Opening Night

"The opening when your heart beats like a drum..." -Annie Get Your Gun

It's not nerves rattling through me, but complete anticipation and excitement. I'm about to leave Emma Catherine behind and become someone entirely new, a character I've gotten to know well throughout the past three months and am fully going to step into tonight as I zip up my cowgirl boots and set my straw hat in the center of my head. Tonight I'm Winnie Tate, a headstrong romantic who's fallen for a man her sister despises. Tonight I'm going to win the man, then lose the man, then win him again. I'm going to sing and dance my way to that happy ending and final bow. And I'm going to do it all over again tomorrow.

Throughout the years, I've taken on many personalities besides my own. I've been a poor boy living in an orphanage, and by the second act become a little girl receiving the coveted rose at the end of "Who Will Buy?". I've been a greedy, self-centered rat with a big appetite. I've been a street urchin, a peasant girl falling for the rich city boy, the ugliest of ducklings, the prettiest of Greasers, a French feather duster, a little redhead with "A Hard Knock Life", a young child possessed by witchery, an extravagant actress willing to do anything for the lead, and a beautiful cowgirl just looking for love.

I can't tell you in one word why I love this feeling so much. It's the scattered cast members rushing to help each other with their costume changes. The hurried repetition of lines as you touch up your lipstick during intermission. The laughter of an audience taking the place of the empty seats you've told that joke to a thousand times. It's getting your hair caught in props and improvising when your castmate misses a cue.

There's nothing quite like stepping into the spotlight and knowing that you've got a hundred people staring back at you, wondering what you're going to say, or rather, what your character is going to say. There's nothing like reciting out that one line you blundered through for weeks and finally getting it perfect. Nothing like hitting the last note of your solo and hearing the applause echo through the crowded hall to you until it's all you can hear. Nothing like shaking the hands of people you hardly know and hearing that, in some small way, you've touched them.

Dear You,

There are a lot of different kinds of friends. Friends you hang out with during a class or two, friends that last a few years before you grow apart, and friends that last forever. We were the second kind, and that's okay with me. I understand that not all friendships can hold through time, and I accept that we have both changed to a point where our personalities clash.

We didn't have any one large blow out, but these tensions between us just can't continue. I can't stand there worrying about every little thing I say around you, wondering if you're going to take my words and twist them as you repeat them to others. I can't deal with the way you look at me, and I can't take knowing I have done nothing to have lost your respect in this way. We've grown apart to the point where I can easily see that you don't like me. That's perfectly okay. You've become a person that I don't like or respect either.

It's nothing personal. I just can't have toxic friends. I have goals, things to do, a thousand responsibilities. Worrying about you and your dramatic tendencies and two faced conversations with my friends is no longer a priority of mine. I have many other friends who have stood by me forever and won't turn on me at any point in the future. I have too much self respect to allow this "friendship" to continue any longer.

So let's part as acquaintances, be civil towards each other since we share many of the same friends, and let the past be the past. It's very clear that we do not need each other as friends, but we don't need each other as enemies either. Let's just set aside the hard feelings and go on with our lives. We'll both be so much better off.

Thank you for all the good memories. We've certainly had our share of laughs. If I ever figure out where things went so wrong, I'll be sure to let you know.

Making Changes

My life is pretty great. There's not a day that goes by when I don't find something to look at and just say, "Wow, I'm so lucky to have that person in my life" or "This couldn't have gone any better" or "This was just a really good day." Of course, that may largely be because I've always thought of myself as an optimist, but even though my life is very blessed and very full, there are days when I look in the mirror and still think, "How can I make things better?"

When I asked myself this a few weeks ago, it was an internal question. I was happy with my self-image, but I was a changing girl. I've grown so much in these past few years in ways that many others don't always see. That's because while these changes I've worked on may have been slight, they've made all the difference to me. They've been changes to pieces of my personality, my way of interacting with others. I'm not the shy girl I once was. I've become more than capable of speaking my mind and defending what I think is right. I've grown stronger.

That's why I discovered a slight problem. See, the girl in the mirror didn't portray that self-confidant side of me the way I wanted her to. Although she was still me, still the girl I thought of when I tried to picture myself, she didn't appear the way I truly felt she should.

I'm not so good with spontaneous decisions, but I'd been failing to set a date for myself to get my hair cut for about a month. So when my mom asked if I wanted to go to her hairdresser's with herself and my sister, I decided that now was the time. Although I was nervous, I sat down, and I closed my eyes. And when I opened them again, I had to smile. Because looking in the mirror, I saw me.

