Turtles and Tsunamis

As we begin our holiday travels, I would like to take a moment to remind everybody to be safe on the roads. Be careful of insane drivers, slow drivers creeping along, and backed up exit ramps with endless strings of tail lights. Before we take to the roads I would like to share my thoughts on what I call “The Wave Theory.” Each rush of traffic seems to accumulate around the same time, in this case, known as “waves.” Drivers in each wave have similar characteristics and tactics for reaching their destination, furthermore, each consecutive wave of traffic is less pleasant than the previous one. Experience has led me to develop the following Waves:

The first wave of holiday travelers is happy. They get out on the road before 8AM. Eager to go home, they have already packed and showered; they are sipping fresh coffee or a chi-something from the local overpriced coffee chain. These folks have probably been listening to Christmas music since October. They're prepared for a long drive, and they intend to be pleasant about it. They will let in other cars, happily merge right to let you pass, and don't worry about the semi-trucks. These are the drivers that don’t mind cruising at a leisurely 65 miles per hour the entire way home. Known as “the turtles of the highway” they are the cheerful little buggers that make all the other drivers on the road crazy.

By Noon we have the Late-Starters. This group aimed to be on the road in the First Wave, but got delayed. Less pleasant than their morning predecessors, these travelers are harried and potentially cranky, but generally in good spirits. They probably snagged a quick coffee from the gas station before hitting the freeway. There’s less chance of Christmas music, probably the popular rock station on the radio, or whatever pops up on their iPod. This wave will tend to drive a bit faster, but will still show a general regard for posted speed limits.

At 3PM we begin to see the “Relaxed Drivers.” Don’t let the name fool you. These are the individuals who decided to relax all morning, sleep in, watch TV, and eventually get on the road. “No rush” they said, but by 5:30 they're cursing at the slower car ahead of them. These are the guys gunning ramps, running lights, and attempting to pass semi-trucks at a swift 85mph. They’re sick of traffic, and they’re only halfway home. In their “no rush” phase, this wave is likely to stop for a pre-freeway meal. They are easily identified by the discarded fast food wrappers and crushed cans from energy drinks on their dashboards and seats. This crowd is also noted for neglecting to see posted speed limit signs because they were distractedly jabbing at their radio/iPod, dissatisfied with any and every song that pops up.

Let’s not forget the last wave of holiday travelers. Oh, the last wave- the “Tsunami of Holiday Travel”- the evening crowd. This wave is mostly comprised of soccer moms and hung-over college kids racing home as fast as they can. These guys show no mercy. They're darting and weaving through traffic, cutting off semi-trucks at over 90mph- these people are a force to be reckoned with. If you're going under 85mph, you're getting run off the road. They curse, they block exits, and they're probably the reason so many people hate to travel on the holidays. There’s no time for coffee with these folks- they’re running on pure adrenaline and road rage.

So whether you are a peppy First Waver, or a lightning-fast Tsunami Driver, remember to stay safe out there! Wear your seat belts, and watch out for turtles and tsunamis!

Happy Holidays!

Today

we're all going to die eventually. and i have no intention of dying until i have my 8 kids and a crazy house with a big back yard

and a tire swing hanging off a huge tree in the front yard

the kind of tree you hate because the roots make the grass all bumpy when you mow

and in autumn the damn leaves never stop falling

and in the spring it's all bugs

and in the summer it blocks the breeze to the house, so you're always too hot

i've got soccer games to drive to

and football games to watch

and a husband to make up with after we fight over something stupid

i'm giving up on the damn doctors

i didn't say i was giving up on myself

People in Glass Rooms...

You kissed me yesterday. And I don't think you saw it, because it was dark in your kitchen, but I smiled. And when you had your hand on my neck, when you gracefully and sweetly pulled me closer, I felt like the star in a movie. It took a long time to build that wall of sarcasm and ice around my heart, and in that moment I felt droplets hitting my stomach and turning into butterflies as you melted it all away.

