Life's Only Constant Is Change

I would love to lie and say that I am totally fine with change. That I welcome it, in fact. Same-old-same-old has never been my thing.
Yeah, that's hilarious.
Because I'm not a liar, and because I would like to think that I possess a more than fair perception of myself, I know I am not always okay with change. Especially when I cannot find, try as I might, any redeeming value in the change. If I can recognize it as beneficial in some way, then, sure, I can be as accepting of it as the average person, perhaps even more so. But in some cases, when change, no matter which way it goes, brings nothing positive that I can identify, I am not so fine. I will cling to normality for as long as possible, hoping that by sheer will power alone I can make things stay my way. Obviously (can't life just see?), things are better the way they are.
Change hurts. Always. Sometimes the pain is good and results in glowing outcomes that we would miss if we denied the rotation. However, sometimes it is plainly not for the better, and that is when it is hardest to deal.
I am the type that deals with shit. I occasionally have this phase when I keep saying I cannot handle anymore, but everyone, including myself, knows that I will handle it, because I always handle it, because that is what I do. I suppose we just all have to figure out how to handle what we are supposed to handle. Isn't that just life?

My Apologies, But...I'm Just a Human...

Sometimes I think we assume that our own person is the most complicated creature on the planet. This is understandable, because we can only see inside our own head. Everyone else, therefore, is much simpler, since they appear to us to be simpler, without all the inner workings that we have access to inside ourselves. I’m still determining whether I like things this way or not.
I have friends, God bless them, who seem to assume that I know what is going on in their heads, and I want to scream at them, “HEY! I cannot read your mind…you need to TELL me!” Maybe it is a compliment that they believe me to be psychic, but on my end it is just frustrating. Neither of us is telepathic. Please use human speech. I cannot read your mind by looking in your eyes. Not that simple.
God planned things this way. Forced communication. I am reminded of an older Anberlin song which states, "we need medication for this miscommunication." How true. If I really was telepathic, I would want the ability as well to turn it off at times, to temper its use (see? I would not even be satisfied to be able to read minds! That would just not be good enough, selfish human that I am…I always want more). Sometimes I have to wonder if all these communication blunders, failures, misuses, are worth it. It would, of course, be easier to screw it all and become this generation’s permanent Thoreau. But this question, however, is tied inextricably to the bigger question: are people worth it? At times I would question this as well. But deep down I know, and have always known, the answer to be yes, of course, they are. Perhaps it’s just my job to figure out who is worth it, and to make myself worth it for them as well.

Please Define 'Home.'

Home is where the heart is, or so they say.
I have been back for about a week and half now, and have spent very little of that time not driving, meeting with someone, unpacking, or sleeping. With my parents having been in San Diego this past week, all driving responsibility has fallen on me. Not that I mind, but being up at school and therefore deprived of personal means of transportation, it has seemed something of an overload to be required by another to drive every morning, and then for personal reasons, to drive in the afternoons/evenings as well. Especially since I cannot seem to be left alone with that beloved car for very long before something blows up. It's kinda a problem.
As far as meeting with my people here, many of them I have not seen since Christmas or spring breaks, for these coffees and lunches and adventures are either with people that I love too much to not see extremely often, or people that I have not seen in quite awhile, and therefore catch-up is extremely necessary. I love both kinds. Being away for eight months has pruned the list of must-see friends. And (if I do say so myself) the list is about as perfect and to my liking as I could have hoped for.
Unpacking. The bane of my existence. The floor of my room has been overtaken by a massive pile of coats and blankets, unnecessary for the summer, but they have to go somewhere. My papers and notebooks I have barely touched, and everything seems to have expanded in size since the last time I tried to pack it away. Another problem. And my innate tendency towards "forgetting" to clean it up means that it might be next fall when I go back to school that I see my carpeted floor again.
And finally, sleeping. I still feel as though I am still catching up on the hours that have been missed in the past eight months. Eleven 0'clock seems about as late as I can make it without stimulation or necessity of some kind to stay awake. I feel very lame; after all, college kids should be able to party all night, right? Or not. My life is craving the routine of having classes to attend, and I am more than beginning to feel this lack with an intense acuity for something I did not think I would miss (at least not this soon): a schedule.
On a lighter, more exciting note, I found out Monday that I was accepted into the study abroad program at Oxford for next spring! So much excitement at the very idea of finally being able to live for four months in Europe...my romantic side is screaming and crying with glee, and my logical half is reveling in the academic intensity that will accompany the joy. Both halves are beyond happy.