It might seem like some small little thing, but this past week I've felt so great every time I see my reflection. Because what's inside of me is shining through so much better now. And that style always looks good.

My Guardian Dog

I miss my dog. I miss her more than I let on as I go about my daily agenda, and the tiniest little things make me think about her. Yesterday, when setting out my tv tray, I paused before setting down my food, thinking my milk was still in the kitchen, so I would have to go back to get it. I was still used to thinking that I had to be careful where I left my food, thinking Charlie might come from the next room, jump up, and eat my supper before I had a chance to shout, "No!" When I get home from school, it takes me a moment to remember, no, I don't have to put the dog right out. There aren't any elderly puppy messes to pick up in the house. There's no blonde-turning-white hair on my favorite black sweater or scattered throughout the house. There's no clatter of the metal tags on her collar or clipping of her nails on the wooden floors as she walks through the house. My first dog, the only dog I've ever had, is gone.

Of course, I know it was her time. She was in pain. Remembering that last car ride with her is painful and brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. I remember petting down her fur in a desperate attempt to bring some comfort to the warm, loving creature who had brought me so much comfort throughout the years. I wanted to give back to her some of what she'd given me, but the truth was there in her small, weak frame. Charlie wasn't going to be with me much longer.

I think that was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Standing there in that small room, watching my dog lay on the metal table in front of me and waiting for the veterinarian to come back into the room will always be a memory hidden inside of my mind. But I have to focus on all the good times. I have to remember how she looked bounding through the snow with childlike joy even through her older years. I always called her my puppy. I don't believe that Charlie ever really knew her true age, and if she did, she never let it hold her back. She will always be a puppy at heart 

She's looking over me now. Although I can't see her or hold her to me or pet her head when life gets hard, I can still talk to her in my prayers and dreams. I can still think of her when I go out for a walk or refill her old water bowl for Boo. It's okay to miss her. It's okay for me to find myself in tears at times when I realize that she's gone. It just means that I loved her, and I did. I still do, and I always will.

A Quick Escape

When I was little, I would grab a book and hide in the tiny corner between our stereo and the red couch. I could sit quietly for what felt to me like hours without being found. As I got older, I continued to excel at hide and seek, but when I truly needed to find my escape, discovering new places my family wouldn't find me in proved to be much more difficult. I took to going outside on our swingset or on the hammock in the backyard to get away from my soooo annoying little brother, my pestering parents or my always nagging sister. In the winter, I'd tunnel into our snowbanks and create my own little hideaway. Finally, I got to the age where my headphones granted me my most effective escape. I could lose myself in a playlist of favorite songs no matter where I found myself, but even then it was easy for my siblings and parents to interrupt me and bring me back to "real life".

Now that my everyday stresses have become more pronounced than a lost toy or too many chores, every once and a while I find myself needing an out. In order to keep my thoughts contained inside my own head, I find my ipod and camera and pull on a pair of boots before waving goodbye to my family and going for a walk in my development.

After stepping outside today, I realized that there was over a foot of snow awaiting me in my driveway. I wasn't dissuaded, however. I just turned on my camera and began trudging my way through the snow. Stopping to snap pictures every few yards, I made my way through the development, my ipod resting in my jacket pocket.

Within ten minutes, I realized that I was completely relaxed. I was singing along with my favorite songs and aiming each of my pictures like the most gifted and artistic photographer to ever grace our Maine landscape. Everything that had seemed so stressful and aggravating a little while before didn't seem like such a big deal anymore. I'd found my escape again, and it was even better than a three square foot reading nook.

Walking home, I used up the last of my battery to snap pictures of my road. Although my entire neighborhood is beautiful, I found that it was my own neck of the woods that appealed most to me. Whether because it truly is the most stunning place in the world, or simply because it is the place I am most familiar with, my own home was the place I was most excited to capture. In the end, my one of my favorite pictures was taken after the sun went down, my footsteps leading me back home. Sometimes it requires simply taking a short break from your life in order to see just how beautiful it really is.

The Path I'm Starting Down

Today at school, we were asked a question that I, personally, have most likely been asked over a thousand times so far in my life. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Now that I am in high school, the nearness of this "growing up" is creeping its way into my thoughts. The question now enters my head as, "Now that you're almost there, what are you going to do?"

