Ready...

i have been transitioning from relaxed to natural hair for about a year and a half. just like the natural hair websites predicted, i have become frustrated with the two different textures that have presented themselves to me. growing towards the ends of my hair are the nicely straight ends. very polite in nature, they remain intact, no matter how much water i put towards them, no matter how much i twist them with my fingers. they let me know, "we prefer the easy path...we're the least resistant, honey." i've been accepting of it.

i have always had an attachment to my hair, much like i've had an attachment to control of my life. i've had a fear of the unknown, so if i controlled things, then i would have nothing to be fear. i've always been known as the girl with the long hair. i've always had long, perfectly straightened and relaxed hair. the mention of me cutting my hair resulted in a male classmate of mine to respond that he was worried that i wouldn't be as attractive with shorter hair. i've cut my hair before, but the shortest it's been has been grazing my shoulders. that was comfortable for me. and again, it's always been straight. having hair that comes to my shoulders allowed me to hide behind my hair if i wanted to (which most of the time, i do).

my sophomore and current junior years of college have been filled with lessons and experiences that i am learning to appreciate. i have changed in so many ways, and i am learning to embrace and love the new Bri. i am no longer comfortable with the straight hair. i desire more.

i don't know when it happened, but natural hair has always been a secret goal of mine. i've had a perm since i was about 5, so i've only known relaxed hair--a decision that was not made for me. my second attempt at growing out my relaxed hair has so far been a success. i received my last relaxer in July of 2009, and haven't looked back.

but within the last few months, something inside of me has wanted to steer away from the comfortable flat-ironed style that i've been accustomed to. i've been fascinated with the way that my "new growth" (the hair that is not relaxed) curls up in spite of the perfectly straight hair. i absolutely love it.

i've been twisting my hair to further the curl definition, and i am learning my hair for the first time. i never know how it will look, and i am (for the most part) pleasantly surprised with how it ends up turning out. it is learning me and i am learning it.

i am excited about these changes. i am ready to say bye to the permed ends of my hair. i am ready to be uncomfortable. i am ready to accept the change. i am ready to embrace the young woman that i am becoming.

i am ready to be naturally me. Pics coming soon.

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uh oh. i can see now that blogging is going to take over my life, but in such a very good way. my soul will be fed and it will be cleansed. everything will be in order.

i'm just up...thinking as usual and the thing/person that popped into my head was love. i am very much in love, and have been for almost two years. i have told others before him that i loved them, and in that space and time, i did. but i am, as expected, a different person, so i love him in a difference space and capacity and with a different effort.

it is a more freeing love, a more realistic love, a more selfless love. it is a love that has taught me much about myself. he has taken my heart in his hands and has made it his duty to learn each and every thing behind each and every beat that it takes. he knows me. he still is getting to know me. he makes it his mission to study me.

i am not one of those lovelorn young people that make others roll their eyes at the sickening displays of affection. that's not me. it actually took me a long time to build up the courage to become comfortable enough with placing my hand inside of his. i didn't want to get comfortable with feeling his palm against mine. i knew that once i did, i would forget what it was like before it was there--and i didn't want to do that.

i remember who i was before he found the right space to lay his head on my shoulder. i knew love. i had found it within my developing relationship with God, moreso than any other love i'd known before. i'd seen the things that God had done with my heart, and it solidified my decision to begin a lifelong love affair with Him. i knew love. i knew that it was selfless. i knew that it was enduring. and not that, "girl, all we do is fight but i don't want nobody but him i swear." it was strong. i never looked at people the same way. i've always been a nice person with a heart as soft as the biggest bed in the world, but once i came to knew God's love, i became a loving person. i exuded it.

so it only made sense that someone was brought into my life as one of the many reflections of His love for me. and like that meeting with God, it changed my life. he is more than just a boyfriend, more than just a friend. he is a mirror. if you didn't tell me different, i know that God speaks to me through him. He touches his heart with every word that he says to me. God loves me through him, and all i can do is be grateful that i don't remember what it was like before he rubbed his fingers gently inside of my palm while smiling at me with his eyes.

