tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10278040215601840522024-03-06T01:15:24.090-08:00two things you told memollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.comBlogger122125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-47666949869573273882012-11-09T22:31:00.001-08:002012-11-09T22:32:38.850-08:00overpoweredI'm not sure where this post is going to end up, but it's my only outlet at the moment. I'm having an emotional evening ...<br />
<br />
I am very good at blowing things out of proportion, giving them more weight & time & headspace than they deserve, letting them grow until they overwhelm me. That thing right now, sadly, is health. Or rather, a lack thereof and/or the methods by which you achieve it.<br />
<br />
See, my roommates & my best friend here in Yakima are all very, very healthy. It's their passion. They get excited talking about nutrition and exercise and wellness and making your whole body strong so it's equipped for anything.<br />
<br />
That's all OK. I mean, it's a good thing -- health is a good thing, and being aware of it, etc. I would say that the twins take it a little far, and I would say that Maximized Living always sounds like a cult, especially when they get so jazzed by watching videos of the very charismatic founder of that lifestyle, but whatever. It's their thing; I try not to voice any criticism I have of it. But what is true is that they are able to bring up health and fitness in almost any conversation.<br />
<br />
Then there's me. I am not healthy. I mean, I try; I do yoga a few times a week, went climbing today, try to go on walks, and I'm more aware of how healthy food can taste good than I was before I knew these people. But I still eat chocolate croissants for breakfast a few times a week, and I'm still eating our leftover Halloween candy, and I need to lose like 20 pounds.<br />
<br />
Yeah, the twins don't eat sugar.<br />
<br />
I can't fathom it. Not just that -- the lifestyle. I can't do it. I would feel deprived, and that would make me feel angry (many things do, I guess).<br />
<br />
The thing is -- the thing that's got me worked up now, the thing that has been depressing me more and more over the past several weeks -- that they're building up this community workout thing they do. It started out just Drew and Remy, because Remy wanted to get in shape, and who better to teach him than Crossfit instructor 0 percent body fat Drew? Right. So they started doing really hard Crossfit workouts. Then Drew's brother got home, then Courtney joined, then Sienna, and now they've got like eight other people from our church or friends or their coworkers who are in on it. Monday Wednesday Friday, this huge crew of people takes off from our house -- after clogging up the narrow street with all their cars -- and goes to the park to do crazy things. Tonight, the workout was something like ... do 50 pistol squats (one-legged squats where you go all the way down til you're sitting on your heel, I think) then sprint 400 meters (one loop around the track), then do 100 prison-yard pushups (at the top of each pushup, you high-five the person doing pushups across from you) then fireman carry the person for 200 meters ... and I stopped reading the workout after that. Plus, they had to run from here up to Ike, the high school, before they even started that. We live on 24th and Ike's on 40th, plus over four blocks, and uphill at least half of it.<br />
<br />
Sounds so fun, right?<br />
<br />
I have been wrestling since they started this with wanting to do it, but being so irrationally afraid of it that I have refused to join. They invite me; they're very encouraging; they would love to see me out there, yada yada, everyone thinks they can't do it at first but they get stronger, yada yada ... but I can't. I want to so badly, but I'm too scared. Of what? Of all of it. Of not being able to do it. Of a whole group of people seeing me unable to do it. My roommates know I'm out of shape because I tell them, and because they know how I eat, but they haven't SEEN me be out of shape. I don't want any of them to.<br />
<br />
And Crossfit, it's supposed to be a team atmosphere but also competitive. And you do all this in front of everyone, and if it takes you five times as long to finish, then they're all just gonna be standing around waiting as you drag your fat ass around the track at a snail's pace.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilm0RQwqbmJ94mNTZj0Fb1YbklbCMYijz_E2vOUzCYFDV_2__6VAMc6nKO7SZWdx9lYsv8MLyqOJVcoc4xzzqnlL84trNd-GtvGIvTjtsBMhLL5jvCvLidD-wzkfoDSvtSUkbPNrpBKpj2/s1600/P1030962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilm0RQwqbmJ94mNTZj0Fb1YbklbCMYijz_E2vOUzCYFDV_2__6VAMc6nKO7SZWdx9lYsv8MLyqOJVcoc4xzzqnlL84trNd-GtvGIvTjtsBMhLL5jvCvLidD-wzkfoDSvtSUkbPNrpBKpj2/s320/P1030962.JPG" width="320" /></a>I cannot do that. I cannot do it in front of Drew, who literally has an 8-pack (I counted) and gets a stomachache if he eats a cookie. I cannot do it in front of Courtney, who LITERALLY looks like her legs are carved out of stone. If her legs ever saw my legs, they would grow mouths and digestive systems just so they could throw up.<br />
<br />
They try to encourage me; there are people in this group who are probably much less in shape than I am, and they finish at their own pace; Drew says he's seen me climbing, he knows I could do it, plus there's a scaled-down option for everything ... but I cannot bring myself to do it.<br />
<br />
I hate myself for it. I really do. I love these people so much, and they really are so kind about it, and they know I want to do it, so that's why they keep asking and pestering, but tonight I just cracked. I got back from climbing (which was a good workout, too, plus the steep hike up to the crag during which my friend Sam made me carry his giant pack to appreciate how heavy it was) at about 5:30, and thought they'd be gone because they start at 5, so I was emotionally unprepared for the 12 people crowded in my kitchen standing around in exercise gear listening to what they were going to do for the workout. They said I should come with; my friend that I'd climbed with jumped right in and took off with them. Courtney said she would be my partner, it would be just her and me, no one else would have to see, it would be dark, this would be a good day to do it ... I felt myself leaning, almost saying yes, wanting to so badly ... but then they said they were going all the way up to Ike, and I snatched myself back. I couldn't even do the warmup. Court said I could drive, but I was already pulling back, shaking my head, receding farther into this prison I've made for myself. They left the house and I sat down sobbing.<br />
<br />
I don't want this! I want to be free of this. But all I can picture is going to this workout, failing, hating myself, and becoming a negative presence that drags down all these awesome people who are trying their hardest and don't need me pouting on the sidelines to add to the stress. I would be toxic; I know I would. I've done it before.<br />
<br />
And it just builds and builds and there's no end in sight. Tonight I was chilled by the thought that ... it's only going to get worse. We have eight more months of living here, and they have no intention of quitting. That's eight months of 3x a week getting home to all these exhilarated healthy people telling me how great the workout was and how I should totally do it next time. Over and over and over again. And the group is getting bigger and bigger; they've had one lady who was almost 300 pounds do it, and the very obese friend of one of the guys might try it, and I will just keep hating myself more and more because I'm not brave enough to do it. Eight more months! I won't make it -- it makes me want to move out. Which is absurd and horrible and makes me cry harder, but I honestly ... every time they tell me I could totally do it, and that they want me out there, I just hurt myself more. Stupid stupid stupid, fat fat fat, coward coward coward, failure failure failure. I want to be fit, I want muscles that let me run and climb and do pull-ups; I want to take care of my body so it lasts and does all the things I need it to now and in the future ... but I am so terribly afraid.<br />
<br />
It's exhausting and I feel enslaved by it, but I don't know how to get over it. And the longer it goes, the more power it has over me. The more power I give it.<br />
<br />
Oh Lord, help me.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
molly<!----->mollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-39112534483213527452012-09-11T16:07:00.003-07:002012-09-11T16:09:14.289-07:00my manifesto: moving forward<div style="font-family: inherit;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Yakima is not my
destination. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m going to repeat
this to myself for the next two years, as I remain committed to my plan to pick
up and move to South America by winter of 2014. That will be three-and-a-half
years after coming to Yakima, my absolute latest deadline. With luck, I’ll be
gone months before that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This is nothing
against Yakima. I’m thankful for the opportunities I’ve gotten here. Although
this started as a yearlong internship, within four months, it became a
full-time, no-cutoff-point grown-up job. I had a permanent (as permanent as I
wanted) job in my field within 10 months of graduating college, and I had
already been employed in my field during those 10 months. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That is extraordinary
in this economy and in the current climate among newspapers. Everywhere, people
are saying that newspapers are dying, that jobs are vanishing; seasoned
reporters are looking for work just as much as fresh-faced recent grads. So I
am very, very fortunate to have gotten a job here so quickly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And it’s been a good
job. I’ve been able to settle into a beat; learned that I’m good at building
sources; picked up a lot of useful information about health care, education,
politics, etc. It pays well – well enough for a single girl with a car payment,
at least – and has allowed me to live comfortably, even extravagantly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And I’ve loved Yakima.
This place felt more like home faster than anywhere else I’ve lived since I
left my parents’ house for college – more so than Seattle, or Cadiz, or Port
Townsend, or Santiago, or Olympia. And I loved all those places, too, and made
great friendships there and had great adventures. I have made a life no matter
where I live. Plus, I get to go climbing every week and spend time in the
beautiful outdoors all around me. That’s nothing to scoff at.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So yes – I have
nothing against Yakima or what it’s meant for me. And in 10 or 15 years, I
might be able to see myself settling down here and raising a family (if such
things are in the cards). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But this is not the
best I can do. This is a stepping stone; a necessary one, to be sure, and one I
am grateful for and that I do not deride. But it’s a starter job, a
first-job-out-of-college, a temporary stop as I work my way into the places I
want to be.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I want to be in South
America. After that I want to be in the Middle East, then maybe China or
Southeast Asia. I want to go everywhere, learn everything. I want to cover a
war, getting the truth out to the world when everyone around me is determined
to silence the media. I want to cover global politics, high finance, revolutions,
growing economies. I want to write about things that matter, and I want to see
the world change with my own eyes. I want my work to be a part of and an engine
for that change. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I do not want to
become so comfortable in Yakima that I’m not brave enough to take that leap.
