Sunday, March 20, 2016

coffee makes me a better person

I believe coffee makes me a better person.

I wake up each morning, clad in eclectic ensembles of yoga pants and gruby undershirts. Sometimes my roots are covered in oil, bobby pins falling out from last night's bun. Other times it’s a crazy cloud of curls surrounding my makeupless face. No matter what my zombie like presence resembles as I stagger across the room to turn off my alarm, I know I have two choices. I can sit in the heatless, bright, horrible morning and begin to brace myself for the 18 hours to come. Or I can crawl back into my cocoon of pillows, all warm and safe. Slip back into my subconscious.  

Usually I apply every single ounce of self control to making the mature decision. The decision to leave my throne of peace.

Then I find myself shivering in the quited house, slapping on war paint. I cover my pimples, and slap on some eyeliner. Then I coat my eyelashes in copious amounts of mascara, almost to the point where I’m just globbing it. I love mascara. Next I pick out my outfit. And if I was the responsible person my mother taught me to be, I would have it hanging on a hanger, ready to go. But no. Instead I stare at my closet for roughly five minutes, my brain clouded in sleep. After all, this is taking mental capacity.

After I have thrown on something because of my lack of time, I finally make it to the coffee. Warm, rich, flavorful bliss. And as I do whatever I must do while sipping calm, I transform from beast to beauty.  


Sunday, March 13, 2016

list of happy tag

///List of HAppy///
words// joy, adagio, any thing in french, poppy, dark chocolate mocha, bumfuzzle, fobbed

movies & tv// the office, grey's anatomy, roman holiday, white collar, the blind side, sherlock

scents// hot taco soup, fancy perfume, hairspray, breakfast foods, steamy espresso, freshly printed paper, shampooed hair, clean car smell. 

songs// anything Bach or Vivaldi (with no harpsichord), 7 Years, Say Something (Postmodern Jukebox version), exes and ohs, Fight Song, Adele's entire new album, and Colors

books// to kill a mockingbird, footnotes, life in motion, the Narnia series, if i stay,

random// writing quotes in fancy handwriting, gifts, snail mail, movement, holding babies, shower at the end of the day, mascara, new pointe shoes, new clothes

tags// HannahAshley, Hannah, GraceLeah

mentions// thanks for the lovley Kate @ the goodness revolt for the tag. She is seriously the best and I want to be her. Soooo yeah. Ya'll go check her blog out. 

Thursday, March 10, 2016

When All Time Stands Still

It was a grey car ride. Melancholy filled my lungs as I sat in my pink pants and tunic shirt, staring out the window. It was mostly quiet, for no one really wanted to say anything. As we approached the Seattle, my mom began putting words together. Filling us in on what to expect. “...this is probably it…I think Abbie, Ralph and Cathy might be there...think about anything you want to say…” As we walked briskly up into that little house, my legs brushed the lavender bushes I had spend hours trimming with kitchen scissors. Making sachets. Dread hung in the should-be-cheerful, yellow living room. The kitchen chairs were pulled out in order that we could squeeze. I ate a lot of teriyaki food in those chairs. My Grandma came out from the bedroom wiping a tear. Her daughter, whom she had spent 43 years caring for, was dying. Years spent in doctors offices, conferences for parents with children with special needs, staying up at night. The official diagnosis was Rett Syndrome. My aunt was the longest survivor, the first in America to be diagnosed. Us Weisz women like attention. But not that day. The second I walked in a felt like I needed to leave. My body felt like it was being crushed by a encompassing weight. I sat stiffly, with my ever present ballerina posture, staring blankly at the petite brown recliner. I made her throw pillows to match that chair. I came home from the drugstore armed with nail polish and gave her the best pedicure. As everyone made small talk about who-knows-what, I simply sat. Clenching every muscle subconsciously. Us girls left to grab some lunch. The oxygen felt good. And we returned armed with smoothies. I still remember what I ordered at Jamba Juice. Shuffling into the should-be-cheerful, yellow living room, I sat again. And then, I went in. We went in. 
Into that tiny little bedroom, I stood. I didn’t know what to do or say, or even if I should say anything. I remember running my hands through her hair. Rachel taking a picture or two. My daddy standing against the wall, talking about his sister. I don’t know how long it was. I don’t remember if I said anything. I don’t remember if I kissed her forehead, or said, “I love you.” I don’t remember. Finding myself out in the living room, my brain in complete standstill and all emotion frigid. Then they asked if I wanted to go in again, one last time. Say goodbye. And in that moment, all of the heaviness and sorrow collapsing in around my heart, I lost the battle. I said no. I found myself sitting in the hard, wooden pews at Westside Presbyterian Church just over a week later. Thinking about what I had to say about my aunt and the impact she had on me. In the moment a choose not to tell her those things, whether I needed to say one last goodbye to the woman who told me so much without ever opening her mouth. That day I choose to keep quiet about the impact of a beautiful soul. 
And today, will I lose that opportunity again? 

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

the other side of the screen

I sit here curled up in a ball.
Yoga pants and a sweatshirt cover my leotard and tights. 
I stare at this blank page, this blank post.

how do i use my voice? 

One of my goals for 2016 was to be more real. To display the complete package .
Some will view it as a beautiful wrapped present, and others will view it as a crumpled package on the floor. 
It scares me slightly. 

But I also know I long to see the imperfections of others. 
I want to know I'm not alone in my weakness and failures. 
My soul craves the naked truth of the gospel. 


 I don't try to act like someone I'm not. 
I am an A student. 
I am a extrovert (for the most part) and have a inclusive personality. 
I am responsible. 
I volunteer.
I communicate well. 
I avoid conflict.

I also think negatively about people.
I am a gossip. 
I make judgments about people based of their appearance. 
I over commit myself. 

What draws me to people? 
A sense of 'realness'.

To be vulnerable, I have to risk facing your judgments of me.
And at some point, that cripples me. 
I need people to like me. 
My blog is designed to show you something you want to read. 
I want you to like my pictures, my writing, heck, even my fonts. 

But are you gaining anything of value from my font? 
Are you going to walk away from your side of the computer screen feeling relationship? 
Feeling you can relate?  

is this stupid? 

I want real.
I want truth.
I want the funny embarrassing stories. 

That's why I tell you about when I peed my paints on a hike. 
That's why I tell you about my nutcracker withdraw sympotoms
It's why I love awkward and awesome.

So I sit, curled up in my safe and cozy chair. Contemplating hitting the publish button.
My cocoon of quietness pushes me to take advantage of this rare moment. 

but will I?
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