Adventures in Wonderland

Life is it's own little Wonderland. There are no talking rabbits, true, but everyone of us has experienced a fall down the rabbit hole. We all know what it's like to face a furious Red Queen. Each of us has fled a vicious, snarling Bandersnatch or two in our day.

Life is an adventure and we should treat it as such. So many times, we simply refuse to engage--burying our heads in our textbooks and ignoring the caterpillar's advice. Why are we so fearful? What do we have to worry about? Life was, after all, made to be lived. We're supposed to adventure, to explore, to learn.

So get up out of your chair, take the key, eat the cake and journey to a strange new land. Banter with a Cheshire cat in answerless circles, laugh at the antics of a madman, and be sure to drink the tea he offers you. Be late. Slay your Jabberwocky. Walk upside down. Think outside of the box.

I promise you, life will be better for it.

Overactive Imagination

It's like this every time. The pounding heart, the irregular breathing. The stupid smile that creeps over her unwilling face. She has no doubt, either, that if she were to look into a mirror, her cheeks would be flushed and her pupils blown wide like she's received a head injury. Despite the protestations of her mind, every physiological reaction is intensified to a point of ridiculousness. One well-placed comment can set her cheeks aflame and her heart a-racing. It's nearly unbearable.

She hopes it's all magnified in her mind. Maybe, if she's lucky, only a few particularly astute people will see. Perhaps the involuntary glances will go unnoticed by most (one, in particular) and she will make it through another afternoon. After all, she knows it's useless to feel this way. For her attention to be noticed--much less shared--is as likely as sus scrofa spontaneously sprouting a pair of aerial appendages.

Nonetheless, evening comes and she succumbs to her overactive imagination. She recalls a moment when he'd grabbed her hand, trying to make a point, and she'd jerked away, fingers tingling as if she'd touched a live wire. In that split second, she'd been certain he knew. Or that late night drive, awakening to find she's accidentally made his shoulder her pillow. To wake to his eyes boring into her; it's easy to release the flight of fancy.

But these thoughts are reserved for midnight solitude and the dawn comes all too soon. So she tosses her head and laughs, promising that at the next midnight, she will not think of such things again, knowing, even as she says it, that it is a lie.

Such are the cruel tricks of an overactive imagination.

An Ocean of Doubt

What is the deal with all these D-words?

Doubt.

Discontent.

Disapproval.

Disappointment.

Discouraged.

Disillusioned.

I'm struggling with these words, and the feelings behind them. Something better waits, if I just let go, but I find my grip just tightens every time I try to shake free. Perhaps there's some thought of rescue, that if I just hold on everything will change. I've always been told tenacity's a positive trait, after all.

The irony is that what I'm holding is a sinking weight and the longer I cling to it, the farther I get from the surface and life-sustaining breath.

I'm sorry for my doubt. I don't mean to get discouraged so easily. I'm only human. But this is just as much an excuse as it is a reason and I know I need to try harder. In this case though, the success cannot be mine and doing my best isn't nearly good enough. The only option is to let go and hold my arms above the waves, trusting You to grip my elbows and pull me on board. Otherwise I'm tossed about, waterlogged and drowning, ears full of the D-words that make me sink.

Pull me aboard. I'm done trying to swim on my own. This water is too much for this foolish girl. Won't You rescue me?

Really Living

So often, we don't really live. Not like God intended us to. So I've taken this and run with it! Won't you join me?

The Quest for Forgiveness

Hypocrisy is an everyman word--I'm aware. You open the dictionary and my picture is there. So is yours. That doesn't make it any easier to look in the mirror. It never completely absolves you of the guilt.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I guess that must be true. Because the way I saw this turning out and the way it actually happened are two rather different things, and though I'm forgiven, I'm still wracked with shame.

Life is full of tough battles and choices and you never know how you're going to react to a situation until you are in someone else's shoes; oversized or pinching as they may be. Don't assume yourself to be better. Wait until you're a mile away and curse those untied sneakers. Turns out you were wrong the whole time and it is you who is the worse person. Isn't irony cruel?

Thank God for hope--literally. The easy part of forgiveness is accepting it, the tricky part is forgetting it. Slate clean, move on. Don't obsess over what's been wiped off the dry erase board. There's no need to rewrite it. It's done. Finito.

Finished.

The Musings of a Lonely Insomniac

I should be working. There are a million things, all lying undone, screaming for my focus. Some are in need of desperate attention. The word deadline pounds through the back of my mind, an almost-physical reminder of everything that has to be finished, or even started.

I could be sleeping. Taking advantage of these dark hours between dusk and dawn, the way the rest of the world does. Shutting off mental and physical facilities just long enough for them to recuperate for tomorrow. But Insomnia leaves me out in the dark, like a long-abandoned animal that still doesn't understand what's happened.

Nighttime pensiveness is stealing over me again. It happens time after time. I could be productive. I could rest. But there's something inherently magical about the twinkle of stars--some sense of breathless anticipation waiting on the edge of the brisk winter air. Aloneness and silence make a girl strangely thoughtful and every sense sets on edge.

Perhaps that is why I fear not the night, but you in the night. To take my innermost moments, and to find someone else is there to witness them is terrifying. Least of all because the idea is not completely repulsive. Somewhere inside of me, something stirs and a burning settles in the tips of my fingers--a desire to touch, to share, to express. I don't know what's happening; we could be anywhere and anyone--all it takes is a drop of darkness. All it takes is a little midnight...

And suddenly the dream vanishes like a wisp of smoke and I'm staring up at the black velvet sky, alone again. But, for the first time, I find myself desiring you to share it with.

Some Snowy Afternoon

There's something to be said for thick, slanting black eyelashes, framing a pair of wide blue eyes.

Something to be said for standing in the cold and spinning, spinning, until you fall, disoriented into the snow.

You can't discount gentle, ringing laughter that makes the whole world pause momentarily, just to listen.

There's something to be said for flushed faces, colored rose-red from exertion and uncontainable joy.

Something to be said for staccato puffs of white breath, mingling with the cold as weightlessly as a vapor.

And you certainly can't ignore a giant snowball bursting on the back of your head!

There's something to be said for intricate white snowflakes gathered in clumps on those beautiful black lashes.

Something to be said for the icy artificial tears they create as they're blinked away.

And no matter how you try, you can't forget the breathless realization of some snowy afternoon.