This is a stepping stone; I want to be able to jump into the rushing river and
see where it takes me. I don’t want to pause indefinitely in the safety of that
midway point, afraid of what will happen if I fail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I could fail. That is
a terrifying reality. I haven’t failed yet, so maybe I’m more optimistic than I
should be; too naïve for my own good. Or maybe that idealism will help shield
me from the kind of fear that could stop me from reaching my goals. But truly,
I could fail. I could move somewhere and not find a job, or I could find a job
and then get caught in layoffs, or I could find a job and then end up so beyond
my depth that they fire me for incompetence. (Shudder. Not if I can help it.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But I want to try. I
want to push myself. That fear of failure is a motivator unlike any other. And
I want to pursue the life I have always envisioned for myself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If that means taking
business courses and reading the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Wall
Street Journal</i> every day so I can work for Reuters, bring it on. If it means
taking language classes so I can speak Arabic and move to Afghanistan, I’m up
for the challenge. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This is why I’m
getting the tattoo. The first one, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Courage,
dear heart</b>, was in response to those previous moves I’ve made. Every one of
them was terrifying; every one of them started with me doubting my ability to
succeed. But, just as in Dawn Treader, I realized “that there was nothing to be
afraid of, and there never had been.” It would be prudent now to remember that
my success, far from coming from my own steam, is really because God has been
with me every step of the way. (Astonishing how easily I neglect that, isn’t
it?) I have never gone on alone; even if I had failed, he would have been
there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And now, in response
to the comfortable stagnation I already feel setting in, I’m going to get my
new tattoo: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Life is either a daring
adventure or nothing.”</b> I will not let my life be nothing. I will not end up
decades from now regretting that I didn’t dare to step out and take a chance. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So, Yakima: I’m
counting down. Let’s see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bosses
wanted a three-year commitment; I’ve been here 15 months and I have 21 left. Starting
at the beginning of 2014, I will start actively looking for and applying for jobs
overseas, and even if I find nothing, I will leave here by the end of that
year. I will not let myself stay here. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Not for anything. Not
for anyone. Not for fear of failure or money or the job market or anything. Not
for a guy. <u>Never</u> for a guy. Not even a hypothetically perfect one with dark
hair and crazy blue eyes who’s a climber and loves kids and makes my
heart melt with just a smile. Never! This is my life, my dream, and I’m going
after it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">No excuses. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Love always,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">molly </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
mollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-86178524952835626192012-08-31T07:43:00.000-07:002012-08-31T07:43:21.564-07:00struggle busOf course it couldn't be perfect forever. Such is life.<br />
<br />
No, the house is still great. It's me that's imperfect. And we're all imperfect, yada yada, but this feels like me ruining something that could be and has been so special.<br />
<br />
I have struggled for as long as I can remember with some pretty weighty insecurities. In everything. In work, in friendships, in relationships (few and far far between), in random things that should be fun like salsa dancing or playing Ultimate Frisbee ... everything.<br />
<br />
I don't know where it comes from. I have never been unloved; I have doting parents who always encourage me, friends who do the same, even my bosses are extremely vocal in their positive affirmation.<br />
<br />
And yet I doubt.<br />
<br />
With work, I thought I had conquered it, almost out of spite last year. When I was in Olympia, my boss/coworker was such a d-bag that I found myself thinking, "No, you know what? I AM good at this, so SUCK IT." But now I'm back to doubting.<br />
<br />
I don't understand it! Before this job, when I would complain to my parents about not being a good journalist, and they would try to comfort me, I would largely dismiss them, saying "Well, you're not journalists; you don't know what makes one good."<br />
<br />
But now, my bosses say wonderful things to me, praise me so often for my work, and I'm <u>still discounting it.</u> I say, "Well, they just like me, so they're nice to me." I'm convinced that sooner or later, they'll figure me out, understand that I'm not the "golden girl" they've set me up to be, and they'll finally be disappointed.<br />
<br />
I almost can't help feeling apprehensive when the praise seems too good to be true. I talked to my editor recently about how I just don't feel like I'm living up to my potential, and I haven't earned the credit they give me, and I want to do something extraordinary, and she said, "We don't want you to feel like that; after all, you're a bright shining star here." I wish I could just graciously accept that and be happy! But instead it fills me with dread: "Someday, you'll know I'm a fraud."<br />
<br />
And with the house ... I'm just not happy. I'm so stressed out about relying too much on my roommates, turning into like a needy girlfriend when I'm not dating any of them ... but that's what it feels like. I depend on them for all my friendship needs -- we cook together, play music together, read together, go climbing, go on walks, watch movies, have long personal conversations, make fun of each other ... but I care too much. I don't want to care. I don't want to need them so much, because they don't need me.<br />
<br />
Something is broken there. Or in me. I feel it and I don't know what to do. But just in recent days, something in that closeness got twisted; maybe they know how much I care and are pulling away instinctively. Which is what I need to do.<br />
<br />
Why can I not believe that I'm good enough? I can sit down and write out a list of the ways God has blessed me, and there are lots of things I'm prideful of. How can I be prideful and achingly insecure at the same time? It's like ... I have things I like about myself, but not in comparison to other people. My gifts are not worth as much as the gifts of my friends here, or else they're not the kind of gifts that I think my friends here value. Which is probably projecting and not fair to them.<br />
<br />
I just ... it's exhausting. I want to be free of that. I want to stop caring and stop hurting myself and stop overanalyzing any kind word someone says to me. I don't enjoy being around those people, and I don't want to be like that myself.<br />
<br />
But I don't know where it comes from, and I don't know how to stop it.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-48349072484202927692012-07-29T17:59:00.001-07:002012-07-29T17:59:17.889-07:00house heavenI don't think our house could be any better.<br />
<br />
Seriously. I have loved every minute there. I mean, the cat meows constantly and leaves hair everywhere, and there are more spiders/spiderwebs than I'm comfortable with, and one of my roommates alternates between country and metal, which happen to be the two genres of music for which I have zero appreciation. <br />
<br />
But those are just trifles -- minor annoyances, little forgettable and forgiveable things. They pale in comparison with the big awesome things.<br />
<br />
Things like:<br />
<br />
--Our vegetable and herb gardens and raspberry patch, which allowed us to say (until it got so hot that a lot of stuff is done for the season), "Oh, we need a salad for dinner? Let me just head outside and grab lettuce and spinach and raspberries and basil and VOILA magic deliciousness."<br />
<br />
--Our front stoop, on which we have beautiful summer-night talks as we watch people walk by from behind the relative privacy of our hedge.<br />
<br />
--Our patio, where we grill out ALL THE TIME and have people over and tend to our garden.<br />
<br />
--My window box, which (well it's a little dead now, because I missed watering for one day a week ago) makes waking up a joy as the sun streams in and lights up the flowers.<br />
<br />
--BOYS WHO CLEAN and enjoy cleaning. I don't think I've swooned harder than when Andrew (who does many swoon-worthy things, it turns out) said, "Yeah, I think I'm gonna organize the fridge this weekend, that's gonna be my project." And he and Remy both talk about how much they love coming home to a clean and orderly home. Everyone does their dishes, and when we cook all together, we clean all together and it gets done so quickly! And they sweep and wipe down the counters and ahhh so nice. They might actually clean more than I do (lolwut?)<br />
<br />
--Boys who do yardwork, which I have no inclination to do ... so I'm very thankful that Drew seems to enjoy mowing the lawn at the hottest part of the day. And he does it all pretty with nice straight lines. And then weed-whacks.<br />
<br />
--Late-night talks in our kitchen. The kitchen is really the heart of our house, as it should be, and I'm so thankful that it's big and open and lends itself to such warm community. We can perch on the counters and just talk for hours.<br />
<br />
--Boys who appreciate my cooking! Not that it's anything fancy -- yet -- but it's so gratifying to throw together the veggies or stir-fry or whatever we're eating and have them make happy faces when they take a bite.<br />
<br />
--Late-night Sons of Anarchy in the basement ... yesss. Got them hooked on it and I am so happy. It's hilarious because Remy (raised a missionary kid and probably the purest-hearted lad I know) will look at the floor during inappropriate scenes, while Andrew laughs uproariously and repeats all the inappropriate lines.<br />
<br />
--THE PIANO oh man can't believe it's this far down on the list. I love having a piano. I play and sing all the time. And the boys like it (or tell me they do, at least; hopefully they'd tell me to be quiet if they wanted me to stop).<br />
<br />
--Impromptu worship sessions in the living room, that are super chill and comfortable and informal ... just three kids and a guitar, yo.<br />
<br />
--Our herb garden, again. Do you KNOW how much I love rosemary? A lot. A lot a lot.<br />
<br />
--The little white board in the hallway, where Andrew writes encouraging notes to us. Aw.<br />
<br />
--The attitude of encouragement and support in the house, in general. We can't seem to tell each other enough how much we appreciate different things about each other's personalities. It would seem fake if I were an outsider looking in ... but these are two of the most genuine, agenda-less people I've ever met, and I know they always mean what they say.<br />
<br />
--Our proximity to the park, so we can walk there and hear Thursday night Music in the Park, or play ultimate Frisbee or just wander around.<br />
<br />
--Going on walks through the neighborhood and feeling like a part of the community -- saying "Evening" to neighbors and admiring all the beautiful houses and going to the little tiny park and taking turns on the single swing ... I will never be too old to swing. <br />
<br />
--The fact that our house has felt like home since before we even moved in. I don't even miss my pool. I just love the house, and can't get over the fact that we're lucky enough to live there.<br />
<br />