But I think I built my walls too high; I got too good at keeping people away, at keeping you away. Because as I walked home, I felt sad. I knew I liked you, and I knew I'd done too good of a job at keeping you at arm's distance. So you either think I'm a bitch, or too complicated, or just a nutcase, all of which are probably true in their own right. But I know I did it, and I regret it do much right now.

You're too smart for me anyway. Not book smart, though you are. You're perceptive. You remember everything, and that's intimidating. Most women would kill to have a man remember her birthday, or some random fact mentioned ONCE and never again. Not only that, but you're perceptive too. You know things about me that I never told you, and as far as I can tell, never revealed to you. It's an amazing and beautiful trait, but it's unsettling to have somebody know more about you than you thought.

But I wish I hadn't fought you so much. I wish I'd taken half a step forward, or just reached out and grabbed your hands, pulled you forward. Given more, been less stubborn, chiseled a door for you in my heart of ice, or at least a ladder. You're smart- you knew I was fighting, and you respect me, so you're not going to fight back.

I wish you would.

In a room full of windows, you saw through all my bullshit and you saw me. You looked me right in the eye, you caught my gaze, and you held it. I didn't look away. My eyes say more than my voice ever will. I hope you heard them.

I'm writing because it's easier to write a letter I'll never send than to pray. If I don't send a letter it's my own fault for not getting a response; if I pray, well, there are consequences for everything. I don't even know who You are, but I know You're out there, and You're listening. That's both intimidating and terrifying, so excuse my discontinuous thoughts and unfinished monologues. Perhaps I'll write to a different you, one that does not require capitalization. We'll see how this goes.

I'm sturdy, stubborn, hard-headed, and tenacious. I'm moody, quick to temper, and last to admit I'm wrong. I'm afraid of looking foolish. I'm more afraid of FEELING foolish. Is that vanity? Perhaps. Is it human nature? On the whole, we're built flawed. Those flaws create the beauty that separates us from one another. But what determines what within us is beauty, and what is flaw?

I feel like I'm more flaw than beauty lately, and not just on a physical scale. I'm completely imbalanced, inside and out. I feel lost, between floating and falling, an unsteady turbulence of self-doubt. There is no blame in this, you didn't do this to me, and neither did You, and neither did I. Maybe it was fate? Destiny? Chance? Maybe it was me after all. Maybe it was all of us.

I made a comment today that my stress level reduces by 20% or more when I'm near wind chimes or water. For some, 20% doesn't seem like much, but I run on 90% tension on a daily basis. I'm prone to "freaking out" and it's easier on my nerves if I stay in a constant state of high alert. Perhaps this explains why I'm stubborn, tenacious, hard-headed and all those other negative words I apply to myself.

I don't know how to fix myself or how to be better. I just know that I need to be better. Better at everything I do- my family, school, work. Everybody around me seems so put together. They know what they want, what they need, and how to get it. I have no answers for any of that. I feel like I'm floating, or struggling to float, while everybody else is splashing around on jet-skis or sunbathing on private yachts. I feel 4 steps behind everybody else, with no sense of direction on how to catch up.

I am not complaining. My life is good. I have family that cares, friends who notice that I'm alive, and I'm blessed to have all the wonderful things in my life. I'm wondering why, with all of this goodness, I feel that life is so imperfect. If everything is so wonderful, and I'm unhappy, the catalyst has to be me. So what am I doing? And how do I fix it? I like to think I'm a good person. I try to be kind, honest, and hardworking. I openly admit to backsliding- I am far from perfect: I hurt people, I can be lazy, and I make mistakes. I make a lot of mistakes. But I try to fix them, and I think I'm getting better all the time. Everybody makes mistakes, right? So why do I feel like I'm the only one?

I'm not asking you for answers. I don't even know if You're listening, or reading, or if You even care. But I know I need something to change, and I'm looking for guidance, to know I'm at least heading in the right direction, even if I'm miles off of the road.

