it. The ending is pretty…well, I don’t know. Not sad, not crushing, but it definitely isn’t happy either. But the story is good and much worth telling.
My day has been really good and I’m glad. It’s about time, I think. Not stressful, not overwhelming, but a day of good progress. Thank you, God.

Long Time, No See

It has felt like ages since I last posted anything. I suppose it has been. I could fill the page with excuses but I've recently discovered that I hate making them. It makes me feel cheap and dirty to enter into something with excuses in hand, bailing me out before my boat even springs a leak. So I've made a decision to be honest with my failings.
I have not had this blog on a high priority, and I think that was appropriate. It still isn't really high up there but I don't think I can create it and leave it to become covered in dust so here I am.
This past month I have done a lot of things. I started another term of art school. I auditioned for a play and landed a big and multi-layered role. I learned that I'm the only virgin in my family and realized that I think I've been a bad sister to one of my brothers. And that going to counselling cannot be optional for me.
I've also started to be more open with one of my friends. She is the person I've known the longest of all the people I live around now and sometimes I wonder how our friendship has survived. We believe the same basics but I think I'm much more liberal than she is. And I know she has had a - how do I put this into words? I sometimes think she is more legalistic than I am but it's more that her family has more solid beliefs than mine has had. I've had to think things out for myself in a different way, and sometimes that means that what I believe and what she believes are quite different.
It was pretty hard for me to tell her about my struggles with my brother. Both of my brothers have made choices in the past year that I was pretty sure would never have happened in my friend's family. I wasn't sure if she'd judge my brothers and my parents, or myself, because of what I was going to tell her. I was surprised. I really should learn one of these days that assumptions are a bad habit. I'm still pretty sure that her brothers wouldn't make the sort of choices my brothers have but she was able to relate without judging me or my family and what she had to say helped me a lot. Plus it became apparent that she's had to deal with siblings making difficult choices and maybe not picking the right thing to do.
One thing that has been hard for me since I started school again is the realization that I basically don't have a relationship with one of my brothers. He's next in age to me. (I'll refer to him as 2, and to the youngest as 3.) I don't think it should surprise me that we aren't close. I know that if (and I hope he eventually does) he goes to counselling I'll probably factor in somewhere in the mess of stuff he will have to deal with. My youngest brother and I have always clicked, and when we were children we teamed up together against 2. I argue more with 2 than I do with 3, and the arguments are messier and horrible.
I wish it wasn't this way. When 3 does something I think is stupid, like smoke pot, I can at least talk to him about it. We can have an open conversation where he knows what I think and I know I can't make his decisions for him. But if I try to have that conversation with 2 (and I have) it ends half an hour later with us yelling or at the very least, pointing fingers at each other's screw ups. We end up further apart then we were before I started.
I don't know what to do to fix this and I don't know if I can. That scares me. A lot. I want to be close to my brothers. I want our children to be the kind of cousins who know each other and are friends; I want to know my nephews and nieces and to have my children know their uncles. I want to be friends with my brothers and somehow we've grown up and grown apart and I don't know when or how or what to do.
And no amount of excuses is going to fill the void.