<br />It's just above and beyond what I've ever experienced before or could ever anticipate it would be. We have such great, random conversations, and are able to talk about basically everything. I sometimes have a twinge of concern that it's not like, appropriate for me to be a part of such frank talks, as a girl, but I think I'm basically a bro in their minds. And it's so great. I feel truly comfortable with them, and know that we can tackle any subject.<br />
<br />
And it really does feel like family, because I can get annoyed or impatient with one of them but shrug it off a moment later, and they don't get offended, and we all just settle back into our rhythm. I didn't realize before how cranky I can be in the morning ... anyone who's reading this post is probably laughing their face off at that statement, because everyone ELSE knows exactly how cranky I am. But these guys love me in spite of it, and are patient with me, and know that I love them despite my tendency to grumble when it's early and I haven't gotten enough sleep.<br />
<br />
It was really cool -- they both mentioned several times recently that they've "learned so much" from me, which I cannot fathom; learned how to be mean? I dunno. But Andrew told me this week that it's encouraging for them to see me start to get mad or impatient or reactive, but then try to rein it in, and not give myself over to those feelings. He said they pick up on it, and appreciate that I'm working to be a better roommate and a better friend. Weird ... but cool.<br />
<br />
I'm learning a lot from them, to be sure. Mostly about the kind of person I want to be -- I want to be genuine, and open, and kind, and unassuming, and to call out all the places I see God working in others. I want to love my friends as well as they love me, and make others feel as welcome as they make me feel. <br />
<br />
And there are just the cute moments that I was hoping for, secretly, in living with boys; when they ask my opinion, "as a chick," what they should do with their facial hair or how an outfit looks, or when they muse about what pet names are acceptable when you're in a relationship. I enjoy getting insights into the male brain.<br />
<br />
Anyway. It's just going swimmingly, and I am excited to go home at the end of every day, knowing that one of them is probably there and can talk or hang out, and if they're not, that I can sit down at my piano and play to my heart's content until they return.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-14743363326125457932012-06-28T19:56:00.002-07:002012-06-28T19:56:30.983-07:00family valueWhat hurts most about Mark's recent actions is how he treats his family.<br />
<br />
We've been his family for 20 years. I grew up fighting with him, snuggling with him on the couch, shouting over chores not completed and laughing about the jokes that went over our parents heads. My parents were the ones who raised him, helped him with homework, yelled at him when he was being a jerk, told him they loved him every night, gave him all the stupid toys and video games he wanted, and tried to teach him to be a good person.<br />
<br />
This girl, this manipulative stripper whore bitch, is not his family. Neither is her baby, whom she allegedly cares so much about but whom she easily left in Washington to move to California with Mark on a whim.<br />
<br />
And neither is Mark's biological mother.<br />
<br />
I am so frustrated and hurt and on the verge of tears when I see how they interact on Facebook. When Mark was in Afghanistan, he and I talked about him visiting Yakima. He was going to come up for a whole weekend, and he was excited about it. He wanted to go to salsa lessons with me and he wanted to go camping and climbing with my friends; we were going to have brother-sister time, just the two of us.<br />
<br />
When it came down to it, though, he was too busy driving off to Boise to see the stripperwhore dance for him (which is just SO GROSS I can't even begin to articulate). He thought he would come up here the day he left for California, but refused to leave her behind so he and I could have time together.<br />
<br />
But when he drove across the state just to see his half-sister's high school graduation, it was a different story. His birthmom asked if the stripperbitch was coming with him, and he said, "No, she'll do her own thing so we can have family time." And then the stripperbitch told her thank you for being so welcoming.<br />
<br />
You know why she's welcoming, you disgusting twat? Because she has no stake in Mark's future. It does not matter to her if he ends up saddled to your diseased stripper ass for the rest of his life, paying for your delinquencies as you screw every member of his platoon while he takes care of your bastard baby.<br />
<br />
I'm adopted too, but I have always had it clear that my parents are the ones who raised me, not the ones who had sex and accidentally conceived me. Don't get me wrong; I'm very grateful that I know my birthdad, and my half-siblings; we have a good relationship and my life is richer for that.<br />
<br />
But I wouldn't for one second dream of putting them over my parents, or my brother. Especially not after coming back from a deployment in Afghanistan. We spent seven months not knowing if we'd ever see Mark again. Every time I read about a roadside bomb or a deadly explosion, my heart stopped. I cried in my newsroom over and over, had to hide in the back hallway until I got myself under control, until I could calm the overwhelming fear that he would be killed and I would never get to say goodbye. Or that he would come home with a traumatic brain injury, and be there, but be dead inside.<br />
<br />
Did the stripperbitch have nightmares like that? Did his half-sister lie awake, night after night, praying that it wouldn't be his foot that triggered an IED? Did his birthmom hope every day that he would call, so she would know he was OK, at least for the time being?<br />
<br />
Maybe they did. Maybe I'm not being fair. Maybe they missed him and worried about him and prayed for him, too.<br />
<br />
But they are not his family, and their fear for him can never be the same. He didn't know his birthmom & half sister until high school; he didn't know this stupid whore until later.<br />
<br />
Why are we so unimportant to him? Why doesn't he understand that your family should be a priority? Why doesn't he see that this girl is going to ruin his life? I don't say things like that lightly -- Mark has been making stupid decisions all his life, and I've given up the delusion that he'll ever learn common sense, but I have never felt such dread about a situation before. He wants to marry this bitch. I want to pay her to never see him again, and you know what? She'd take it. She is with him because it's convenient right now, not because she reciprocates his inexplicable loyalty.<br />
<br />
I'm just so hurt and angry and sad and helpless. He's not listening to our family, and he's not even listening to his best friends, who tell him over and over again that he's making a mistake. What do I do if he marries her? I won't see her -- I can be stubborn, too -- but does that mean giving up my brother? I don't want to do that, either.<br />
<br />
And there's really nothing worse than hearing your mom sob over the phone, so upset she can't even get words out. How can he do that? How can he not care that he's causing so much hurt to the people he's supposed to love the most?<br />
<br />
Hit men aren't that expensive, really.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-28746139122996968692012-06-26T22:57:00.000-07:002012-06-26T22:57:29.214-07:00the big moveI should be going to sleep, since I have to get up for yoga in 5.5 hours, but I'm procrastinating. Like always.<br />
<br />
I brought my first load of stuff over to the house tonight. (One of my friends keeps chanting "Bro house!" whenever I talk about it, and that's what it's become in my mind. And that's what it'll be, a little, for the first two months when it's just me, Andrew & Remy ... hm hm hmm it will be interesting.) And I talked with our awesome landlords who have bent over backward to make it work for us and who are just as excited about us moving in as we are.<br />
<br />
I just can't wait for us to be moved in and <i>done</i> with all this shit. I'm so tired of processing it, of tiptoeing around people's feelings, of making excuses and having discussions and being thoughtful and considerate. It feels like in ancient Greece, Athens I think, or one of those city-states -- their enemies would be coming down the road, and they'd be like, "Let us have a democratic discussion about what we should do. Socratic circle, anyone?" I am all for processing, and I don't jump into big things carelessly, but c'mon, enough is enough! There has been far too much talking, and caring, and thinking. I have gone out of my mind so many times it's a wonder I know how to get back into it.<br />
<br />
So yes. I just want to be in the house. Then I can remember why I wanted to do this in the first place -- why I'm leaving my beautiful, CLEAN apartment with a pool (two pools!) and my own rules for a house with three boys (and another girl, but that won't be til the fall). Whyyyy am I doing that? Giving up my own control and my individual comfort and my quiet space?<br />
<br />
Well, because we felt called to live in community. (Did I though, did I really? Did I maybe just get called to live in a bro house and have friends around no matter what, attractive friends at that, who make me feel like I'm part of the "cool kids" group? Yeah, that sounds more like the reason.) We wanted to have a family of people who hold each other accountable and support each other and help each other pursue the life God has in store for us.<br />
<br />
But all this stupid discussing and deciding and stalling has taken all the joy out of it for me. Asking over and over again what God's will is has pushed God out of it entirely. That's messed up. I'm ready for that just to be over ... so we can live in the house, and focus on what we set out to do.<br />
<br />
I'm so excited when I think about what it's actually going to be like. I mean, yes, there are going to be some big adjustments. I'm going to have to hit people and make them do their dishes and not talk about their junk in front of me. Boys are weird.<br />
<br />
But we're going to have nights where we just play music and worship and spend time together, and we're going to have nights where we all just lie down on the floor or the grass outside and talk about nothing for hours on end. And I'm going to get up in the morning and pick fresh raspberries to put on top of my cereal, and we're going to have fires in the cookstove on the back patio at night, and we're going to work in our little vegetable garden and say hi to the neighbors and fall asleep with the windows wide open.<br />
<br />
Katie was here this weekend, and it was amazing, and it made me even more excited for the coming year -- for roommates. We lived together for the better part of three years, and we know each other, I think, better than anyone else. Better even than family, in a lot of ways. It's so important to have that — to have friends who know you better than you know yourself, who have seen you struggle and grow and change and find yourself. That kind of history is powerful.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Ramble ramble. Need to go to bed. Only three more nights in this apartment after tonight ... holy crap. that's the first time I realized that. This is the longest place I've lived, without moving out for a summer or an internship or anything ... an entire year, a year and about two weeks ... feels so long.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-58623968979897739732012-06-19T22:10:00.005-07:002012-06-19T22:10:48.148-07:00some days, y'knowSeriously, why does EVERYONE IN THE WORLD have a boyfriend.<br />
<br />
It's OK. I mean, really, it's OK. I am totally OK with it. Look how weird OK looks in correct AP style ... hm. But seriously. When I sit down and think about it, I mean actually think about it, I'm glad I don't have one. In my current state of being, I can only imagine it would be stressful and hard and just another way to bring out my secretly-crippling insecurities and lack of self-worth. And think of how much time I wouldn't get to spend just lounging in my apartment, by myself, reading or watching Buffy. That time is gold, my friend, and living by myself has taught me to cherish the solitude.<br />
