Title Defined

As is the recurrent theme of my life, I get excited about one project and my enthusiasm for another wanes. In August, I had the grand idea of penning my life story, much to the amusement of those around me. I got mixed reviews from my family, who thought I was kidding, and my friends, "I'll be the first to read it!" And, of course, there were the sneaked glances from my best friend Claudia who made the process even more daunting. I couldn't meet my own expectations for the project, much less someone else's.

I don't know if I will continue the story, but I thought that the beginning was the momentum I needed to start my blog rolling. With 2009 here, I'm more compelled to take on my creativity and pursue an outlet for my abstract thoughts and concepts. Each day, I think of five things that someone says to me that I want to write down. Usually the comments come from a six-year-old who tells me he's purring inside as I stand behind him, sometimes they come from my own "Prince Charming," a gay man who lends me the quarter I need to complete my fare on the bus. I'm amazed by the diversity of my surroundings, my growth as an individual and independent, and my propensity for being loved and giving love to those around me.

Peace, love, and happiness. One of the necklaces that I used to wear in seventh grade, when I signed all of my work with a peace sign, a heart, and a smiley face. I even had a matching pendant from Limited Too that I proudly bore upon my chest each day at school. Even though I've changed into a somewhat more assertive, self-confident 24-year-old from that "Sweet Spirit" of a 13-year-old, I'm still striving to meet the same goals.

Peace because I don't want to walk a few blocks from my neighborhood en route to the library, my hands filled with books, and see a man holding a gun at the bus stop. I don't want to think that things happen but the reality of me living in a city is that they do.

Love because I'm struggling to understand the concept of God's love for me and that others can possibly love a wretch like me. I can't love 24-year-olds or even 13-year-olds the same way that I love my 6-year-olds. The former won't tell me that I look pretty, smell good, or that "Miss Gardner, I care about you" like the latter does each day.

Happiness because most of the time I can't even wrap my head around what that means. I have my own expectations for happiness, but my own ideas have evolved such that I don't even know what it means for me to be happy. For the first time, I'm able to define that for myself, unreliant on others' moods and feelings.