9 days left...

If I had to use one word to categorize the last week of my life, I would use restless. It was as if there was this giant to-do list in my head, with all things fitting under one of three major categories: tattoo; Oxford; finals. I have since checked off the first item on that list. Yesterday morning I got my ‘agape’ tattoo on my left wrist. Now, I cannot stop staring at my white wrist, marked with five black characters. My wrist has looked the same for the past nineteen years, and then I had the audacity to introduce a foreign entity that will be there forever. I love it beyond reason, and I cannot help falling in love with how beautiful it is.
This week, my buzz word would have to be nostalgic. It is starting to hit me how much I will miss living in the lounge of Crowder 600 with the girls who make this whole college thing worthwhile. My roommate sang in chapel this morning, so before hand I went up and gave her a big hug. My other roommate has been gone since yesterday afternoon, and I am missing her. On any given day, I will make time to catch up with my girls, even if it has only been four hours since I last saw them. And then, during the summer, I will resign all of this for Portland and a job and home life. I don’t know how I will adjust. I have absolute freedom here. I arranged to get a tattoo all by myself. I have been dealing with paperwork and phone calls and ligistical nightmares for the past year all by myself. I have next year all set all by myself. And then, for the next three months, I will give these freedoms up to live at home. Not that home is repressive or anything, it just isn’t college. Nothing is quite like college.
This past year has been fantastic, and it has taken me so much deeper into my quest towards self-awareness than I would have expected. It has fostered my INTJ personality like none other. And it has given me Crowder 600. I cannot help but sit in awe of how God could have orchestrated this floor, simply because He knew we all needed each other. He gave me these girls, and I forever in debt to Him for that (and everything else He has given me here). Thank heaven for agape.

21 days left...

Alexa has a paper chain of alternating green, yellow, and red links across her wall. Everyday she pulls off another one. The remaining links add up to how many days of school we have left (assuming last finals on Wednesday). Something like Christmas.
This is a bittersweet kind of countdown. Everyday means I am closer to no more papers, no more assignments, no more cafeteria food, and no more paying for laundry. This also, however, means closer to no more roommates, no more lounge parties, no more floor events, no more 24/7 socializing. Over the past two semesters, the girls on the floor and I have become closer than I would have thought possible, more like sisters, less like forced companions. My summer will be branded a different kind of 'boring.' I will miss my two roomies; I will miss my 600 girls. But at the same time, I always have next semester to look forward to, and I suppose I will get to test the theory of 'absence makes the heart grow fonder...'

April Fools

First day of April should not equal waking up to snowflakes falling from the sky. Nor should it entail looking at the clock only to discover that New Testament starts in eight minutes. Nor should it involve scuffling around in the dark, searching for the black, NU sweatshirt and non-skinny jeans. Nor should it contain the coldest morning I have felt in awhile. None of these things should go together on what should be a spring day. But, alas, on this particular April Fools in Kirkland, all of these things happened to me.
At least there wasn't chapel today.
Debate is now over for the year, my weekend unexpectedly cleared up (for better or for worse), and I am wondering how in the world to manipulate light in travel photography. It's not like I can direct it into a certain space when the picture includes everything. I still have not seen the Fremont Troll, despite my most valiant efforts. On the plus side, Elizabeth Constance and I discovered the sweetest park in Fremont. Bikers and runners traversed the paved path, while random patches of daffodils sprung up beside the parallel mud one. I could hear the coach of the University of Washington's dragonboat racing team talking into a megaphone from the river. But no Troll.
I suppose life can be viewed from either the positive or the negative. Whether something was done, or something was not done. I did not find the Troll. I did discover a park. I did not feel well. I did have a lovely dinner. I did not realize the difference. I did make the change.

A Random Quandary

*is life just a series of 'WTF?' moments?*

Several weeks ago, I typed this statement into my phone and texted it to Twitter, the ultimate site of musings, updates, and stalking. Since then, I have become more and more convinced that the answer to this inquiry is, indeed, yes. The things I remember from my day are not the normal things, the things that are supposed to happen on that day, but are instead the unexpected, the unusual, the things I could not foresee, which often leave me wondering that acronym. I am still determining whether I like life this way or not.

On the one hand, these moments are often hilarious, entertaining, or out of the blue, and they tend to color my day a pleasing shade of memorable. On the other hand, these moments are just as often frustrating, infuriating, or embarrassing, moments which I most definitely could have lived without and been just fine. But can I really have one without the other?

Perhaps this realization is just as justified as any other to be answered with 'WTF.'