Bare Feet

There's sand caught in the hems of my jeans. There's more sand in the corners of my pockets, and I'm sure I've got enough sand in my shoes, wherever they are, to fill a child's sandbox. God, this day is perfect. The sun is a fiery ember hanging over the edge of the water, struggling to stay afloat, just to keep this perfect day going, for a few moments more. The remnants of the day are scattered around; empty cups and barbecue-smeared paper plates a silent witness to the day, strewn lazily among sand-castle turrets and furled edges of sun-bleached blankets. The grill smokes faintly, giving off hints of charcoal and grilled meat as it cools. A volleyball rolls along the shoreline, caught in an invisible game between the sand and waves. A breeze teases the hair around my face, and tickles my eyelashes.

The brilliant sun is nearly paralleled by a scorching blaze on the sand. Sets of bare feet perch on the stones that circle this mini-sun, a solar system built around logs so washed with saltwater that they burn blue. The flaring sun, the circle of rock planets with their toe-tapping moons, comets of marshmallows skewered over the ends of sticks blazing brilliant across the sky join a motley dance. The hovering sun begins its farewell, and shards of light pierce their way through the encroaching darkness of night, creating pictures I only pretend to recognize against the endless backdrop of forever.

Somebody has a guitar in the back of a pick-up truck, the kind of battered truck that has been so beaten by mud, dirt, and sunshine that you can't begin to guess what color the paint once was. To clamor inside takes practiced skill; the floorboard is nearly waist high on average. The cab smells faintly of cigarette smoke and oil, and the radio is stuck on the same station it was last year. The guitar and its owner descend gracefully over the tailgate, hardly producing more than a hiss upon feet meeting sand. Soon the rhythmic rise and swoop of the plucked strings blends into the sounds of the water, with the cries of circling birds singing backup.

I retreat for a moment to retrieve a sweatshirt from the truck; it's not mine, but it doesn't matter. We're all pieces of each other, with borrowed sunglasses here, a filched straw cowboy hat over there, a broken heart or two among us all, shared tears and love and jokes that we laugh to so hard our silhouettes blur together in the photographs. A sweatshirt is a grain of sand on the beach of our infinite existence. The pavement is foreign to the soles of my feet, unnaturally warm from baking in the day's sun, and doesn't give the way the sand does. Pavement is not forgiving. I hurry back to the haven of the sand, the fire a radiant beacon calling me back to brighter moments.

The mood has subdued, as has the temperature. We all huddle closer to our mini-sun, falling into its gravity, jostling for seats among rough logs or sprawled on the sand, our backs at the knees of another. It's a blurry moment, where time speeds up and stops all at once in a moment we're likely to forget. Somebody is laughing too loud, somebody is pushing someone else backward off a log, a paper plate flies like a spaceship across the tips of the flame, an intergalactic frisbee. The driftwood logs settle and pop, sending glittering messages skyward. We are infinite.

The hour is late, or maybe early. The sun is preparing to make its daily debut as we dump the cooler over the last of the fire. Steam and soot whoosh upward and sizzle in protest. The universe that brought us all together is demanding our departure. The morning rays reflect off the crinkly black trash bags as we stuff the rogue cups and frisbee-plates inside. Somebody remembers to rescue the volleyball from the tug of the waves as we all pile into the truck, adding the distinct aromas of bonfire and sea air to the familiar interior.

The battered truck lethargically grumbles onto the pavement, its cargo wearing borrowed clothes and borrowed hearts. There's an old song on the radio, and we wouldn't change the station, even if we could. Nobody sings along, but everybody acknowledges the beat. Toes tap, fingers click against the door handle, heads bob, we smile. As the sun blooms in full glory, the waves reach to us in farewell; we laugh and realize our bare feet. Our shoes lost among the sand stand witness to our infinite existence. They remain accessories lent to the night like a sweater from the back of an old truck.

An Ode to Denim Trousers

Dear Blue Jeans,

I knew we were going to have issues when I pre-washed you and you turned the inside of my washing machine blue. But I forgave you. Then you decided to redecorate my car interior with matching blue streaks. I now have seat-covers, so that one worked out in the end. But THIS is the last straw. I look like a smurf. You've dyed my legs blue. BLUE! And no amount of scrubbing in the shower has been able to remove the offensive dye. Now, I like blue. Really, I do. But blue is for drinks, not for people. This is not a scene from Avatar. Please keep your blue to yourself.