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I am changing into who I am meant to be and it is scary.

My body is turning into someone who looks like a woman. I look at my hips, widening with the days, block back the tears that come when people pull me to the side and give me the knowing glance.

Those hips came from...you know. They say, giving me a side grin. I look back and sigh. No, no bun in this oven. Still trying to figure out the yeast in my own oven.

I see how my steps have become more confident. I speak up more, but then in the same breath, I've become quieter and more fearful. I am becoming myself, and the little girl in me is gripping tightly to who I was. She doesn't want to change.

Friends who I thought would bring the laughs in my life only bring tears that I just am not ready to yet fall yet. My relationship has brought up new questions. Marriage is not the answer that I am ready to reply with, although my boyfriend has luckily turned out to be pretty much the best guy in the world.

I am still learning the crooks and crevices of me. Of my body. From the tops of my soon to be all natural hair to the bottom of my toes. I want to learn me. I want to explore me. I want to love me, no questions asked.

This brown skinned girl...I just want to be her. I just want to be me, and I know this makes no sense at all, but that's the beauty in this process. It makes no sense to me, yet I know that I'm on the right path.

I love hard. I try to write the stories that I think fit the people in my life, but I'm learning that journalism and storytelling, although my gifts, are best for characters that I have no ties to. I'm focusing on writing my own story. Using the notebooks that I've had all alone. Selah.

Oh, and it means...praise and meditation.

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If I Could Make Time Stand Still

I always complain about not having time to write personally for myself, but the truth is, I do have the time. I just don't spend it as wisely as I should. Well...that is definitely something that I plan on working towards doing--spending my time more wisely. So...I plan on blogging more (and I have my wonderful teacher, Tamara Jeffries, to thank for this). I can't work on developing my craft if I don't actually practice it. My creative juices flow at their best at night time.

Something that India.Arie said in her recent blog really stuck out to me. She discussed how her putting her time and energy into her career led to her not nurturing her relationships in other areas. I feel that I have done the same. I have this complex inside of me where I feel that I have to constantly work and prove myself, that if I don't, the millions of other people in the world who work harder than me will snatch up the opporutnities that I missed. It has proven to be a dangerous complex at times. It has left me feeling physically drained and emotionally exhausted. It has left me in tears at 4 in the morning. It has left me laying in bed, looking up at the wall, wishing that my bed would swallow me because at that moment, the thought of getting out the bed exhausted me too much. It has left me gaining more weight than I would have liked to. I have physical and spiritual baggage because of it. And right now, in this moment and space, I recognize it and I want to change it.

I wish that I could spend time with every single person in my life who means the world to me, and I am plagued with an immense amount of guilt when I can't. I try to be 5 different versions of myself so that each area of my life will be satisfied, and as expected, I fail each and every time.

The truth is, since my sophomore year (last year) of college, I have worked hard. I've gotten the grades. I've been involved. On the outside, I have looked like the perfect college student.

On tbe inside, it has been a different story.

I don't talk to my best friends as much as I used to, and it does hurt. Is it my fault? I can take the blame. I'll text because it takes less time than making a phone call. I've convinced myself that a text message is better than nothing, and it makes sense to the busy Bri. But the real me--that's not something that I do. I don't actually enjoy texting. You can't hear that laugh that people laugh from their stomachs through a text. You can't hear that sigh when you both have finished laughing and can only sigh. You're laughed out, and you enjoy knowing that you have someone that you can laugh that way with. Honestly, I wish I could do it face to face more often, but the way that I have positioned my life, it's left me not coming home more and more often. Everyone is proud of me, and I am proud of what I've accomplished. I have an extremely powerful and competitive resume.

But I can't help but feel empty as I do my traveling, as I come back to school early to handle my responsibilites as an RA. Is this the way that my life will be? Professionally sucessful, but emotionally poor?

Maybe.