The first phrasing is much easier to answer than the second. When I was five, I was going to be a ballerina. When I turned seven, I planned to be a doctor in order to fix my Meme Freeman's bad knee. When I was eleven, I wanted to be a marine biologist. Although I am only fifteen, I've had my mind very much set on my most current goal and, although it is the most ambitious, I'll go ahead and say it. I want to become a professional actress. I'm not saying I want fame. I just want to go into a career based on the one passion in my life that brings me more joy than anything else.

But I know that this goal is much more spoken of than reached, and I find myself thinking often, "How on earth am I going to accomplish this?" After all, my older sister wanted to be an actress, and she found her way to accomplish this goal by attending a university and participating in a number of shows there. She's halfway through her freshman year and has already performed in two successful productions right here in Maine. But today in class, I was reminded of my real goal, one that, alright, I never actually forgot. One of my close friends, who knows all about my ambitious dreams, turned to me and smiled, "Tell her you're going to be on Broadway."

This is how I word my goals. I tell myself this sentence all the time out loud. Not as a question. Not as a hope. As a fact. "I am going to be on Broadway." I say to myself, and it always makes me smile. I'm not saying I plan to be the shining star with my face up there in lights, although I'd be lying if I said I didn't dream of it every so often. I just want to be in the ensemble. I want to be a part of that great dance number, that booming full chorus sound. I just want to feel my feet on the floor of that New York stage and the heat of the lights on a remarkable cast that I can call myself a part of.

But how? How can a girl from a small town, like me, get somewhere like that? I could get into some wonderful small-town community theater shows. I could probably even get a commercial gig or two. But Broadway?

This past year I've started making tiny amateur plans, telling people, "I'm going to go to a college within a bus distance or two of New York City. That way I can go to school and just keep auditioning until I get into something." Which sounds ambitious, but to a high school student, totally possible. But at the same time, there are hundreds of little tiny holes in this rough draft of a plan. Where will I get the money for bus tickets? How often will I go to New York? What will happen if I have to stay longer for extended auditions? How will I work, go to school, take academically challenging classes, go to auditions, study for tests, and get all my homework done in time? What if I meet someone? When will I spend time with friends? Do I plan to give up on writing? Am I planning to relax at all?

Breathing is good. Taking a minute to wrap my mind around those questions, the practical side of me shakes it's figurative little head. I'm sorry, Emma. It's just too much to handle. Stick with going to your college classes, finding a major. You're a smart girl. You can figure out another career path and have time for friends and have free time and have an amazing college experience. Part of me really wants that. Part of me can see a life for me in that, a really happy, fulfilled life that would lead to many opportunities.

But the other part of me is so gosh darn stubborn, and it wants me to just try this crazy plan. I don't want to give up. I don't want to look back years from now and say, "Oh! Why did you give up then? You didn't even fight!" It's impractical, yes. It may be a complete waste of my achievements in math and science, but (sorry Dad!) I don't want to be a mathematician or a scientist. I want to be an actress. I know it's important to have backup plans, and, believe me, I've got a bucket of them, but I'm not caving in to the worries, complaints, or adult tisks just yet.

Who knows, maybe I'll have a change of heart senior year and pursue Backup Plan #3: become a teacher. There may be hope for me yet. But for now I have my course set on this crazy, ambitious idea of mine, and since Plan #1 has always been simply to follow my heart, I've got myself headed in just the right direction.

Once Upon a Time...

Books. If you know me at all, it's no news to you that I love them. I am a reader, and I am very proud of that fact. While many teenagers find their comfort in reality tv shows (alright, I'll admit I've got a few addictions on that account as well), I find it so much more relaxing to pick up a nice three hundred or so paged book and bury myself in another character's life and troubles for a little while.

I've always adored reading. I truly can't think of a time when I wasn't excited to get a book for my birthday or a gift certificate to Borders, but today I was struck by the extent of my love for reading. The high school years can be a busy time. I've got my hands, arms, chest, and shoulders working together to try and hold onto the load of activities I've found myself taking on throughout the years. I'm on the volleyball team. I have a weekly dance class. I'm in the ski program. I do the school play, musical, and community theater shows. I'm a member of show choir, jazz choir, ska band, and jazz band, and I'm also obligated to be on the math team for my school this month in order to fulfill my honors level requirement for my Algebra 2 class. Add all that to my homework load that comes with taking all honors classes and you find yourself a periodically stressed out and overloaded sophomore.

