A Conversation

Brett and I had this conversation in the car a few days ago:

Me: I think we should get a pool. Instead of having kids.

Brett: What?

Me: We could use the money we've been saving up to buy a pool. And just not have kids.

Brett: Why would we want a pool if we don't have any kids?

Me: Adults can't like pools?

Brett: I want kids.

Me: We could lure the neighbor kids with our pool. Then it would be like having kids, only we wouldn't really. And we would have a pool. Win-win.

Brett: WE ARE NOT GETTING A POOL!

As of right now, we don't have a pool. But I'm working on it.

Texas Forever

I have been pondering deeply lately. Maybe not about the important things—the meaning of life, my career, the future of our family. But pondering about good friends, happy times and how the two blend to create real-life Texas Forever* moments.

The problem is it’s so hard to realize you’re having one of those “this is real life” moments while it’s happening. Like the moments where Brett and I wander around our neighborhood in the dark, looking at stars and pretending we know what and where the constellations are (okay, I’m pretending—he might actually know. He’s always like, “there’s Ursa Major” and I’m like, “totally, and there’s Dracula’s nephew!”) 

Part of my pondering has been about moments. I’m not a photographer or artist, or even a very consistent writer or blogger so I have a hard time capturing moments. Sometimes to capture the moment in my mind, I say to Brett: “Isn’t it weird? This is real life.” 

It’s my way of making myself focus on the truth that this is my life. It’s not where I thought I’d be at 24. It’s not glamorous or lucrative. But it is rich and it is real. I don’t have life-changing montages set to indie music, but Texas Forever moments happen standing in a friends’ garage while it down pours on our fire pit; Mike standing in the rain roasting marshmallows for the rest of us, while Brett holds a kiddie pool above them for protection. Or they happen at the softball diamonds between stuffing mouths with sunflower seeds and watching kids with dirty feet. 

Each moment, both beautiful and fleeting, has the makings to be worth raising a glass, toasting Texas Forever.

What are your Texas Forever moments?

*Texas Forever comes from the NBC show Friday Night Lights. It's the moment where you toast to life, love, and living large. 

‘In the wave-strike over unquiet stones’

Sometimes, when I’m processing emotions, life events, deep thoughts I write all the time. It helps me see the words in black and white and categorize my feelings into files, organized into neat little boxes with labels. And stacked and arranged alphabetically into filing cabinets in a storage unit. Writing often makes me feel like an organized type-A crazy person (there is one of those living in my house. And it’s probably not me). 

But other times when my life feels messy and out of control, I avoid writing. Seeing real words detailing emotions to life’s events that I haven’t quite processed in my mind only makes it worse.

A few people told me they were waiting for a blog post about my grandmother who recently passed away. I still haven’t written anything, and being totally truthful, I probably never will. I haven’t dealt with her death yet in a way that would allow me to write about it. In many ways, I’m avoiding dealing with it. I haven’t talked about it thoroughly with anyone. I kept telling myself I had to process it, and then write about it—before I could talk through it with anyone. But I don’t know how to process it. Nor do I really want to. And so it sits.

A Jordan Holm Story

It wasn’t how it was supposed to end. In my mind, it can’t possibly be over—where was the Hollywood-style finish? The final redemption? The happy ending? All I can think is how utterly unfair it is.

I’ve known about Jordan Holm for years. I remember when he went to prison—heard about it through some family friends. His family always believed he was innocent, wrongly accused. Because I knew members of his family, I believed them. I only recently learned there was a website—freejordan.org—that details the case. I read the entire site start to finish in only a few hours, entirely engrossed in the injustice. I read all of the letters Jordan sent his brother while in prison; I read them through misty eyes, completely in awe of this man’s faith and attitude. I had no idea how someone innocent could spend so many years in prison and not become bitter.

Of course, by the time I found the website a month ago, Jordan had already been released. He had returned to wrestling and was working toward making the Olympic team. He had trained hard in prison—wrestling gave him a goal and something to do. Before prison, he had aspirations of medical school.

The writer (and Christian) in me could see this turning into a great story. Because he had never graduated college, he never pursued medical school. If he hadn’t been in prison, he likely wouldn’t have trained so much to become an Olympian. This would be his reward for unjustly spending close to a decade in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He would get to wrestle in the Olympics!

Last weekend, he lost at the trials. He didn’t make the team. His Olympic hopes were dashed in only a few minutes. There was no reward—no redemption. And every time I think about it, all I can think is how much he has suffered, how much he has had to endure—all while keeping his faith. It’s just so unfair. 

The life of the Christian does involve trials; that’s basic Sunday School fodder. But I can’t help but question God on this one. Why is he blessing me—my life is fairly trial-free—when my faith is nowhere near Jordan’s?  

This weekend, I cried for Jordan—a man I’ve never personally met—as I read about his defeat.

I hope and pray that his appeals will be heard and he will be exonerated from his original charges. Maybe that will be his redemption story. My story had him winning gold in London—redemption on the world’s biggest stage. I envy Jordan’s faith. Because he didn’t need my version of the story. He knows he’ll just have to wait a little longer for his gold.