But I want to make more of an effort to not use the "I'm Busy" excuse as much. Yes, I am busy, but not busy doing productive things. And sometimes, it's okay to get lost in a conversation seeing how my friends and family are done. That paper or that article can wait a few minutes. I've seen more friendships of mine fall to the wayside in the past two years than I would have liked to. Some of them were expected, but ones that are really dear to me need to be nurtured and loved.

So beyond working on my procrastination, I want to work on my time management so that I can have a balance of professional success and emotional happiness. One day at a time.

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I Am Woman

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/12/09/AR2009120904546.html?sid=ST2010041904904- Helena Andrews

The second issue I hear, mostly from heterosexual black women, is a deep concern about being un-partnered, which I blame on an overwhelming discourse around this idea that there are no available black men.
So in some ways, young women may be more connected to these gender scripts than we were, because marriage and motherhood is at the center of popular discourse.- Beverly Guy-Sheftall
http://www.theroot.com/views/root-interview-beverly-guy-sheftall?page=0,2

These are two very different articles, but both relate to feminism, although in the first article, a profile of Helena Andrews, author of the memoir Bitch Is The New Black, the author refers to our generation as being one that is "post-feminist". The ssecond article, an interview with Beverly Guy-Sheftall, a scholar and feminist, deals with Guy-Sheftall's opinion of feminism now and how it relates to us, in comparison to when she herself was younger.

The above quote stood out to me because I agreed with Guy-Sheftall. Black women in my generation, and I'll add my mother's generation to this category as well, are very concerned about being partnered. In all honesty, I know very few Black women who are married, including my mother. From conversations that I've heard practically all my life, it is definitely a concern for them.

I began reading Bitch Is The New Black over the summer, and once school started back and I became busier, I wasn't able to finish the book in its entirety. I was quite fascinated with how much emphasis Helena Andrews placed on her relationship status. To her, it wasn't just a status, it was a definition. SINGLE. It was like a curse word.

I noticed, too, that in the headline of the profile on her, it uses lonely and successful almost as synonyms. Andrews, to me, is the epitome of success. She graduted from Columbia University and Northwestern University, wrote for Politico, O, The New York Times, and now has a movie deal possibly in the works, in addition to a book out. But the majority of the book and the article focuses on her lack of a relationship.

Is this the new face of feminism? We don't define success by our jobs or education--it's as if we almost take that for granted. Attending Columbia and Northwestern, two of the top schools in the country, are thrown into the book and article like an afterthought. Attending an Ivy-League is an amazing feat; it is supposed to set you apart from others. However, in a post-feminist word, it makes you a regular old Joe. Andrews says that she has friends who are lawyers, social scientists and more--those with presumably lucrative careers, but again, she states it as if she's mentioning the walk that she gave her dog that morning.

We're not feminists anymore. We're not even successful. We're just lonely.

It's scary.

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There's No Good Music Left!

"There is no good music around anymore! I feel sorry for your generation!" My boyfriend's relative said to us recently on a car trip tp their hometown of Philadelphia. We were in for an 8-hour drive, and she was determined to make use of the time that she had with us. I could tell that she enjoyed speaking with us. We defied her stereotypes of the typical 20-year-old college students.

I shook my head as I glanced at her from the rearview mirror. I loved having conversations about current music. I'm not the typical music listener of my generation. I barely listen to the radio in my car. The freshwomen in my residence hall (I'm a Resident Assistant) keep me current with what's going on in the music world...which furthers my hesitance to turn on the radio.

In a sense, I told my boyfriend's relative, I agreed with her. If all I did was listen to the radio, I would be disheartened to hear bitch and hoe after every line, said by both men and women. I would turn up my nose at some of the lyrics. The most recent one to make me shake my head in disgust?

"You wanna see some as*? I wanna see some cash...and that's gon' make me dance."
Make It Rain- Travis Porter

So yes...I understand why she would say that. Only IF I listened to solely the radio and mainstream music.

But since I don't, I have more of a variety to choose from, which led me to say that there IS good music in our generation. Beyond good music. A lot of this music, however, does not make it to mainstream radio. The artists that make this music are fine with that, as well, I added.