<br />
But still. SERIOUSLY. Some days, you know, it just feels like everyone is a couple. And they're bent on making sure you know it. Oh, sitting next to each other at dinner? Of course, we HAVE to clasp each other's hands, and share a cute little smooch every now and then, and put a hand on the other's knee, and laugh with that starry-eyed look that means we're just *sooo* in love. Aw.<br />
<br />
Puke.<br />
<br />
And I mean, I know. I know that during the exceedingly rare moments in my life (11 pitiful months of my 23 years, to be exact) that I have had a boyfriend myself, I fell into all the same pitfalls. PDA, oh goodness yes. I'm sure many people were made to feel pukey by my very existence.<br />
<br />
But sometimes when you're single, it just feels like the world is out to shove it in your face. Then rub it around a little, like cake; maybe smear it in your hair, pat you on the cheek with the frosting in a totally condescending way ... yeah. My singleness is the birthday cake that life has shoved in my face. That's how I feel.<br />
<br />
And I don't take this as a serious negative often ... I have great friends, and a great life, and I love where I am right now. But when I have to be around really cutesy couples for extended periods of time, it just starts to wear on me. And then I wonder what exactly it is about my personality that has ensured that I will be FOREVER ALONE.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the fact that I blog about my belief that I will be FOREVER ALONE. Yeah, that might be a turn-off.<br />
<br />
It's hard, though, in the face of such glaring singleness, to not immediately look inward and wonder, What is wrong with me? Why do all these really gross people have boyfriends — why does the stupid stripper whore that bewitched my brother have a boyfriend — when I don't? What trait of mine makes me somehow less dateable than these aforementioned gross skanky people?? And how do I fix it or hide it or change it so that I become slightly more dateable?<br />
<br />
Wrong attitude, I know. "Only God can truly fulfill you!" I know. Giant pity party. Whitegirlproblems. I know.<br />
<br />
But still. Some days, I feel chronically unwanted. And it's just not a happy feeling.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
molly<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />mollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-59626585668166568692012-06-10T14:55:00.001-07:002012-06-10T14:55:19.436-07:00baby stepsI've learned a lot about myself lately.<br />
<br />
Mostly ugly things, which is not a self-pitying declaration but really a statement of fact. Specifically things about my temper. I was an angry little kid and I've grown up to be an angry adult (ish? young adult? 20-something?); the only difference is that I don't have anyone I unleash on very often. That's really only because I don't live with my family anymore. As a kid, my brother and I had knock-down-drag-out fights until we were both way too old to have an excuse. (Incidentally, he's been a douchebag almost the whole time he's been in Washington on leave, ignoring my parents in favor of some stripper 'ho, and I feel that same old violent anger boiling inside me. But now he knows jujitsu and I can't do anything to him.) I got into screaming matches with my parents, which have thankfully become rarer, but they still happen.<br />
<br />
And I know, in recent years, it's kind of gotten to be a silly thing; when I was a trainee, I punched John & Erik all the time for being obnoxious little twerps & for intentionally pushing my buttons, and it's become good fodder for teasing. And that's fine. I don't punch anyone in Yakima; haven't gotten to know them well enough yet, I suppose. (I'm moving in with three boys in three weeks, though, and I imagine that'll change pretty soon.) At any rate, it seems it's become endearing — "Oh, Molly, she just gets so worked up over little things" — rather than seen as something serious or damaging.<br />
<br />
But despite any outward appearances to the contrary, that temper of mine is still lightning-quick, still present just beneath the surface, ready to come out snarling at a moment's notice. That's how it feels: like an animal of some kind, snarling and snapping, "the jaws that bite and the claws that catch." And, as with all our animal feelings, our baser urges, there's some pleasure in giving into the anger. There's a part of me — a really big part, I think — that wants to wallow or bask in that rage, give myself fully over to my anger, and just refuse to listen to the more moderate voices in my head. This past week, I spent hours upon hours thinking of all the most spiteful things I could say, and as a writer, I knew I could use words as weapons to pinpoint a friend's most vulnerable spots and make her feel worthless and alone. And I relished it. I was looking forward to the moment when I'd get to pull out these carefully practiced hateful speeches, when I'd get to see her face fall in dismay when she learned "the truth" about herself.<br />
<br />
That's where I was when I headed to Ghormley this weekend, a place that's supposed to be focused on God and nature and love and childhood and fun. It's hard to be sullen at Ghormley, and I was able to throw myself into playing with the girls in my cabin, but God wasn't content to leave my heart out of the picture. Boy, did I fight it. I sat there Friday night and well into Saturday morning just revisiting all my hateful thoughts, building them up again, not letting myself forget the hurt and anger I felt, which ultimately meant I had to tune out or neatly exempt myself from a lot of what was being said and sung.<br />
<br />
I finally let my anger ebb away, more for convenience's sake and because it took too much energy than out of any altruistic realization of my wrongs. I'm still working on that one. The weekend was wonderful, as Ghormley always is, and that friendship is teetering a bit less precariously than it was last week.<br />
<br />
But the whole episode just brought me back to an idea Kaetochi and I talked about recently, and something I've been finding in a lot of different places in life: Being mature is just a series of small decisions to not be immature. It's not some big switch that gets pulled when you're 18 that makes you lose any urge to be a jerk to the people around you; it's a conscious, constant effort. And it's hard. This is nothing earth-shattering or new, here, but it's newly-remembered for me. I dealt with this when I did the juice fast, too — the "slow, slow, steady process of self-denial." It's remembering in each moment that you have a choice between caving to those baser urges, which usually hurt you or the people around you, and actively pursuing the high road. God's road.<br />
<br />
Where does this leave a stubborn jerk like me? It's more than scary. This realization means that I'm in control of my emotions. Usually, I unconsciously assume that my emotions are somehow independent of my brain, and if they take control over me, I'm just a helpless prisoner. Not so. My emotions can only get the better of me when I let them ... which means that every time my emotions get the better of me, it was deliberate surrender on my part that allowed it to happen.<br />
<br />
The good news, I guess, is that God's supposed to help with this ... but the ongoing bad news is that I don't think I really trust him to do that. In words, perhaps, but it doesn't come out in how I live my life. Stubborn, independent, hot-tempered and reveling in it; how's that for a winning combination?<br />
<br />
Anyway. I think I lost my point somewhere in there, so I'll stop. Hopefully, this week I'll be able to rein in my temper, for the benefit of all involved.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-839717090938032352012-05-31T02:10:00.001-07:002012-05-31T02:10:06.706-07:00things worth sharingThe last week or so has been a good time for reminiscing, as it often is when I come home. Mark's home now, too, which is a wonderful blessing, but he's not really one for reminiscing.<br />
<br />
I've been reading through the Rose Wilder books, the series that follows the daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder, who wrote Little House on the Prairie. Almost everyone read those books growing up, right? My friend Courtney in Yakima never did, and that just makes me sad. Those books were an integral part of my childhood, with my mom reading them aloud, and then being able to read them myself. The Rose books, too. I'm flying through them, remember how attached I was to the characters when I was little.<br />
<br />
We also pulled out some old cassette tapes — the Wee Sing tapes and Discovery Toys tapes and, best of all, the lullaby tapes I used to fall asleep to. "Sleepytime Tunes" and "Lullaby Magic" are the two that I remember the most. Just listening to them sends almost a little shiver through me. They always used to help me sleep, and I remember pulling them out even when I was quite a bit older (still in elementary school) and listening to them. "Wynken, Blynken and Nod" and "Goodnight, My Someone" ... hearing them is so strange, like it's echoing very far back in my memory.<br />
<br />
But all this reminiscing has a point, kind of. The twins that I'll soon be living with, Chris & Drew, talk more about families and kids and marriage than anyone my age. It's very weird, these two young guys, who look like they could be frat boys or something, talking about what kind of father they want to be one day. But it's interesting. Chris asked me once what I'll want to pass on from my family to my own kids, and it's a question I keep coming back to. For a long time, I was staunchly opposed to kids, and I still go back and forth on that. I want to be able to be selfish, and travel the world, and not worry about uprooting someone ... plus there's the whole needing-to-find-a-husband thing, and what if my kids come out stupid, and the whole <i>having</i> them thing that would suck majorly and is really the most disgusting thing in the world (yes, I refused to watch the video that day in health class; anyone who says birth is a beautiful thing is a big fat liar, or suffering from memory loss), so the likelihood of me having kids ever is very much up in the air.<br />
<br />
But I do like to think about what I would pass on, and recently I've been thinking that the songs and stories of my childhood are the most important legacy I have. All the nursery rhymes, all the folk songs, the "Oh, Susanna"s and the "Old King Cole"s and the "Little old woman who lived in a shoe"s and the "four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie"s and all of those — things that probably most kids today don't know. I think about the girl I mentor in Yakima, and her little brothers, and they just have no way of knowing all those stories that I grew up with.<br />
<br />
We listened to those songs over and over again, on tapes in the car, and in little cassette players at home; I listened to storybooks on tape for hours, and we sang the songs all the time. If I am a good writer, it's because I was a reader from a very early age; if I am musical, it's because we always, always had music around growing up. Now, I wasn't raised listening to the Beatles, or anything famous, but we always had songs. And all those old stories — the American tall tales, the Paul Bunyans and John Henrys and Johnny Appleseeds — those are things I would want my kids to know about, too.<br />
<br />
In the Rose books, the author talks a lot about how much Rose loves reading, and how much she loves storytelling. Storytelling is something I want to work on. If I ever have kids, I want to have stories that I make up and tell every evening, stories that make their eyes go wide and that they want to hear again and again. Not storybook stories, but stories that I make up all my own — or stories from my own life that they want to listen to. It's just so important, that oral tradition. I still hope to someday have my dad just talk into a recorder for hours on end, telling about growing up on a farm and doing rodeo and all the other bygone-era kind of stories that he's told me in pieces over the years.<br />