But today, midterms officially ended. There was no dance class, no skiing, no volleyball, choir, band, or any dreaded math team practice. I had just finished my last audition for the school musical, and my mom was waiting for me to come outside and get in the car. While I'd expected to be going straight home, my mom informed be that she desperately wanted Chinese food. Since I'd been craving it and suggesting we go out and order some for the past week, I happily obliged. However, with Chinese food comes twenty minutes of waiting time for your food to be ready. This is where the books come in.

My mother and I spent that twenty minutes in a little book shop a few stores down that I've been in too many times to count since I was born. I remember playing with the castle play set and the slightly used action figures in the kids' section with my little brother. I remember, as I got older, searching through the aisles for the newest continuation in my favorite book series that never seemed to wrap itself up. As I departed from my mom, finding  "my" aisle, where I would find the category of books I was most interested in, I sat down on the floor and proceeded to read the back covers of what I'm certain was over one hundred and fifty books.

Though I left the store with just six of this amount, my complete happiness at sitting there on the carpet floor in that quiet bookstore, able to peruse and skim as many books as I wished, was something I realized I'd truly missed. Over the course of the busy school year, I'd taken to focusing on my obligatory school books, not taking the time to free read because really, there was very little extra time to find. But as I collected the books I wanted and walked over to the cash register, I was so unbelievably excited to get home and read, and that familiar feeling made me feel warm, happy, and yes, a little dorky.

I love books. I absolutely adore books. In fact, the entire time I've been writing this blog entry I've been staring at my new pile of books, right there in eyesight on my floor, trying to think of how I can end this post quickly so that I can go and begin reading one of them. It's just the feeling of trying to figure out what is going to happen next, falling in love with the characters and fighting their battles with them, and allowing yourself to forget, just for a little while, all the obligations and stresses that are a part of life and choosing to open up a little paperback copy of good old openings, conflicts, climaxes, and resolutions instead. I think reading gives me hope for my own happy ending. And then, of course, it provides me with an unneeded but just as anticipated and exciting sequel to remind me that there's always another page being written.

And with that, I've got some new books to start.

Warmth in Winter

Fireplace, family, hot coco, and a nice long stretch of time to write, read, and relax. I've truly appreciated this afternoon. Today after school was dismissed early due to messy weather conditions, I found myself at home with more free time than I was accustomed to on a school day and a light homework load to match. Though midterms were coming up later in the week and there was a page of bio homework lurking in my backpack, I allowed myself to set aside thoughts of school for a short time and enjoy the period of relaxation that Mother Nature had brought for me.

Within twenty minutes of being home, my mother and I found ourselves thinking the same thought. How nice would it be to have a fire going in the fireplace? Surely enough, my complying father built us up a nice, warm fire and has been kindly tending to it since, keeping it flickering and warm for almost five hours now. Though other members of my family have come and gone, I've much enjoyed my time by the fireplace. The heat touches at my cheek even now as I write. In fact, though I've changed spots every so often, I haven't actually managed to tear myself away from the room except to grab a homemade oatmeal cookie from the stovetop and my homework from the mudroom. Even after, I hurried back to enjoy (or not) these things by the fireplace.

Laying here reminds me of cold nights from my childhood, the enjoyment and fascination me and my brother had at watching Dad build up a fire from seemingly nothing. Though we both found the beginning roar of the fire exciting, my brother quickly became bored as it cooled down, only becoming enthralled again if Dad or I allowed him to throw in a piece of newspaper. I, however, have always found the most beauty in the flame of a slowly dimming fire. The flames leap lower, just licking the log and the air closest to it, and the ash underneath glows orange. Although I know at this time I should call to my dad to get the fire started again, at times I'll watch the sparks fly upwards through the chimney instead.

Fire has always signified life to me. I relate its flickering flames to the movement of dancers, its heat to the warmth and love of a family. Though I directly know families that have lost their homes to fires and sympathize with them, I can't help but see the beauty in it as well. After all, the fire did not intend to grow so large as to consume the home. The fire had no intent at all but to burn, either softly or viciously, depending on the conditions it was given, until it burnt out.

The roaring of the fire has just faded from by ears. The flames have grown even smaller, less evident now on the charred log remaining in my fireplace. Burning orange ash slowly dims to gray. But though the fire has now lost its vigor and cooled, in a sense, into a calm, slowing dance, I can still feel its warmth on my cheeks and enjoy the warmth of my family around me.

Man's Best Friend

Whenever I've had a tough or stressful day, there is one kind soul I know I can always turn to, who will always be there for me, every time I need them. Of course, there are a few people I could be talking about: my mother, my big sister, my best friend up the street, but in this instance, I am talking about no one else, but my beloved cat, Boo.