Love always,
Me

Through Your Eyes

The first thing you'll see is the sky. It's vast and open and that perfect deep shade of blue that seems like you could dive right into it. Next are the clouds, white and lithe and content to just float for a while. Then you'll take in the treetops. You'll be blown away by the exquisite number of shades of green in one place. The interlaced branches grow thicker as you enter the wood, creating a dense latticework, with sunlight fluttering through the gaps like a song, allowing the briefest glimpses of the immortal blue above you.

The trees are ageless; too tall and old to be measured. You can't believe trees like these existed outside the tales of Jack and his Beanstalk. They're trunks are enormous, and gnarled, big enough to lay in comfortably, if hollow. These massive wonders have surged their way to the top, keeping as much sun to themselves as they can, leaving the forest at your feet a clear walkway, with no saplings or shrubbery to trip you.

Ahead is a large patch of sun; a tree has fallen. You can feel the heat of the sun in contrast to the cool confines of the forest. The fallen tree has become a support system for a whole new emergence of life. You can see smaller trees, insects, lichen, moss, and fungi fighting for a chance to replace this mighty sky-dweller. To linger would only reveal more of the world's circle-dance. New from the old, repeat, repeat. Let's leave this place, I crave the sunlight.



Away from the shelter of the trees, the sun is in full force, accompanied by a breeze that slips past you like secret, it cannot be bothered to stop and explain the world today. For now the breeze will satisfy itself with ruffling your hair and billowing your shirt like the sails of a ship. You don't find a ship today, but an old rowboat, grey-blue paint faded and flaking, bobbing contentedly on a large pond, or a small lake, you can't quite tell.



You take the boat out- it floats. Only the bottoms of your feet are greeted by shallow waves of water that's slipped in through the cracks. The sun is drooping, heavy with the weight of a day upon it, and it's giving way to colors that stain the sky like a brilliant canvas. The oceanic blue gives way to traditional hues of indigo and gold, and to surprising violet and unexpected green. In this light halfway between today and tomorrow, you lift yourself over the side of the boat, and release yourself into water that has just begun to cool, and is crisp and clear and reflecting the sky like disjointed pieces of a mirror.

You allow yourself to sink to the bottom, feeling sand soft as silk and smooth pebbles beneath you. You watch the bubbles of air race for the surface, dancing and striving to break through first. The sky and the boat distort through the looking-glass of the water, blurring together like the lines of an old photograph. It would be easy to stay here; the fish don't seem afraid of you, they tickle your toes and leave sounds in your ears. But it's not to be, and you slowly drift upward.

Your wet clothes cling to you as you take the boat toward shore. The sky has released the sun from its grasp, and in its place are thousands of brilliant, tiny lights, each with its own story to tell. A bat swoops past you, capturing his midnight breakfast, and circles back toward the ancient trees.

You walk back to your car, dirt clumping and sticking to your wet feet, the hems of your pants. The air hums and buzzes with nocturnal calls and songs. You see your car ahead, sitting quietly on the side of the old dirt road, a silent observer to your experience. You walk toward it, your shoes dangling limply from one hand, your keys in the other. You put the shoes and keys in the car, both innocently on the driver's seat. You leave the windows down, doors unlocked. And you keep walking, enjoying the stinging sensation of the sharp rocks and the sound of water dripping from your clothes and hair onto the parched road like a second set of footsteps as you continue down the road on that dark, star filled night.

A Toast

I was blessed to be a part of an amazing group of people. More than a staff, we became a family. We were the type of people who saw somebody new and said "Jump in the truck with us, we're going somewhere fun." They loved you because you were you, and they never asked more than that. We shared triumphs and defeats, countless laughs and endless nights. We broke rules and took joy rides. We swam the lake at night, we snuck in and out of each other's cabins pulling pranks and making secrets. We made traditions, and those traditions made our summers matter.

