Making Room

In what seemed like a day, I made the decision to finally leave roommate housing behind and find a place all on my own. After a few weeks of looking, something popped up that felt nothing short of fate. My soon-to-be-home is small, and to some, may seem incredibly cramped and sparse all at the same time. But with a fridge entirely to myself and more than one shelf in the pantry to stock, I am already salivating at the available space to reinvent myself and my habits.

In an effort to simplify, cleanse, and prepare for my new space, I have been in a fit of organization. Each thing I own has been carefully sized up as I ask myself what "things" have become "stuff" and what "stuff" is really just "junk." Belongings that were once kept in shoe boxes under my bed (which created waves of guilt when I realized just how many shoe boxes there were) now have a neat, designated container. A little box for hardware. A little box for important papers. A little box with my shoe shining kit (a gift from an old school dad). A little box with cards people have given me. In putting everything in its place, I became soaked in nostalgia. The photographs, birthday cards, and what I now realize are real love letters put me on a merry-go-round of memories. The pictures showed outfits I could barely afford in college but bought anyway for that one special date. They showed my first car with chipped paint, campfire double dates, international movie nights on couches that couldn't have been sanitary, and late night dinners at stale breakfast spots. They showed me crushes I hadn't thought about in years and great loves I won't forget in years.

As I sat there, I started to feel indebted to all of the things strewn across my floor. All of my experiences, the ones that stung and the ones that sung, had given me the confidence to sign the lease agreement on my desk. Each good, great, and awful moment proved to me that I can move somewhere with an unplanted flower garden, a bare kitchen, and a very empty living room (which might be empty for a while longer considering my shoe purchases), and that I fully believe I will populate these new spaces with things that are grand.

21 more days.

Diamonds

July, to me, is the great American month—fireworks, barbeques, and long nights outside holding tight to light that lingers. My nights lately have been spent cheering on local sports teams with friends, cokes in hand, while we sit on the grass and gossip about our lives. Best of all, nights like this always include laughter, the kind that feels like tangible happiness you wish you could bottle and drink in the cold month of February. Truth be told, nothing makes me happier than seeing a friend smile so wide it's almost audible or laugh so loud, you know it comes from their middle.

I read somewhere that as you age, you don't need a lot of friends, you just need real ones. In college, the pressure to know everyone was overwhelming, and confidence seemed to be built on the contacts in your phone and the number of hellos you said on campus. But as someone who inherently keeps a small circle around me, the changing friendships of adulthood suit me. The list of people I lean on is short, but our mutual experiences together long. I have friends that care when you break up with the same person for the 20th time, but listen to you like it's the first; friends that know what to say to make you laugh and know when silence and a good movie are the best remedy for a very bad day; friends that joy in your successes even when their own hearts were needing a victory; friends that never forget you, forsake you, or stay mad at you too long.

In the words of a great writer, "it is not diamonds that are a girl's best friend, but your best friends who are diamonds. It is your friends who are supremely resilient, made under pressure, and of astonishing value. They're everlasting; they can cut glass."

To all the diamonds in my life—I am shaped by your perspective and in constant awe of your hearts.

Pacing Myself

Last week I went for a trail run with a friend who recently made the change from graphic designer to full time photographer. In talking about this big change, I asked him what his "ideal" situation in life would be. His answer, though not new to the world of advice, was that he tried not to look too far into the future at the risk of missing the things he was experiencing right then.

Sadly, I am not naturally a "Zen" thinker. At some point in my life, I began to think that we were all running the exact same race. And as time passed, and I reached landmarks at a different pace and order than people around me, I fell victim to the thought that I was "behind." But as my friend and I remarked, and in light of the Olympics, I need to remember that like runners on a track, we too start at staggered places on the field. Built uniquely for different destinations, paces, and distances, we were never meant to compare ourselves to each other as if we were running the same course, in the same lane, toward the same finish line.

My new hope then is to slow my internal clock a few clicks and enjoy more my individual race. While there are still things that I hope will happen, great things, I will try and culture the thought (like the popular country song) that I simply "could not ask for more." By doing that, I am telling the divine beings at large that I recognize the experiences I am having right now. And when something different is given to me later in my race, I will know how to appreciate that too.

While "ideal" may still sound a little more appealing to me than it does to my friend, so do the slow possibilities of this very moment. And in not focusing too much on what could be, I more readily show my gratitude for what is.