I say that because by the time the music makes it to mainstream, it goes through so much changing and forming to fit what is believed to be popular that I'm sure it is unrecognizable.

The true fans of these artists know how to find their music. They know that it most likely won't be found on the radio, their concerts aren't at sold-out venues and they may not have the most downloads on iTunes. But they also can trust that the depth and meaning of their message won't be lost among the many other songs on the radio that already have. Those who want to find good music, do and will continue to.

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Move Me

At the same time as my decision to wear my hair in its natural state has really increased, so has my decision to delve deeper into my writing. No longer do I want to just write a pretty sentence. I want to write a sentence that has to be rewritten over and over again before it makes me say BOO-YOW. I want to write not just for the sake of being "deep...yo, that was deep, man". No, I want to "go free", as Tamara Jeffries, my Creative Nonfiction instructor has been pleading with us to do. But no amount of pleading and prodding from her can take us there until we are ready to be taken.

When I wear my hair bone straight, which is how it is typically styled by my beautician, I feel pretty. I feel ready to face the world. I feel as thin and as straight and predictable as my freshly wrapped hair in the morning. And after 20 years...I finally spoke the truth: it was boring me.

I've always secretly wanted to be natural. My heart jumped and did a little shimmy each time I saw someone holding the tips of their curled ends, reaching to the sky and smiling along the way. Yes, my hair looked bomb and fierce when it was straightened, don't get me wrong. Beauticians in the past have hooked up my hair, providing me with layer upon layer, color upon color that at one point, my hair resembled the sun as it bid the sky adieu. Beautiful is how my hair has always been to me.

That's what I've been known for--my long, thick beautiful hair. At the mention of cutting it, I received so much flack that I wished I could take each letter of my suggestion and stomp it out on the floor until no one ever remembered it existed. Except me.

Good words inspire me, to be a higher me like the first artist who really took me "there"--Lauryn Hill. Whether I'm reading a book or magazine or listening to poetry set to a beat (what I call music...I'm sure I'm not the only one), I feel moved. I feel like jumping in my car and driving to South Carolina for no other reason than because I can. Words are my food. They are what keep me going, especially those words that make you remember them during the time when they were intended for--when we need them the most. Depth is what drives me wild.

I'm realizing that I like my hair when it is wild. I love when it is all over my head in curls. I love the things that it does, the shapes that it makes. I never know how it will look. It's getting to know me as much as I'm getting to know it. It's not always a love relationship, either. Sometimes I feel like calling a relaxer up and apologizing for leaving it cold in the rain. Other days, I feel like hugging each curl, even with the relaxed ends, and taking them all out for ice cream.

My writing is figuring out that "Hey...sistergirl is changing up on us!" And of course, it would be right. I pay attention more to word order, to sentence length, to whether or not something is right for the story. I pay attention to craft.

Much like I do when twisting my hair each night. It's all in the arms. It's all in how you do it. If you don't twist it right, it'll look all wrong. But sometimes, that's the point. Sometimes it has to look wrong in order for you to style it into something that will end up right where you want it to be.

My writing and hair move me.

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Story

I recently saw Tyler Perry's film adaptation of For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf, and although this was not a creative nonfiction piece, it does have to do with biographies in a sense that Perry took the stories of seven women and put them to the screen. He studied the play (over a thousand times, he said in a letter on his website), studied the women, did the same kind of research that we would have done had we continued our biography assignment in class. He could not speak to these women because they did not exist, similar to the fact that we could not speak to the women that we were writing about. All we had were words that they left in letters, books, articles and words spoken by those who know them. Words are powerful--it can make the difference in portraying someone as evil or someone as resilient. I admired Perry for his work because he took the words from the play and added more to them to create the screen version. It was not easy blending poetry with film, and several others have said that this is one of the donwfalls of the film, but he told their stories. He told their stories like he knew each one personally, even though he didn't create them. The theme that I seem to repeat in my blogs is the art of storytelling, and how my idea of it has changed over time.