One special tradition goes much much farther than my experience at that job. The "staff lounge" was officially moved to the local dining establishment residing a few miles from our job site. It was the closest place to get a hot pizza or a cold beer, and what was better- they had a karaoke night. The bartenders and the owner knew our names, our favorite songs, and had our orders written down before we were seated at our usual table. Our karaoke was similar. The regulars there knew us, knew our songs, and we knew theirs. We claimed "Piano Man," and "You've Lost that Loving Feeling" among many others. We created a dance floor out of the space between the pool table and the seating area, and we bopped and twirled and joked like awkward middle schoolers.

Those of legal age enjoyed the simple pleasures of beer in a mason jar, while the rest enjoyed cherry coke made with grenadine and the most amazing spicy fries, especially when coated in salt from one of the baby-food jars with holes punched in the top as a salt shaker. A favorite tradition of the evening were the toasts. I don't know where they originated, and I'm sure I'm not getting them right, as it's been far too long since I've used them. But these toasts were crucial to our evening. Lifted glasses of beer, sprite, coke, cans of mountain dew, or a lifted salt shaker when our glasses went dry- you never missed a toast. There were seven.

To the Queen. (Long may she reign!)
To the company. (Here here!)
To friends.
To absent friends.
To John Wayne. (He's gay, you know.)
To furry woodland creatures. (Is the buffalo a furry woodland creature? Only to the extremely jaded!)
To camp directors! (Is ***** a camp director? FUCK *****!)
To the birds: To the stork who brings pretty babies, the crow who brings ugly babies, and the swallow- who brings no babies at all!

These toasts were fun, raunchy, and usually gave us all a laugh. That's what friends like us were for- sharing laughs, sharing time.

Those toasts, those songs, are bittersweet tonight. One of our ranks has fallen. A good man has left us, to wait for us in whatever Beyond is out there. I am told that's the way he wanted it, and I guess that is supposed to comfort me in some way or another. His name was Ian. And he was my friend.

I'm not going to languish in how close we were, because we weren't. We shared a few midnight conversations, a few drinks at the bar, and I attempted to help him rebuild a bridge when it washed out in a storm. But as a person, he taught me things I will carry with me always. He lived what other people merely promote: he worked hard, he did what he felt in his heart was right, he lived passionately, and he loved everybody, whether he liked them or not.

Ian may have been tattooed, and he probably smoked a carton a day, and he may have sworn to make a sailor blush, but he was a good man. He threw himself into every project, may it be fixing tents, diving into the water fully-clothed to help find something in the water, cutting trees, fixing plumbing, or just making somebody feel better on a rough day. He cared. About everything.

And that's a model we can all follow. It's easy to support and care about the things that matter to you- your own friends and your own causes. But all too often we turn a blind eye to those people and causes that we aren't particularly interested in. We'd rather stay warm and dry than go out in the rain and mud to tow a stuck vehicle by hand. We'd rather allow ourselves to believe "They'll be fine," when we see a less-desirable person having a rough time. They may not be our friend, but they are a living, feeling creature. And whether you like them or not, sitting down across from them and saying "What's up?" may turn somebody's day around.

So tonight, I sit in my apartment, listening to the keys tap out my dedication. I hesitate before turning on the radio- I am yet too fragile to cope if one of our songs were to come over the speakers. But I sit, and I am prepared. I'm going to pay an honor to a lost friend, in a way that reminds me of the good times, not in a way that dwells on this darkness. I sit at my computer, a shot glass at my side. Ian- you were an amazing man. I'm sad to see you go. Rest well, and give 'em Hell. This one's for you.



To absent friends.

Rules and Unanswered Questions

There was once a chance I didn't take. An opportunity avoided, an experience missed. Sometimes it's good to leave yourself out of situations; not all experiences are good. Other times it's best to jump into the fray looking neither left nor right, and caring nothing for where you land. Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower (a favorite of mine) lends a line to my cause: "Standing on the fringes of life offers a unique perspective. But there comes a time to see what it looks like from the dance floor."



