what's old is new to me...

now you say...

I sit on my wobbly old stool at grandma's kitchen table, eating my pecan pie in a plastic bowl with a plastic spoon. Grandma doesn't like to wash dishes anymore, so she always has plastic on hand. Not very environmentally friendly, but it saves me the job of cleaning up after everyone, so I'm not complaining.

Very few thoughts run through my head. My mind is focused on the pie in the bowl. I eye which sections have the most cinnamon coated nuts, cutting around those bits to save them for last. You can't eat pecan pie from tip to crust -- you've gotta save the best parts and eat them slowly.

A voice cuts through my contemplation, and I look up to see grandma sitting across from me. I don't know how long she's been talking, and I feel a little bad for not paying better attention. Eating pecan pie is a serious business. It requires a lot of concentration -- clearly I was doing a good job.

I listen to her talk for a few minutes, about Christmas angels made out of dish towels and what she's going to do with all of the cards she gets every year from family members. I smile and nod as I listen, slowly spooning pie across my lips.

Grandma stops talking and studies me for a few seconds. I put my spoon down and look back at her across the table, waiting for her to continue.

"You are very quiet," she says.

I almost fall off of my stool. My bowl hits the tabletop with a soft thump. Pecan pie is now the last thing on my mind as I race to find a reply, but before I can think of anything, I feel my head nodding in agreement.

"Why?" grandma asks.

Again, my body acts before I can speak -- I shrug.

"Hm," grandma huffs, pursing her lips.

She's not happy with my response. My brain is still slow and wanting to get back to the pie. I grasp for anything that will be satisfactory to her, and I hear my voice say, "I just don't have a lot to say. I listen more than I talk."

Grandma just looks at me. Apologetically, I shrug again and quietly say, "I like to listen."

She nods and leaves the table, returning to her genealogy program that is open on her computer screen. I breathe a sigh of relief and pick up my plastic bowl of pecan pie.

I never thought anyone would ever tell me that I'm quiet, I think at the pie, But is it bad if I don't have much to say? Receiving no response from the nuts in the bottom of the bowl, I scoop them out and eat them one by one, savoring the rich, dark, nutty taste and finding security in the fact that pie never talks back.

finally figured it out...

For the past couple of days I've been feeling awful. Awful because I don't feel anything. And I don't understand it.

I've thought about it, and I think I know one of the reasons why I don't feel anything, and why I feel awful about it.

Because when I feel something, and I try to talk about it with certain people, I get shut down.

Because when I express my feelings and thoughts, my problems "could be worse." They "aren't as bad as what happened to me yesterday." My feelings and thoughts are "lacking perspective," "missing the point."

Because when I try and ask for help, I'm "doing really well already."

Stop it.

Stop ignoring me.

Stop comparing my problems to yours or to other people's.

Stop disregarding the fact that there are things in my life that are painful, things that break and re-break my heart, things that I feel I have lost.

Stop treating me like I don't matter. Because I matter just as much as you do.

Stop telling me that you'll be there for me and then yelling at me, ignoring me, or belittling me when I come to you.

Just stop it.

Take me seriously. It's the least that you can do. Honestly, it's not like I ask for much -- it's not like I ask for anything. Ever.

Maybe all of this is selfish. And it kind of is. You know what, though? I spend so much of my time worrying about other people and helping them, so much so that my own issues, my homework, my life, gets neglected. Why? Because I care. I make time.

But really. I am doing the best that I can. My heart is broken. I am broken right now. And I'm doing the best I know how to fix it.

When are you going to realize that?

purpose...

Sometimes people ask me why I write on a blog. Others ask me why I write at all. To both, I respond by saying that I love to write -- especially about life -- and that if I don't write, my head will get more confused and my heart will burst with held back emotion.

Lately I feel as though I am adrift in a tiny little boat on a large, cold sea, surrounded by dark skies and wet spray. No map or compass guides me; I couldn't steer even if I tried, for I have no paddle. There isn't even a lantern or a flashlight. The way is unclear and uncertain. On and on I float, a barely stifled panic creeping through my soul as I wonder where I am going with no end in sight.

In my metaphorical life boat, I ask myself questions. 

Where are you going?

What are you going to do with your life?

Who are you?

What is your purpose?

My answer for each question is the same: I'm honestly not sure.

October marks my 5th year of blogging. Today marks my 1,000th post. You would think that after all that time of writing and discovering, I would have a clear answer for each question.

I don't have much. What I do have now, though, is more than I had before. That matters

Where are you going? 

Forward.

What are you going to do with your life? 

I am going to do good.

Who are you? 

I am a child of the Most High God, daughter of a King. I am a daughter of good parents, a sister to two amazing young women, a friend to as many as I can be, a hard worker, a diligent student. A person with a bright future, though I may not know the way to it at this time.

What is your purpose?

To be the best person that I can be -- to look back at these years of writing and see how far I have come and realize that I can and will improve.

I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I know. My little boat heads for the horizon, my face eager for the rising sun, my heart waiting for the future.

I am not perfect. But I am not without faith.

photo by Parker Nelson