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Tell My Story

What makes someone's story interesting enough to put to paper? Can any of us make that judgment? Yes. We all have backgrounds, true. We all don't have stories, also true, in my opinion. Not everyone possesses the skills necessary to put you in their shoes so that you can live their story. So that you can understand it.
Which is where writers come in. We have (or we should have) the ability to take the spoken word and craft it into something written, something tangible, something to make you look at that person and say 'Wow...so THAT's why..." or 'Wow...I couldn't have done that, but I understand why you did..."
This is biography. That is how you do it. You don't tell the positive side, you don't tell the negative side. You tell the story.

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& Scene!

Chairs sprawled across the room that serves not only as a classroom, but as a computer lab, cafeteria, counseling center, apartment and at the moment, a church in Virginia from years ago, through the mind of a young Tamara Jeffries. My classmates and I sat in amazement as she took us back in time to visit with her the inside of her mother's purse.

"How did you do that?" We all whispered with our eyes, too awestruck to ask the question. Ms. Jeffries is as close to as a writing god as we have close enough in our reach. "I'm not that different from you. I'm nothing special," she said, trying to convince us that yes, we too, could write like her.

Trith is, she really isn't anything special. She just knows how to create a scene.

We write to be witty. We write to tell what we think is a story, but we're honestly nowhere near telling a story. We all were instructed to describe a church scene. We described the church pews, the color of the choir robes, the way we felt walking into the church tardy, but not really setting a scene.

Ms. Jeffries took us throughout her mother's purse. She described the crumpled napkins and the peppermint wrapping and the dirt and lint at the bottom. She left us at the bottom of it and took us to the pew, where she sat with her patent-leather Mary Janes dangling from the pew. She took us there. We were her. She became us. She gave us a scene.

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Thick in The Words

My Creative Nonfiction teacher, Ms. Tamara Jeffries, one of the most brilliant teachers and people I know, has these sayings that she likes to use, and most of them I forget, but one stuck with me. She told us that she wants our writing to be "thick on the page". We need to FEEL our writing. It needs to be beyond surface level analysis.

Sounds easy, huh?

I know, I know...I'm being sarcastic.

But her advice is what I strive for in all my writing, whether I knew it or not. I want my writing to jump out at you on the page. I attempted that as I prepared to write my first memoir ever. I don't believe it turned out so well, and a part of the problem is that I tried too hard. Yes your writing should always be intentional, but I slapped on so many things about myself that it turned into a healing piece for me. I forgot about the reader. I tried to be thick but ended up being thin. So instead of going to the store and buying everything I see to make my refrigerator full, I'm going to essentially buy the things that will make me healthier, so I can live a richer life. So that my story will have a purpose, existence, instead of doing nothing but being my prayer to God. Who wants to read that?

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For Writers Who Have Considered Rewriting When Gender is Enuf

http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2010/09/for_colored_girls_trailer.html

http://clutchmagonline.com/newsgossipinfo/tyler-perrys-for-colored-girls-gets-november-release/

For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow is Enuf

I was 16, maybe 17, when I was first introduced to this choreoplay by Ntozake Shange. When the rainbow is enuf...how powerful those words were to a 16-year-old girl struggling to find acceptance within herself can't even be described. One of the resident writers that I was fortunate enough to have as a teacher in one of my classes at Young Chicago Authors first introduced me to the book, and later gave it to me as a present. I was touched. I was moved by it. The way that the play is written is just simply amazing.

So when I heard that a movie was going to be made from an adaptation of the book, of course I was excited. When I heard that the director was Tyler Perry, my happiness decreased. Not because of his past work...that is a whole different blog post. I was upset because yet again, a man was chosen over a woman to direct a movie that is about women. Whether it was done deliberately or not, this has happened more times than it should.

THen that made me think--is it wrong for Perry to direct this story just because he is a man? Would a woman be more qualified to direct it solely based on her gender alone? Although For Colored Girls isn't a creative nonfiction piece, the same decisions about whose story is it to tell, and WHO should tell it still remain across mediums.

The story will of course be different since Perry is a man.