<br />
If I have kids, I don't want them to be glued to various screens. For one, they will never have video games, even thought they'll probably be implanted in their brains via computer chip by then; I still hold that video games were the worst parenting decision my folks ever made for Mark, and I blame Call of Duty for his ever going into the Marines in the first place.<br />
<br />
No, if I have kids, they're going to read. From the day they're born, I'll read them stories; they'll start out with Dick & Jane, like I did, and fairy tales, and Arabian Nights, and Little House on the Prairie, and Nancy Drew, and Beverly Cleary, and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, and Pippi Longstocking, and Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, and E. Nesbit, and Harry Potter, and everything else that fires up the imagination. And they're going to play outside, pretending to be pirates and bandits and explorers, and they're going to tear up the garden when they play safari, and they'll build forts from old refrigerator boxes and go barefoot all summer long. That way their brains won't be mush from watching TV or playing mindless video games for hours on end, and they'll have good stories to tell their own kids when they're grown up.<br />
<br />
In Eight Cousins, Archie quotes someone as saying that "A love of good books is the best safeguard a man can have." Word, Arch. Word.<br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
molly<br />
<br />
<br />mollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-39261102631031791542012-05-20T13:52:00.001-07:002012-05-20T13:56:26.403-07:00On decisionsSo it's been a while.<br />
<br />
I think I need to resolve to blog more often. For one, I'm a writer, and what is a writer who doesn't write? Useless. (The fact that I write for a living doesn't exactly exempt me from this; it's like how pleasure-reading falls by the wayside during college, because you're forced to read so much for class. But pleasure-reading is still vitally important, as is pleasure-writing.) (Why is "pleasure" such a bad word these days? Hm.)<br />
<br />
Also, if I write more often, I will (hopefully) avoid the novel-length posts that I end up writing when I go months in between. (Side note: "Hopefully" in its common usage was accepted by the AP last month sometime. Maybe the month before. Don't know how I feel about that ... Its original use, its correct use, was to mean "in a hopeful manner," as in, "She skipped hopefully to the mailbox to see if there was a card for her." But we've taken it to mean "I hope," as in, "Hopefully there's a card in the mailbox." And now we're allowed to do that. I like that language is alive and evolving, I get that, but I also like the rules and am afraid of what could happen if we loosen them. A short story in Mrs. Smith's 9th grade English class will forever haunt me; the sci-fi one about a guy who goes on a "time safari" or something, wanders off the path in the Mesozoic era, crushes a butterfly with his boot, and comes back to his time to find the modern world disastrously changed as a result. And everything is misspelled and awful. If we let language devolve into how normal people carelessly talk, then we'll all be writing in very ugly ways one day. And this is a long aside.)<br />
<br />
What's consumed my life for the past month or so is a big decision: I'm moving into a house with friends! Doesn't really seem that big, does it? Well, it's not; when the idea first came up, I had a lot of resistance (I'll have to leave my own apartment! Can't have my bathroom as spotlessly clean as I like it! Can't walk naked from the shower to my bedroom! Giving up the apartment POOL! That kind of thing) but quickly came to realize that the potential benefits outweighed any negatives. And I found a beautiful beautiful historic house in the beautiful beautiful historic neighborhood here, and the owners are wonderful, and they're moving to Hawaii for a year and need someone to basically house-sit. Who better to do that than a group of flexible, 20-something-post-college kids?
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.<br />
<br />
Except for the fact that 3 of our 5 are boys, and the other girl has another friend who is adamantly opposed to girls living with boys, and this friend has had an unreasonable amount of influence in the decision. So it's been a very frustrating, drawn-out process of my friend waffling back and forth, torn between what she thinks God is calling her to do and fear that the other girl will think she's casting herself into the pit of Hell. (True story.)<br />
<br />
But anyway. That's mostly done now; we signed the lease a week and a half ago, so it's all OURS, starting July 1, and they dropped the rent down so my non-grown-up-job friends can afford it, and we're taking care of the 14-year-old cat Calvin, and there's a raspberry patch and an herb garden and a swing set with a fort and a laundry chute and windows everywhere. Sigh of contentment. Sigh of relief. Sigh of couldn't-we-have-avoided-all-that-frustration-by-just-making-grown-ass-decisions?!<br />
<br />
Aaaanyway.<br />
<br />
This process was a good learning experience, and a useful heads up; I now know how vastly different I am from my soon-to-be housemates. And I learned that I'm OK with that. Previously, with this group of friends (whom I hold in very high regard), I would have taken that difference to mean that I was somehow wrong; that they had their priorities/personalities straight, and I was being dumb. But nope! I can say that I am very glad to be the decisive, go-getter type of person that I am. Shit would not get done otherwise.
So it'll be an interesting year — a perfect experiment, really. The idea-people will maybe learn to be a bit more feet-on-the-ground; I will maybe learn to loosen my grip on "the plan" a little bit; and we'll all learn how to love each other despite painfully grinding differences.<br />
<br />
My housemates are the group that's in my profile picture on Facebook, plus 1: Courtney, Remy, Drew, and Drew's twin brother Chris (so, basically, the same picture, just imagine 2 of the guy on the left.) Chris won't be moving in until the end of the summer, after he finishes up an internship in Coeur d'Alene.<br />
<br />
Oddly enough, none of our parents had an issue with the mixed-gender concept. My dad says he sees it as the same as a dorm - separate bathrooms, separate bedrooms. We're even going to have separate boys' and girls' floors. His only concern was that I would end up being the housemaid, cleaning up after all of them, but I refuse. I will make them clean ... lovingly.
My mom's concern, that may or may not be valid, was "How will you date anyone if you're living in a house full of boys?" The boys themselves laughed at the idea of sitting down to grill a potential date, like 3 angry older brothers at once. The fact that these three boys are probably the only eligible young men in Yakima pretty much evaporates any fear about dating ... not that I do that ever anyway. So it'll be a good year to be good friends.<br />
<br />
Back to the writing bit, though. My task last week was to help craft a letter to send to this doubting friend, to try to explain what our mission and vision are so she can get a bit more on board. It's something that I tend to undervalue outside of my job: Yes, I'm a writer, but what good does that do me? I've been a writer for so long (of the crappy middle-school English students, I think I was the slightly-less-crappy one that stood out) that I don't even think about it. Of course I can communicate articulately; can't everyone? Not so, it turns out. So that's been cool/interesting to wrap my head around. It's a gift, one that I can be proud of, and one that is useful outside of my writing-for-a-living thing.<br />
<br />
Disclaimer: Blogging does not equal writing.<br />
<br />
I would like to write more, though. I tried my hand at a slam poem last month; I like how it turned out, but it will be a long time before I'm able to share it, I think. Long time. It's an odd medium; half personal story, half detached monologue. Even if it's a powerful story, and personal, it would be strange to perform it with the level of emotion it requires each time. Somewhere along the way, it becomes very scripted. But I would like to write more poetry; for the past few years, I only go that route when I'm in the midst of extreme emotional turmoil, and the words just come naturally. Forcing it feels weird. Then again, I don't particularly want to experience any more extreme emotional turmoil.<br />
<br />
Our house is quite a musical house; two or three of them play guitar, and two of them sing, and I play piano. I would like to try writing songs with the guitar players. Again, I can do the word thing. Useful. Maybe.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Long post. Again. I'll try to write more often, and less lengthily.<br />
Love always,<br />
mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-37603341575117442232012-03-11T17:28:00.003-07:002012-03-11T17:54:11.862-07:00what if...OK, new crazy project idea to kick around in the ol' brain.<br /><br />What if I — not alone, but with lots of people and organizations and volunteers and donors — started a climbing gym in Yakima? <br /><br />Hunh. <br /><br />You know, it could happen. Over and over again, when I write stories about things that needed community support — the new med school here, the new hospice center at Memorial, and on and on — people tell me about what a uniquely generous community Yakima is. How people here just get on board and make stuff happen. <br /><br />So climbing stuff could happen, too. I mean, we're right at the border of great climbing country out here; Tieton's a half hour away, Vantage is only an hour, and I'm sure there are other little places in between or along the canyon. Then Leavenworth's only an hour and a half away, though that's more out of our jurisdiction. <br /><br />And the only gyms are at Central, where you have to be a student or know a student who can fit you into his/her schedule, and at the Court Club in Tri-Cities, where you have to be a member or pay a guest fee every time, and where the wall isn't open more than 2-3 times a week. <br /><br />Granted, the guest fee is like $10, which is a lot cheaper than you'll pay for a day pass at any Seattle gym. And at Central, if you can get a student to accompany you, the guest fee is only $6 something. (Or you can be like my student friend, and just slide on through the gate without the desk staff knowing you're not a student.) <br /><br />But still: There is no community climbing gym. There's nowhere that a regular person can buy a season pass & climb as much as he/she wants. <br /><br />And this community could use one. First off, we're the 11th-fattest metropolitan statistical area in the country, with 32.4 percent of our population labeled obese. People need some fun exercise. Second, anything active that could keep kids off the street and out of gangs would be awesome. And third, climbing is a badass sport. Fer realz, guys. Guys would dig it because they get serious muscles all over their bodies, without having to pump iron in a feet-smelling gym weight room. Girls dig it for the same reason (and, speaking personally, because of all the aforementioned lean-muscled guys ... ahem.) (And who's to say that the boys don't love it for the badass climber girls, too? Don't want to be one-sided in my sexism here.) <br /><br />But it's a sport that provides a good outlet for people who want to be tough and strong and macho, and it trains them to use their brains at the same time. Climbing is like a puzzle that you solve with your whole body. It requires focus in a way that's almost meditative/yoga-ish, and you have to learn what your body is capable of. <br /><br />Plus it's a sport that makes you feel good about yourself! Instead of working for 8 weeks to get into running shape, you start to see progress almost immediately. You get one hold higher on the wall, and you feel like king of the gym. Or queen. Whatever. <br /><br />But back to Reason No. 2: This would be a great outlet for kids. Heck, we could even have climber vanpools that could go pick up kids if they couldn't get a ride there. And when I say "kids" I mean anyone under 18; teens, too. Teens especially. If you're at a climbing gym, you're not out making bad decisions. And when you're done climbing, you're too damn tired to go make any bad decisions. <br /><br />So, yes. Those are the good reasons we need a gym. Now, the practical: How could I spearhead this while working a full-time job? Hm. This is difficult. But I would just need to get a couple idea partners to join with me. And I need to talk to folks in Oly about how they started the gym there, because that's not a big commercial gym at all. That was a small project to begin with, too. Now, the point of that one is not as community-outreachy as my plan, but it still brings together a group of people that wouldn't have that space otherwise.