Prison Break--A Revisiting

I'm currently revisiting my obsession with Prison Break on Netflix. The show began in 2005, when I was in high school, and I watched it faithfully for the first two seasons--hopelessly obsessed with leading character Michael Schofield (Hello, Wentworth Miller. You are beautiful. I don't care if you can't act. You can stare piercingly at me all day with that pouty scowl and intense jaw acting). Season 3 was weird, and the plot sort of fell apart for me. I tuned in later in Season 4 (where the plot was even worse), as I knew the show was ending. And then I cried a lot when it was over.

***This blog may reveal spoilers about the show. You've been warned. If you have not seen Prison Break (at least Season 1), you should watch it. If you have not, and you don't want some spoilers about a show that ended three years ago, you should stop reading this post.

The ending of the show was poetic, I suppose. The director himself explained that it had to be that way, despite the obvious pain for the viewers. You want the hero (the beloved Michael Scofield) to succeed because he is clearly the "good guy," despite the entire plot that has him breaking the law. The man struggles with the guilt of his actions repeatedly--and in a way, we can't help but see it coming. Michael must pay the consequences.

There are so many blatant similarities between Prison Break and AMC's No. 1 movie of all time The Shawshank Redemption. And I think many viewers, myself included, would have liked a little more Shawshank in our resolution--the heroes fading into the sunset on a beach, happily ever after. (Oops, Shawshank spoiler. But if you didn't know that one, I can't help you.)

Prison Break fans want so badly for Michael and dear Dr. Sara to be together. Their relationship (especially in Season 1) is both heartbreaking and beautiful. Their extending staring into each others' eyes--however cliched--is still TV magic (after Michael saved her during a prison riot, when he kisses her for the first time in her office and she doesn't get mad--just wait for him Sara!).

I guess in the end, it is the right ending. The show is about self sacrifice--especially Michael's--to save others. And that's what he gets.

But the rest of feel like we're getting our toes cut off with pruning shears.

Telephone

My husband talks on the phone A LOT. Especially for a 23-year-old male. Maybe because I almost never talk on the phone for more than a few minutes, but he is like a teenage girl sometimes. Mike calls him and he'll chat while he's driving home. With me sitting in the front seat. Or he'll leave the room when I'm watching TV because Andy's called to tell him something (he generally only leaves the room after I glare at him enough because he is being SO LOUD) and then they end up gabbing away for 20 minutes. Maybe I'm annoyed that I don't talk to any of my girl friends on the phone. 

I used to have several hour-long conversations a week with my mother when I was in college. I'd generally call her because I'm a terrible cook I didn't know how to make certain food, or know if I could put a certain dish in the microwave. I'm still a terrible cook, but now Brett and I just decide to wing it and be adventurous. Turns out A LOT of older glass bowls have metal in them and will start microwave fires. Just an FYI. 

I've never really been a phone talker though. My hearing is pretty bad, plus I sound like I'm five over the phone. A lady called a few weeks ago to get me to donate blood. Once I finally convinced her I was Lindsay, she didn't believe I'd ever donated before because I sounded too young. 

However, in high school, Brett and I talked on the phone almost every night for several hours. What we talked about, I have no idea. We had just spent all day together at school. We had all the same friends and teachers and most of the same classes. Those must have been the most asinine conversations ever. I guess it turned out okay though. 

But seriously, is it common for 20-something men to talk on the phone to each other so much? And don't even get me started about how they play XBOX LIVE together and are connected through those super lame headset things. Seriously, I'm married to such a dork.

Inspiration

I've been reading blogs excessively lately and experiencing some fantastic writing. And yet, I'm uninspired to write on my own. I know I need to read good writing in order to produce good writing--but so often good writing discourages me more than it inspires me. 

Instead of feeling immersed and empowered by their abilities to make mundane stories read like fascinating adventures, or their strength in lining up words perfectly to sound both intelligent and beautiful, instead of inspired, I feel flat. Like, I don't write like that, I can never be good enough. I am not interesting. 

I never want to become a "mommyblogger" who only writes about my day and my children. (A. I don't have any children, and B. my day is pretty boring). I will likely never be a stay-at-home mom, and I will likely never be crafty or post soft-focused, overly-photoshopped pictures of my children all over this blog. I do not want this blog to be about my kids' snot and poop. Even if its the most adorable expulsion of body fluids I've every witnessed. 

I want this blog to be my space to write about whatever I want--deep things, beautiful things, funny things. I want it to enrich my writing life, and perhaps provide entertainment readers for my seven followers (who probably don't even check much since I've been so poor about updating--that will change, I promise).

There wasn't much of a point or a theme I was going for here, I just needed to find a place to jump start my commitment to writing. Perhaps I'll start using blog prompts to force me to update more often (daily, even?). But for now, I will choose to be inspired by blogs, instead of choosing to wallow in inadequacy.