My darling, Boo, has the most impeccable timing. On days when I need nothing more than the warmth of someone who cares about me, he is waiting for me on my bed, wanting nothing more than to spend time with me and be shown that he, too, is loved. He lays with me on the couch, follows me around the house, and meows excitedly every time I enter the room. We have conversations with each other, two sided conversations in which he meows up at me and I mimic his sound, and one sided conversations in which I empty my heart out to this calm, loving creature until I feel a little lighter. I know the expression is, "Dog is man's best friend." but as much as I love my dog, it's Boo that has the patience to sit there for hours with me as I watch tv and write on my laptop, or wait loyally by my side until I fall asleep.

Boo is eleven, turning twelve in March. Though I know there is going to come a time when he's no longer with me, I choose to focus now on the fact that he is strong, healthy, and happy, if a little overweight. Of course, he still attacks other members of my family from his hiding place beside the stairs, but he adores me with all of his furry, little being, and I adore him right back.

A Glance At My Reflection

The hardest thing in the world for me to write about is myself. I have no problems when writing about my life or the many influential people in it, but writing a piece of self-reflection has always been difficult for me. Yesterday in my advisory period at school, we were asked to write five to eight sentences about what we believed our "greatest strength" was. I sat there in my seat for about five of the fifteen allotted minutes, just trying to think of something to jot down on the paper in front of me. It wasn't going to be graded, but someone else would read it, and that worried me slightly. Writing about one of my flaws would have been easy, but I've always found that when a person asks me to compliment myself in my writing, I worry that I will come across as arrogant or superior, which in a way, I suppose, is slightly unfair. After all, the teacher asked us all to compliment ourselves in the first place. So I sighed, picked up my pencil, and wrote.

But no one is asking me to compliment myself now. A thought simply came to me when I clicked "new post", that I might write a little about myself and how I see myself as a person. But truly, I don't know exactly what type of person I am. If I were to stand up right now and walk over to the closest mirror, what would I see? I suppose I'll stand up and find out.

My natural, stuck between light brown and dirty blonde, hair is slightly disheveled from being seated on the chair in my mudroom, and my eyeliner has run, just slightly, on the corner of my right eye, but other than that I look pretty put together for a teenage girl in her jammies on a Friday night. My greenish eyes are bright as I smirk at my reflection, caught between thinking the approach I'm taking for this post is silly, and enjoying myself as I write my observations on my appearance in the downstairs bathroom of my home. I am, from an appearance point of view, your average teenage girl. I've got a couple cosmetic, skin problems, many thanks to adolescence and the chilled winter air, and more than my fair share of split ends, but I am proud of the girl I see in the mirror as well, because I know what lays beneath the laughing smile that lights her face.

I am a girl who comes home in the afternoon and writes songs on the piano instead of watching tv or logging onto facebook. I treasure my time alone, but love both the liveliness and happiness that come from time spent with my friends and family. I laugh long and loud, and I try my best to smile through the good times and the bad. I fall down sometimes. I make mistakes, and I'm no stranger to tears. Insecurity knocks on my door when I get a low grade at school or my male friends make one too many jokes, but I have an unfailing belief in myself that has never failed to pull me back onto my feet again. I know how to stand up for myself and for my friends when they find themselves in that same, shadowed pathway we've all mistakenly walked down in the past.

I don't allow anyone to decide who I am, but I keep my mind open, so as not to turn down helpful advice. I'm not so overconfident in myself and my identity that I don't realize that time is going to change me. I accept that and welcome that change. But at this point in my life, I am very comfortable just being me, and I personally think that's a pretty good thing to be.

Love For A Lifetime

I have been blessed in my life to not only have had the chance to know three of my great-grandparents, but also to have all four of my grandparents still living on Earth with me. Their impacts on my life, each and every one of them, have been stronger than they know, and I'm so very grateful to have gotten the chance to know them all.

Today, my grandparents on my mother's side celebrate their sixtieth wedding anniversary. Sixty years of loving one another, building a family, and letting that family go to expand into more than I believe even Grampy and Meme ever could have imagined. Each year when we visit them up at their camp I'm amazed by the vast amounts of names in the guestbook, and yet my grandparents love so unconditionally that I know I have my own special place in both of their hearts.