I've fallen into the habit of being what I have affectionately dubbed "Safely Adventurous." I have no problem doing, going, or trying something new, within reason. Logic must have its say, after all. All things have rules, even if they are self-imposed.

Rule #1: The risk of death must be minimal. Enough said.

Rule #2: Exactly how many laws are we breaking? I don't have much of a problem breaking a few rules, but I'm not going to do anything that's going to land me in jail. OK, let's be honest, I'm pretty much all-in for good-natured trouble, and if it leads down Crazy Street now and then, I've been known to take that road. But I won't openly walk into a situation that could get messy very quickly.

Rule #3: I won't hurt anybody. I've got a temper and a quick tongue, but I'm not malicious. This includes people, animals, trees, and creations.

Rule #4: I will only go along with something if I want to. If it looks too dangerous, too stupid, or just not my thing, I'm out. I'm all for new experiences and broadening my horizons or whatever it's called, but I'm not goign to do something I don't want to do just for the sake of doing it.


Seems fairly simple. Four rules, all along the lines of, "Don't do anything monumentally stupid." You have no idea how constricting they are. Being responsible wears you down. Maybe it's an infinite cycle. Think about it- you generally become more responsible with age. As you age you get worn out, run down. In effect, you become more responsible as a form of self-preservation. Being so darn responsible takes it's toll, and the cycle continues. Maybe there's something to be said for remaing perpetually young-willed and driven by whims.

I've decided to list the things I want to, but probably never allow myself to participate in. Maybe getting them out of my head and into the open will inspire me.

*A trip with nothing. Throw a cooler, my tent, sleeping bag, and some extra clothes and blankets in my car, quick stop for essentials (water, food that won't rot), and drive. Someplace new to me. Unplanned. Stay at least 3 days and 2 nights before heading in the direction of home. I can camp, sleep in my car, under the stars, in a crappy hotel room, in a penthouse suite. Even if I'm cold, wet, hungry, sick, broke, and miserable. On the chance I'm not miserable, it could be the time of my life.

*Try something new that I usually wouldn't let myself do. A rappell off of something much higher than I'm comfortable with, going on a road trip with new friends to a destination unknown. Nothing completely insane, but something new. Baby steps, here.

*Take a risk. I spend so much time protecting myself, my friends, my friendships, my family, theat I rarely give anything sapce to grow into something new. I used to say that I didn't like things nailed down in all four corners- I preferred things welded to the ground with an airtight seal. That doesn't leave room for friends to become lovers, acquaintences to become friends, or to realize that the people you trust can't be trusted. Sometimes I'm going to have to take a risk at losing something for the chance to gain something better.

*Play a concert for all my friends. I don't think anybody, friend or family, has heard me make instrumental music in about 6 years. I don't care if I'm talented or not, I love music. I love making music. There are two events in my life that make me feel complete- being outdoors and really connecting with the world around me, and when I've got my violin under my chin. I love it, and I always will. I put a personal ban on playing for other people. Somewhere along the line I let myself believe I wasn't good enough. Not good enough for the friends I had, not a good student, or a good musician. And maybe I wasn't. But I wasn't as bad at ANY of those as I thought I was. So why should I let my own misconceptions from years ago keep me from something I love? I want to give a concert for my friends. Maybe outside, where there are lots of trees, and running water nearby. Both my elements.

It's a start. And perhaps I'll do those things, one at a time. And it will take time, patience, and maybe a swift kick of self-esteem. I try not to make promises I can't keep, but I do hope that I can manage to let down the wall I've put between myself, my ambitions, and every single person I've ever encountered. I call them "rules" or "logic" but it's all fear. I'm afriad of getting hurt. Of being embarrassed. Of failure. Of once again being told sorry- but my best just wasn't good enough. But who are you to judge me? What about you makes me want to believe your opinion more than my own? Maybe in taking these risks, and tearing that wall down, piece by piece and scar by scar, I'll find the answers.

You're my ex. As in "X-ed out," former, no longer a part of. I have no responsibility to you, and you none to me. I have no rights to your emotions, thoughts, or actions. Your reasons are your own, as is your life. As is mine. It is my own. I have no conenction to you any longer. I'm more than accepting of this situation.