<br /><br />That's the other thing! Climbers are SUCH GOOD PEOPLE. Not necessarily as in, they love the world & only think about making it a better place (though most of them do), but they're just open and friendly and hard-working and outdoorsy and all-inclusive. (Except some places in Seattle, because hipsters are none of those things.) Climbers become a community just from standing around watching other people try to send routes. Wouldn't that be good for people here? For kids here, who need someplace safe & positive to go? Also, this is already a tight-knit small-town community. I bet it would happen easily. <br /><br />Hmmmmyes. I think I would talk to the Y, and Madison House (an after-school arm of Union Gospel Mission in Yakima) and probably groups like Trail Seekers and other outreach peeps like that. It wouldn't have to be a big gym; the Warehouse isn't big, but it's my favorite gym out of all the ones I've been too. (Central's and the Court Club's aren't big either, but they're solid.) Hey, it could even go into one of the giant unused buildings in downtown Yakima, where the entire old mall is sitting empty. And I could write grants; I'm a writer, for Pete's sake! Shoot, I could write the shit outta some grants. <br /><br />Wouldn't it be cool if this happens? We'd have an entire population of kids and community members of all ages who come to love this awesome sport, and take it outside to the surrounding area, which promotes more love & good stewardship of the outdoors & all kinds of good things like getting away from the computer and video games and Facebook and all that shit. <br /><br />OK. I'm gonna start a Yakima climbing gym. I've got 2 more years here; let's make good use of them. <br /><br />Rock on. (<---future gym name? Eh? Eh??)<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-71328451269703625252012-02-10T23:17:00.004-08:002012-02-12T01:39:44.739-08:00for 100 percent kids!Hello, peoples. So I'm writing this as a semi-public declaration so I'll be shamed into sticking with it: My friend Courtney and I are going to do a two-week juice fast starting on Sunday. <br /><br />INSANE, I know. Whew. I'm pumped, yet also petrified. I texted my dad about it, and he was like, "what happened to my meat and potatoes girl??" I know, Dad, I know. More like "what happened to my Oreos & Reese's girl?" But that's kind of the point. I don't eat very healthily; I really do eat Oreos for dinner sometimes, and I really do eat chocolate croissants for breakfast most mornings. <br /><br />But not anymore! Not this week at all, actually. We've been weaning ourselves off the bad stuff, so except for when I caved and had Reese's on Tuesday (two packs ... my logic being that I wanted to be totally off sugar on Wednesday, then I better not have that last dollar in change on me after Tuesday! Um, yes. This is my brain.) I haven't had sugar, meat, much dairy or carbs this week. That's quite a feat for me. I have zero self-control, in this & many other areas of my life ...<br /><br />But that's part of the goal of the juice fast! To show myself that self-control IS possible, and rewarding, and a better way to live. <br /><br />So yes. Starting Sunday, we will only consume fruit & vegetable juice. (We could've allowed solid fruits & veggies, too, but we decided to go all in; the benefit of juice is that it's already broken down into a form that your body can immediately put to use. Or so says Courtney.) (Courtney studied nutrition & reads health-food books for fun & is going to be a naturopathic doctor, so I trust her.) <br /><br />I got the juicer today from my coworker, and tested it out tonight with cucumber, apple and ginger. Whew, a little too much ginger. And then I squeezed some lemon juice into it, because lemon juice makes everything bearable (except paper cuts, I guess). And it's not bad. I think it'll take a while for it to not feel like medicine of some sort, and I don't know if I'll ever look forward to juice like I look forward to Oreos, but that's part of the goal too. I want to change my appetite & learn to crave good foods. <br /><br />Good quote I found on Pinterest: "If you're not willing to eat vegetables, then you're not really hungry — just craving." <br /><br />This juice fast is meant as a cleanse, to get rid of the 22 years of toxins I've been putting in my body, and to start healing from that damage. I'm afraid it'll be more like two weeks of feeling hungry all the time ... but Courtney says it'll be good. We'll be praying a lot.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm gonna write about it here: <a href="http://mustlovejuice.blogspot.com/">http://mustlovejuice.blogspot.com/</a> and hopefully Courtney will be able to post stuff, too. It's mostly for me/us, but if anyone else is thinking about doing a cleanse like this, it might be good to see what someone else is going through. <br /><br />Wooo juice! My favorite ...mmhmm. <br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-11116261723212699092012-01-22T20:45:00.003-08:002012-01-22T22:14:35.423-08:00perfect loveHey folks (folk? the one folk ... anyway). It's been a while; 3 months-ish, and that's mostly due to the weather. It's cold in Yakima, and I don't turn the heat on in my front room (because I'm cheap), and I still don't have a wireless router, so my Internet/ethernet is still just in my front room, and when I sit out there for more than 5 minutes my toes go numb. And I can't exactly blog during work hours. So there it is. <br /><br />But today my friend and I were talking about how to explain God as perfect love. This is something I've thought about a lot in the past few years, mostly looking at how God's love differs from the love we can have for each other. Watching many good friends go through painful breakups and think that life was hopeless without that person, that that person represented the epitome of love and that they would never find anything equal, has shown me how desperately we all need and deserve something better.<br /><br />Think of your lowest moment — physically, emotionally, spiritually — and think of who was there for you in that time. I always think of people who have taken care of me when I'm throwing up, because that's a pretty gross experience and for me represents some serious commitment on the part of the observer. My parents are always some of the first to mind, because I've known them the longest and gone through the most with them. But then, you could say that my parents are my parents, so they have to be there for me. So it can be even more revealing when newer friends or people I don't really know step up to the plate and stick with me, with no obligation at all. <br /><br />Perfect love is love that never, ever fails you. Even my best friends, who have the best intentions and stand beside me through my dark times, can't help but let me down in some way. I say this not to be accusatory; just factual. We are human, and we are fallible, and we are destined to disappoint each other. It's our nature. Sometimes they say something that rubs me the wrong way, or that hurts more than it comforts, or they don't take me seriously when I really need to be heard, or they just don't — can't — understand what exactly I'm feeling. <br /><br />I struggle with this with my parents a lot. Sometimes I just need them to say, "Yes, this sucks. I know that it sucks, and I'm sorry." But so often — and I do this too — when I start talking, they start proposing solutions or telling me that I'll get over it. And while what they're saying may be true, it's not what I need to hear. <br /><br />God is perfect love because he just doesn't do any of that. <br /><br />1 Corinthians 13:4 has gotten tiresome because so many people use it at weddings, but it still rings true. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.<br /><br />Try to put a friend's name in there, or your own name, or any name but God's, and you immediately see why we can't be perfect love for each other. In our heart of hearts, we are at least occasionally self-centered, and we can get worn out from constantly listening to a friend's problems, and we get frustrated when they don't take our advice and end up in the same painful situation over and over. We keep score; we think of how much we've been there for a friend, and feel they owe us the same time and commitment. We feel pride, thinking that we're the best advice-giver or best crying shoulder and then get offended when our friend turns to someone else for counsel. We listen to our friends' problems, but complain about them behind their back and talk about how we would never make the mistakes they're making. <br /><br />God doesn't. <br /><br />God listens, and never says "I told you so." God is never too tired to hear our problems, and he never berates us for getting into the same situation over and over again. He delights in our confidences the same way a parent delights in his child bringing its worries to him. He wants us to tell him what's wrong, because he wants to make it better. <br /><br />And what's more — no matter what we're going through, God understands. He knows. I get so frustrated when I'm struggling with something, and a friend says, "Oh, I tooootally know what you mean; this one time, I had this happen to me and yada yada yada." I want to say, No, you don't know, you couldn't possibly know; this is my life and my pain and it's nothing like what you've experienced. <br /><br />But God has experienced it all. He's felt the pain of rejection, every time we turn away from him; Christ was mocked and scorned and called a liar and a madman by the world, and he was abandoned by his closest friends. Read The Magician's Nephew from Narnia; there's a moment when the boy is telling Aslan about his dying mother, and he looks up into Aslan's eyes and sees two great shining tears, as if the lion was sorrier for his mother than even he was. "My son; my son," he says. "I know. Grief is great." <br /><br />God's love is perfect because it comes from a place of perfect understanding. <br /><br />That understanding also means that God knows us through and through, and still accepts us unconditionally. I tell my parents almost everything, and I have a handful of friends in whom I confide almost all my struggles and falterings, and I'm lucky to know all those people. But they still don't know my deepest, darkest sinful nature. I don't tell them the things that are truly shameful. I am vindictive and petty and unforgiving and jealous and grasping and angry beyond their wildest dreams, and I dare not tell them so, for fear of losing their friendship once they know the real me. <br /><br />But God does know the real me, and he's not running. He sees all my imperfections and hateful thoughts laid bare, and still wants me and chases after me, like a lovesick teenager who won't listen to anyone's words of caution but cares only for his sweetheart. <br /><br />God's love is perfect, and we would call it foolhardy if we saw our