The love they share is no secret. Every time they come down to stay in our home, I catch myself smiling at the ever constant acts of kindness that my grandfather gives. There's not a moment when he isn't telling one of us how beautiful his wife is or recalling the story of how he fell in love with Meme while she blushes and rolls her eyes, perhaps in a bit too nonchalant a fashion, at his sweet words. He's the king of hamming it up for an audience, but the adoration and affection behind that facade is no joke. He truly does set the standard high for all those Romeos out there.

Though my great-grandparents have now passed away, my last great-grandfather entering Heaven just in this past year, I remind myself every day when I get one of those goofy chain emails from my grandfather, of just how very lucky I am. Although I don't always find the time to read these messages, I save them in a special folder on my account, knowing that one day when this wonderful man has passed on, I will read them and through the tears and the laughs of remembrance, I'll find comfort.

Happy Anniversary Meme and Grampy. The love you share is so special, and I love both of you so very much. I hope this day was as special for you as you are to me.

Do You Remember?

Today while sitting on the couch, my brother came into the room, telling me he was planning to go outside and asked if I wanted to come. Thinking that I only had so many hours left of my snowday and it was bound to be cold outside, I snuggled back into my blanket and declined the invitation. My brother nodded and left through the door, but for some reason, after just a moment, I regretted saying no to him. Somehow, and I'm still not certain how, I overcame my selfish teenage-ness and jumped off the couch, quickly pulling on my snow pants and boots and following him out into the chilly winter.

As I stepped outside it was almost like stepping into another lifetime, back when I was eleven and my brother, seven. While walking around the house, I found myself asking him, "Do you remember how we'd tunnel into these bankings? Do you remember how we'd race to be the first down the snow covered slide?" My tone was probably too emotional, but these thoughts were swimming in my brain, each of them more and more important, wanting to be mentioned to prove that they were not forgotten. My brother, who was otherwise occupied with his snowboard, answered automatically, "Yeah, I remember."

As our Italian sister came out to join us, I recalled my favorite stories, letting more of the swimming memories free. The stories all had a strong significance to me, and I felt proud and grateful for my childhood. I walked through the woods remembering every pair of trees, because they had served as doorways into magical make-believe worlds that only my brother and I had found access to. We'd created them all, and parts of my mind wondered how they were faring without us. The thought of our forgotten kingdoms almost made me sad, until I remembered that these lands still in fact exist. After all, if I, an unimaginative and selfish teenager, still find the time to adventure in the snow with my little brother, still write of magical lands existing in my back yard, still believe that there is so much more out there in the world than what we see in front of us, then my forgotten kingdoms must still thrive.

After we'd all come inside and had shed our snow gear in exchange for sweatshirts and blankets, my wise eleven-year-old brother surprised me by turning to me and saying, "I hope I'm not alive to see this place turned into a city."

My response was automatic, immediate, "It won't be." I told him. A place like this has too many memories, too many stories, and I now smile knowing that my brother sees that too. Everyone has their adventures through the woods. We just have to remember them.

Where I'm From

On Saturdays or snow days like this, I start off my mornings by climbing into bed with my mother. Though I'm now halfway through my fifteenth year of life, that same joy of a peaceful morning is something I enjoy, and probably will always cherish sharing with my mom. This morning was different in one way however, in that my mom didn't launch immediately into the recounting of a dream from the night before. This is something unusual because I get my vivid, very life-like dreams from my mother. She, in turn, received these dreams from her dad, my grandfather. Almost every morning, either on lazy days like this when I crawl into her wide, cozy, white bed, or on our short commute down the street to drop me and my sister off at the bus stop, we tell each other about our dreamings from the night before.

I have always been inspired by my dreams. At times, I will stand up and walk over to my bureau while only half awake to scrawl down thoughts or phrases that I want to be sure I remember the next morning. Sometimes they're story ideas. Other times they're phrases that later expand into songs or poetry. They can be like stepping into a movie, one where you know exactly what you're supposed to be doing, but as hard as you focus, you can never quite put your purpose into words. I walk around with my friends, but I never see their faces, probably because my dreaming mind can't put together all the details that are distinguishable when I'm awake. But despite this, at times I wake up in the morning, recounting my dream, surprised that it wasn't reality.

My mother also inspires me. In fact, she inspired me to begin writing this blog when she began her own. Her honest approach and openness about her life made me wonder if I would be able to do the same. This honesty and openness is also something that my mom brings to her every day life, and her approach has directly impacted the way I think and act everyday.

I'm beginning this blog without any other purpose than to put my views, thoughts, and dreamings into words and concrete ideas for myself and for anyone else like me. I'm just a small town girl with big dreams. These are a few of my thoughts.