Or will it be? Gender isn't a degree in a sense that it doesn't reward one a higher level of intelligence. I don't think that it is in my place to come to the conclusion that Perry's version of the story would be different and, I'll admit, inferior to Shange's simply because he's a man. I think that their own personal experiences will determine how the story is interpreted, but Perry may relate to Shange's characters better than she can if he has experienced it firsthand and she didn't--he'll not only understand it, he'll feel it.

Storytelling is an art form, one that I think anyone can possess. Great storytelling does take time to develop, and I am very interested to see the result of Perry's development.

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That Old Thing Back

An interview that I have yet to see wasn't what caught my attention. I, like many other people in my generation and the one before me, treat The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill as a Bible of some sorts put to beat sung by an angelic voice- that which belongs to Lauryn Hill. Although that album was released in 1998 (12 years ago) and Hill has yet to have an album to reach its success, her name still starts a flurry of conversation, partially because of the privacy that she has set aside for herself.

The music journalist Toure' recently did an interview with her for Fuse Tv,and although I have not seen the interview, I first heard about it via Twitter. Hiill's words weren't what caught my attention, as I stated earlier. It was what was said by someone else that really got me.

In my Creative Nonfiction class on Tuesday, we discussed why people may hide things or not share them when writing. As writers, do we even have the right to do that (pun intended)? You have a responsibility, I believe, to tell your story, to share things about yourself (we were discussing our upcoming memoirs that we have to write as our first major assignment, so this is why I feel that leaving out things is not right).

The comments that really made me stop and think were said by Vernon Mitchell, Jr. (@negrointellect), a doctoral candidate in history at Cornell University. He wrote:

"I think we want "that old thing back" so bad that no matter what she did, it likely wouldn't measure up. I could be wrong...maybe I am. We won't ever "hear" Lauryn Hill again, until we let go of what she did in the past..."

I'm not the only one who worships The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, her debut album. Hill is held to a very high standard in hip-hop, neo-soul, R&B, etc. In fact, her album was listed by Rolling Stone as one of the 500 greatest albums of all time. Songs like "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill", where she sang,

"My world it moves so fast today, the past it seems so far away & life squeezes so tight that I can't breathe...And every time I try to be, what someone else thought of me, so caught up I wasn't able to achieve..."

really helped me grow into a confident person. But that's beside the point. Mitchell's tweets are one of the reasons, I assume, that Hill retreated behind the spotlight, why she shied away from people like me, who live by her lyrics- we expect too much from her. When we relinquish the Lauryn from 12 years ago, we can get to know the Lauryn from today.

So in this situation, is her hiding parts of her story acceptable? When I say hiding her story, I'm referring to releasing new music. If and when she does decide to release new music, does she even have to be as personal as she once was? When you are in a different place in your life, do you have to write the same as you did previously? Do you owe that to your audience?

I guess that in Hill's case, she should just take her own advice. Make up her own mind to define her own destiny.

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Becoming Butterfly

As I am writing this blog post, a butterfly lands quietly on the window of my car. At first I didn't notice it, but it became harder to ignore as it flapped its wings ever so gracefully, oblivious to the fact that I am watching it. I became excited because I absolutely love butterflies and what they represent. I love how they are originally caterpillars and then transform into butterflies. My favorite saying is "Just when the ccaterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly."

In my Creative Nonfiction class, we have been assigned the task of writing different forms of creative nonfiction--memoirs, essays and more. In "Keeping it Real", Lee Gutkind, the godfather of creative nonfiction, writes about the different ways to make creative nonfiction beautiful. You can use facts, the backdoor approach, reserch--whatever necessary to tell the truth, to tell a story.

This butterfly landing on my car has a story, and as a writer of creative nonfiction, I have the assignment and responsibility of telling stories like it. I know that the butterfly cannot literally speak to me, but in other ways, it is indeed telling me a story, creating its own memoir in these moments that it shared the same space with me. And it is my job to listen, to take heed to it, to write, to observe, to feel. I get it now. Creative nonfiction isn't a made-up story genre for journalists who are tired of the inverted pyramid. Its for writers who find something that they are interested in, learn it, essentially become it, and tell the story of it.