friends acting that way. We wound him and betray him and ignore him and deliberately disobey him again and again, and he still won't give up on us. Every now and then, I feel the truth of that like a knife, and cannot help but wonder at it ... If I had done everything I've done to God, to one of my human friends, they would never look at me or speak to me again. <br /><br />I think back to my friends who have suffered excruciating relationships and breakups. Human-relationship love is very tangible and very immediate and present, and so it's easy to get wrapped up in it and think that it's the real deal. But again, we can't help but let each other down, in small ways or big ways, and sooner or later, a lot of relationships fail because of it. Sometimes they fizzle out, but sometimes they tear at the very fiber of our being, and make us sob those sobs that mean our world has ended. <br /><br />If we believed that the love that person had for us is the be-all, end-all of love in this world, and that we'll never again be loved so well or so deeply, then I don't know how any of us would get out of bed in the morning. What is the point of living if you can never hope to be truly loved again? <br /><br />Our hope comes from the knowledge that there is a better love out there, a love that never disappoints or cares more about itself than about us, that never lies or cheats or openly insults. We can get out of bed in the morning in the full certainty that God is madly in love with us, flaws and all, and that the thing that excites him most is our process of falling more and more in love with him. <br /><br />Good parents give us a glimpse of God's perfect love; so do good romantic relationships, good sex (not that I'd know, ahem), and really good friends. And that's the value in those relationships — they point to something bigger, something more real, something more perfect than we can fathom with our tiny human minds. They make us want more. And if done correctly, obediently, they point us back to God, the source of love itself. <br /><br />Anyway. That got quite preachy, not to mention rambly (though the rambly should be expected by now). But it's something that matters, so hopefully you won't hold it against me.<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-85088921652859227682011-10-17T21:53:00.003-07:002011-10-17T22:23:52.691-07:00where I've beenMusing on identity today.<br /><br />There are so many things that I think myself to be, things that I established as my personality back in 10th grade or 6th grade or even 2nd, but I'm not sure if they're true anymore. Or if they are, they're not on the outside and none of the people in my life now know that they're there. <br /><br />A good friend of mine here in Yakima asked me last week, "Do you like to read?" I looked at her almost stupefied - this is me we're talking about here - before realizing that she would have no idea from our day-to-day interactions. Of course I like to read! I love to read, I read all the time, I read before I go to bed every night ... but still, her question brings up one that I've asked myself a lot over the past 4 years or so. I read more when I was in middle school and high school than I have since college. In middle school I was pushing through meaty stuff like Fahrenheit 451 and Jane Eyre, books with good words and a message. in high school I was fortunate enough to take good English classes and read more classics. But since college, I haven't really pushed myself to read. I read things that are comfortable and easy to get into before going to bed; I bring Nancy Drews back from home for the nostalgia and read Peace Like a River and Water for Elephants over and over because I know I love them. But I'm not challenging myself or learning more. Can I still call myself a reader?<br /><br />A bigger thing I feel people don't know about me - but need to - is that I'm mean. I really am, guys. I think back to all the horrible things I did to my brother and my parents growing up, and I feel like a fake when people tell me I'm nice. I'm still judgmental and hypocritical and vindictive and prideful and I love to get my little jabs in - even if it's just in my head. Mark and I don't have knock-down-drag-out fights anymore (I wisely ended that about the time he started training with the Marines in high school; these days I can run and jump on him and wind up flat on my back in about 2 seconds) but I still carry those with me. All the nasty childish things I did to people around me are still a part of me, and I can't tell if I think I'm still that person because it's true, or because it's historically true. <br /><br />Is the proof of these things in your heart or in your actions? I watched the Batman movies this week; you know his cheesy line, when he gives his identity away to Rachel - "It's not who I am on the inside, but what I do that defines me." Actions speak louder than words, yada yada. So using this weekend as an example - do I get to call myself a climber when I haven't climbed for months? I mean, yes, there's no gym in Yakima, and I don't own the gear to go sport climbing nearby, and I hurt my foot - but wouldn't a real climber push through all that for love of the sport? <br /><br />I dunno. There are parts of me I'd like to lose, other parts I'd like to hold onto. Not sure what's normal. Guess this is part of growing up? <br /><br />In other news: Mark called my dad yesterday; he's doing fine. It's still surreal to me. There's a line in Peace Like a River that rings true -- "[I managed to stay anxious about this for 2 days] before worry died, as usual, at the hands of routine." Some days I'm so scared for him I have to get up from my desk and walk outside so I won't cry at work; some days, like this weekend, I'm so excited about what I'm doing that it's just a flicker in the back of my mind. He's still there, and I still want to talk about him to other people, talk about how brave he is and how proud I am, but it seems much less urgent. <br /><br />Reading about the young guy who had shrapnel tear through his brain and leave him with a traumatic brain injury at 22 -- that's urgent, and it's sobering. I am so incapable of even picturing that -- Mark without his sense of humor, Mark without his quick responses to everything, Mark without his stories, Mark without the temper and sass, Mark without the ability to even speak -- that I convince myself it can't happen to him. I can't see it; it's not possible. But writing about that guy and what his family has been through ... it feels awful, but I'd almost rather lose Mark entirely than have him come back and not be Mark at all. That would feel like a loss that never goes away, a wound that never gets to heal. He'd be gone and he'd be there to remind me of it. How selfish of me is that? jeez. <br /><br />Anyway. Just the thoughts kickin' around in this jumbled old brain. <br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-37298546246256825212011-09-15T23:47:00.003-07:002012-01-22T22:16:57.441-08:00one day this will all changeWhen we were little, Mark was going to marry Jenni Bolton. He loved Simba from the Lion King, and gogurt, and macaroni and cheese. He played with his Legos, and Playmobil guys before that; he had a rocket-ship comforter on his bed, and his closet (then and now) overflowed with toys and clothes. The drawers on his dresser are broken and off-track after years of slamming them or overloading them with old clothes, which is ironic, because he hates shopping and logically shouldn't have that many clothes. <br /><br />In elementary school, he used to put rocks in his backpack to make it heavier, so it felt more like a big-kid's backpack with books inside. He used to give away his money to his friends. A few years ago, he loved pennies and collected a big jar of them. <br /><br />We did the plays at church together. In 4th or 5th grade, we did "Good Kings Come in Small Packages," or something like that, about Josiah, and Mark was Josiah, and I was the narrator/cook. He was good; as good as elementary school kids can be after practicing for a week during the summer. I can still picture him, a little boy on a big stage throne.<br /><br />Either his door or mine had to be replaced when, during one of our knock-down-drag-out fights, he rammed the prow of his big action figure Peter Pan pirate ship into it. The door on the bathroom got replaced, too, after one of us tried to beat it down to get to the one hiding inside. We cussed at each other, using the few cuss words we knew. <br /><br />We used to push the couches together in the family room to watch movies, so they made a couch-boat, and we would pile pillows and comforters in until it was as comfortable and soft as possible. He hated watching Disney princess movies. When we first got cable, when I was in 7th or 8th grade, we spent the summer watching Sonic the Hedgehog, Men in Black the cartoon, and something about Egyptian gods on the WB. All I remember is them saying "By the power of Ra!" and turning into something more indestructible. <br /><br />Mark has a skateboard (or two) and a trick bike stored away in our garage (or did we sell them at a yard sale?) For most of growing up, he didn't find anything he wanted to stick with. He took piano for a week; played baseball up until 5th or 6th grade, soccer for maybe 3 years; he took trumpet lessons in middle school, then a few guitar lessons in high school. <br /><br />He hated school, and I hated the way he acted when it came time to do homework. My parents bought him a PlayStation 2, and I told them to their faces that it was the worst decision they'd ever make in parenting. I believe I was right; without video games, he would have spent a lot more time with his friends and family and in the outdoors, and without the string of more advanced game consoles that came after the PS2, he would never have been able to play Call of Duty for hours at a time. <br /><br />When I got to do something, Mark had to do it. Didn't matter that I was older. If I got to stay up and watch Friends, Mark had to, too. If I got to stay home sick from school, Mark wanted to, too. And the reverse - I still haven't forgotten this; in Disneyworld in 5th grade, we wanted to rent a 4-person bike/carriage thing. But Mark was too little to help pedal, so we didn't get to do it. Then when I was in early high school, Mark got horseback riding lessons and I didn't, even though I'd wanted them forever. My parents said he didn't have all the things I got to do - piano and soccer and drama. I said he didn't stick with any of them, and it wasn't my fault. I was angry at that practice for so long.<br /><br />I was angry at so much for so long. I was angry at how he treated my mom, how he didn't care about his schoolwork or responsibilities at home; angry at how he refused to do his own dishes or clean his own room or put away his own damn video games. I was angry that he dropped everything to hang out with his high school girlfriend but couldn't be bothered to come to church with us. <br /><br />How many years did I waste being angry at my brother, instead of trying to be compassionate, to be understanding, to help him succeed when he was struggling? How many years did I spend hating him for being the opposite of me, for having different priorities?<br /><br />I want to go back and change it -- yell less; include him more. Fight less; laugh more. Belittle him less; tell him I loved him more. <br /><br />He's a good kid, he really is, even though he still gripes about having to do his dishes and has to be reminded 7 times to even bring them over to the sink. He's funny and caring and fiercely loyal and generous to a fault. He's a freakin badass and could kill you with his thumb, and it's a good thing our knock-down-drag-out fights ended when they did, because if I'd tried to fight him after he started working out with the Marines in high school, I would've ended up with broken bones. He knows military history, knew everything you don't want to know about guns even before he joined. He's smart; didn't like school, but now he wants to be a history teacher, maybe. <br /><br />I want to be able to call him about my current Sons of Anarchy episode. I want to be able to text him about the silly/embarrassing things our parents are doing. I want to drag him up onto the couch next to me to take dumb photos on my PhotoBooth. I want to practice jiujitsu moves on commercial breaks. I want to buy more Mike's Hard for him, and sit downstairs feeling like rebels when Mom&Dad are upstairs asleep. <br /><br />Oh, how I'm going to miss my brother for the next 7 months (no more than 7 months; no, not a day longer, because he'll come home; he has to come home). Why do we have war? Why? It's not his war; it's not any of these kids' war. Mark still looks like a 16-year-old kid; he has no business carrying a gun and going into battle.