So why do I still feel so protective of you? Why does it bother me when you're unhappy? Why do I feel the need to swoop in and save you when things in your life look rough?

I'm not jealous that you've moved on. I'm jealous that it's so easy for you to come to me as a friend, when I'm still fighting to remove myself from the tangle that linked our pasts. I'm not longing for what we had, I'm just confused as to how this came to be. We went from friends to dating to hating each other to falling out of touch. Your existance in my world dwindled and shrank and I pushed you to the corner of my mind, next to appreciating blues music and filing my taxes. You were present, but only surfaced in specific and warranted cirumstances. Now you're ever-present. We chat, we talk. You seek my advice, my company. And my brain has yet to re-wire itself to this making sense.

When did this become acceptable? I was hurt by you, several times, and I admit that I hurt you too. But many of those painful issues were left unresolved, and without closure. Granted, "moving on in life" means letting go of those hurts for the sake of something better, but scars happen. The memories are there, and while I may not harbor personal resentment for those scars, when you suddenly resurface in my life all that hurt bubbles up with you. It's unsettling.

I guess I'm waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. My brain hasn't made the connection that just because my affiliation with you caused me pain once is not proof that it will surely happen again.

One More Day

There are moments when one gets lost on the outskirts of his own life. When nothing is going wrong, per say, yet on the same spectrum, nothing is going right either. He's not drowning, and yet he isn't quite floating. A ship that's taking on water, that hasn't yet begun to sink, and may be salvaged at any moment. Standing on the edge of a hole, not sure if he's jumping or falling, or if he's going anywhere at all. Everybody has those moments, those days. If you haven't, bless you, I hope you never do, but in truth, I'm fairly sure you will.

On those days, and in those moments, it can be hard to find the motivation to get on with one's daily routine. The simplest task of "get out of bed in the morning" can turn daunting, a fight not worth fighting. Don't be taken down by lost moments. The cure for not getting out of bed is to never go there in the first place, correct? Many people claim insomnia, but I believe we all have our own reasons for avoiding the night. Some are afraid of the dark, some dislike the quiet, others are afraid of their own thoughts that creep through only when the bustle of the day has passed. For some, the dark and quiet of the night is a haven from the day, a place to enjoy the world without having to participate in it. The night allows one to watch the infinite dance of stars and space, to watch the tail-lights of automobiles turn into blurry red strings of lights on the highway. It brings peace and solace to a loud and turbulent day. I stay awake for fear of not wanting to get up in the morning. As luxurious as it may seem to lounge around in bed all day, I assure you, there are days you wish you had what it takes to get up and go.

What does it take to get up on those mornings? Some days I spring up before my alarm, dance to the radio music as I get ready, and enjoy the sun rising over the water tower. Other days, I let the alarm blare for hours before I notice it's gone off, throw things at it until it shuts up, and continue to blankly stare into nothing, not wanting to do or say or be anything more. Those are the days that scare me. Those are Bad Days. On Bad Days, nothing helps. Bad Days have to be ridden through like a terrible roller coaster, where one simply has to wait it out and hope to whatever presence is watching that it doesn't get worse.

Is that it, then? Bad Days are there and you're stuck with them? That's depressing and scary to think about. It's also not true. It feels like there's nothing to push for, but that's the trick. To push. The quickest way to get through tomorrow is to get through today. It's terrible, and painful, and it really sucks, but if you push through, something will happen. I can't guarantee it will be good, or positive, or even neutral. It could be a catastrophe. But at least you're out in the world being a part of something bigger than yourself.



Here's my advice to getting through a Bad Day:

1. I've had them before. I'll have them again. But I can't control those days; I can control today.
2. You get up in the morning, you open your eyes, you put your feet on the floor and you TRY. try to do something with your morning, your day, your life. And as long as you try, even if you fail 100 times before breakfast, you tried. And that's worth something. So you breathe, you throw back the covers, and you try. Just one more day. Always, just one more day.