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because of all of this

i have been bored out of my mind since June 30th, when i came back from my whirlwind of travels. i am not the type of person to sit idly by and watch life pass me by. i get bored very easily, & i like to take advantage of pretty much every opportunity that life throws at me.

being stuck at home w/ no car & no money has pretty much sucked & made me forget about all of the amazing things that i've done in just two months. it made me forget that from June 2009-June 2010, I have not stopped. Last summer was the internship w/ the Chicago Defender. Last school year, I took on a whole list of new responsibilities that I hadn't before. I was an RA. Editor-In-Chief. Student. Girlfriend. Sister. Friend. Daughter. In May, I was in St. Petersburg, FL at the Poynter Institute for a journalism fellowship. In June, I was in Atlanta at Emory University for the UNCF/Mellon Mays Undergraduate Fellowship. On the 26th of this month, I'll be heading to San Diego for the NABJ Conference as a participant in the Student Multimedia Project.

I'm not saying all this to brag, because it takes a lot of work to do all that. Many don't see the sleepless nights that I had [& when I say sleepless, I mean not going to sleep for over 24 hours because I HAD to get something done]. Many don't see the tears that I shed because of a combination of stress, lack of sufficient rest, some days I barely ate because I was so busy to notice the headaches I had every day. For a year, I was constantly running, constantly ticking off things in my head that I needed to do. When I did rest, I felt guilty. When I was here, I knew I should be there. I learned that there's no reason to be that way. To live that way.

& as bored as I've been, my body has been thanking me. I feel 10 pounds lighter. my days consist of...i honestly don't even know what they consist of, & that's fine.

i believe that God knew that on my own, i would have never taken this time off. so He forced me to be still. normally i would be ripping & running & trying to see the whole city of Chicago, but not this break. not out of spite or lack of love, but out of love & respect for myself & my health. i was physically & mentally drained. i could barely keep up w/ the days, wouldn't remember if i had eaten that day, wouldn't really care, either. guilt constantly plagued every activity that i did. i always felt like there was something more that i should have been doing, someone else who i could have been seeing, some paper that i needed to write, something else that needed to be added to the website.

& for the first time in a year, i'm finally saying what everyone else has already been telling me: slow down. B R E A T H E. take it all in. what good would i be for everyone else if i was somewhere passed out because of exhuastion? my heart bursts at the seams with all the love that i have for the people in my life, even for those who i don't even know. i know & trust that the people who love me, know all that.

so, i'm taking off the cape (for now). i'm just enjoying my time w/ myself. listening to music. writing. oh how good it feels to finally be able to write for myself. during school, it's almost impossible. my brain is switched to academic mode & i can't concentrate on anything else but my assingment. but in this moment, in this space in time, i know that i have at least a week more to write the things that makes my spirit sing, not just stuff that will be good in this issue or that will get me an A.

& when it's time for the cape to come back on, i'll be a better person because of all of this. i'll be refeshed. rejuvenated. smiling more, & meaning it.

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To The Middle

1st blog entry whoop whoop!!! what to write, what to write!

well, i guess i'll start with my facebook status from yesterday. [well, one of them].

-i want to get back to that place where my every fiber, my whole being was about God. i don't feel that closeness in my spirit that i once did. i gotta get back to the middle.-

it might be pretty deep for my first blog entry, but hey....might as well start with the truth.

i don't know where the disconnection came from, but i've felt it since i came to college. funny thing is, i attend church more now than when i was in high school, but i felt closer to Him when i was in high school. i didn't attend church when i was home, but i had plenty of devotionals & books & all kinds of things. i prayed throughout the day, even if it was just to say hi. i had an actual relationship.

i still believe that i have a relationship, but now, i feel that it is more of a hi-bye, distant friendship, whereas before, it was a best friend friendship. =/

i've gotta get back to the middle. i've got to. more on this later when i get my bearings together.

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