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.