<br /><br />All my life I been waitin' for<br />I been prayin' for, for the people to say<br />That <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRmBChQjZPs&ob=av2n">we don't want to fight no more</a><br /><br />One day this all will change<br />Treat people the same<br />Stop with the violence down with the hate<br />One day we'll all be free and proud<br />To be under the same sun<br />Singing songs of freedom like<br /><br />One day, one day, one day<br />One day, one day, one day<br /><br />One day, God. Make it soon. <br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-83863159820931447032011-08-07T01:21:00.002-07:002011-08-07T01:26:55.794-07:00a very present helpToday was the deadliest day yet in Afghanistan for US troops.<br /><br /><a href="http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2015841246_afghan07.html">http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2015841246_afghan07.html</a><br /><br />Mark is set to deploy there next month. My almost-20-year-old little brother who still doesn't wash his own dishes. <br /><br />Psalms 3:3 But you, Yahweh, are a shield around Mark,<br />Mark's glory, and the one who lifts up Mark's head.<br />3:4 I cry to Yahweh with my voice,<br />and he answers me out of his holy hill.<br /><br /><br />Oh Lord, protect him. Protect us all. <br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-49963396552055231212011-07-25T23:20:00.002-07:002011-07-25T23:38:52.224-07:00imagine all the peopleWhen I was little, I envied my brother furiously for his imagination.<br /><br />Well into middle school — maybe even high school? — I could hear him in his room, his voice pitched in battle as his Legos or action figures fought for dominion. He built elaborate scenes with the Legos, worked out why this group was warring with another; everything down to the last detail.<br /><br />I watched this, scoffing outwardly even as I despaired inside. Why couldn't I get myself into that dream world? I remember literally forcing myself to play with some plastic figures — Disney characters, my favorites, even if I didn't play with them often — and making myself do their voices and trying to make them interact. I believe I threw them down in frustration when I realized that I couldn't get past the fact that it wasn't real. I had Barbie, too, but while I enjoyed all her outfits and accessories, she wasn't really talking to Ken and never would be. <br /><br />As I grew up, I had to admit that I had some imagination; I could write, couldn't I, and that took something. Poems and beginnings of short stories (though never ends) came fairly easily as I moved through late-high school and college.<br /><br />And now I find where all my imagination was hiding, what it was waiting for, and I'm wishing I could've swapped with Mark and played with those stupid Legos instead.<br /><br />I've covered cops&courts a handful of times now for the paper here in Yakivegas, and I do not like it. I can't see it, as my coworker told me he does, as "words on a page." These are people; that was a real little girl who had her pants pulled down by an uncle who molested her; that was a real man who drowned in his backyard pool when going out for his evening swim; and that was a real 17-year-old boy today who shot himself with a shotgun after his older brother died last week. <br /><br />Maybe all those years of watching every crime TV show on USA Network are finally catching up with me. But although it's getting easier — death, it seems, bothers me less than violation — I still can't turn these crimes into words on a page.<br /><br />Today, for instance. I got to work and got passed a story on an apparent homicide that happened outside a school. A teenage boy, shot in the head; close-range so they couldn't identify his face. Then in the afternoon, the coroner says it hasn't been ruled a homicide or a suicide. Then we look up his name, see if he's in our archives, and we find his 25-year-old brother died last week, apparently of non-suspicious causes.<br /><br />My unstoppable imagination supplies the details: I picture the 17-year-old brother, sobbing around his house while his family tries to console him, tell him that his brother's in a better place now. Or maybe he was silent, sitting in his room and not saying a word, just utterly convinced that the world had ended. I picture his siblings' fruitless attempts to reach out, to reach him, to let him know that he was not alone and that things will get better one day. <br /><br />This was the first time it's really hit me how selfish suicide is. I picture his parents — robbed of two sons in less than a week. I picture the weight of grief on them as they try to hold up the remaining four siblings. I picture the numbness. I picture what my parents would do if something like that happened — and try to force it from my mind. <br /><br />And the fact that my work, the very reason I'm forced to learn the details of these cases inside and out, may be worsening the problem makes it feel even less worth it. We didn't name the suicide victim, but the slimy TV news reporter did, and now that family has to put up with shame and questions on top of grief. People will be shaking their heads and saying, "That poor boy, if only the family had been there for him," when really the family must have done all it could. <br /><br />Do I make it better, when I tell these people's stories? Do I make it worse? Most of the stories I do, especially now in education, are positive; people respond wanting to help, wanting to make a difference, or they respond with nothing and at least don't tip the scales one way or the other. But when I bare someone's personal life for all to see — even my criminals, when I post details of their police reports that will now follow them anytime anyone does a Google search — what good does it do? <br /><br />Never fear; there's no danger I'll give up the reporter thing. I still love it, aside from a few brutally graphic police reports, and I'm not apt to give up anytime soon. <br /><br />I just hope it's making a positive difference in the world. That's all we really have, isn't it? To leave the world better than when we entered and hope we're remembered kindly, if at all.<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-28977734785428184592011-07-14T22:07:00.004-07:002011-07-14T22:49:21.443-07:00team harryHarry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 hits screens in two hours. Today I interviewed a 16-year-old girl who arrived at the movie theater at 5:30 p.m. yesterday - that's about 31 hours early. She and her friends have been staging Horcrux scavenger hunts, wizarding duels, a Triwizard Tournament....5 years younger than me; they were in 1st grade when the books started, and Harry Potter is still a big enough part of their lives that they'll wait all day on concrete.<br /><br />This is so silly - I'm admitting that; I admit that this melodramatic, wistful blog post about fictional characters is dumb and sappy and unoriginal - but I so wanted to ditch out on work and just join them there. Watch the first Harry Potter movie, when they were all such babies, and talk about our favorite parts of the books and exclaim over spectacular plot points.<br /><br />Because it's not just some dumb kid series - these books really did shape our childhood. I came on board a year or two late; I remember reading the first 3 in 5th grade, lent me by a classmate to whom I am forever indebted for getting me into the series in the first place. I loved the 2nd book, mostly because I'd wanted a pet snake for ages and imagined how cool it would be if I were a Parseltongue. I wrote out the warning posted at the entrance to Gringotts and put it on my bedroom door, hoping to ward off any intruding little brother. <br /><br />Then that first agonizing wait for the 4th book to come out, and then actually reading the Goblet of Fire - it really was a turning point in my growing up. I remember the point when Cedric dies - so casually, so lacking in fanfare or acknowledgement; just "Kill the spare," and he's lying spread-eagle on his back a few yards away. I slammed my book shut and threw it across the floor - I remember curling up on the couch in my family room, sobbing as if my heart would break, because people were not supposed to <span style="font-style:italic;">die</span> like that. It just didn't happen in the kids books I was used to reading. That grew me up, at least in my story sense.<br /><br />Then I remember putting off reading the Order of the Phoenix because my next-door neighbor & best friend said it was depressing (Sirius is his favorite character) and I couldn't handle any more depressing. And I remember finally reading it and kicking things as I growled inwardly at Umbridge. To this day, I don't think I've ever hated anyone more than her. <br /><br />I remember reading the Half-Blood Prince while we were in Scotland for the drama festival - it had come out a month earlier but I had put it off for some reason. I borrowed it from Dylan and raced through it as we stood in line for plays all over Edinburgh. I remember the cobblestoned street beside the sidewalk I sat down on when Dumbledore died and I wanted to cry but didn't want to do it in public. Dumbledore died! That wasn't supposed to happen, either.<br /><br />And I remember the last book - my favorite book - came out on the last night we were at Seaside in Oregon after I graduated from high school. My education is stacked with Harry Potter milestones. (Haven't forgotten, either, the magazine page that got passed around my AP Lit class of Daniel Radcliffe in Equus. He's too pale, and the whole thing kind of creeped me out, but still intriguing.) We drove through Portland on our way home, and stopped at Powells - it had been 2 years then since I'd read the 6th, and I was hazy on Horcrux details, so in an aisle filled to bursting with Harry Potter books, I asked two strangers to remind me what happened. I love fellow book nerds.<br /><br />I was not to be pulled away from that book for anything that day. I read it the whole car ride home, then wrenched myself away from it to go to a winery that evening with Mrs. Maldonado, where she'd brought me to listen to some poet (I'm afraid I was even less gracious to that poet than I would have been under normal circumstances; still, even under normal circumstances, I'm pretty sure she sucked). I couldn't stand it for long, so she actually let me drive her car back home, where I raced through another 100 pages before going back to pick her up. And I finished by midnight that night, because I never would have been able to go to sleep anyway.<br /><br />I remember running into Mary Crow the next morning in the parking lot of my church, exclaiming over the Narnia-like scene when McGonnagall calls the statues to life and they go tromping off to protect the school. Mary stayed up finishing it, too; I remember she said she was about to give in and sleep when she turned to "The Prince's Tale" and couldn't stop. "I KNEW Snape loved Lily! I KNEW it!" she cried. <br /><br />And there's just something magical about the series, nothing to do with the spells and enchantments. There's something magical in growing up with the characters, in maturing as they mature, in facing greater challenges in real life even as the fictional villains turn darker and harder to vanquish. <br /><br />And now...now we have to say goodbye to the series again. I was never attached to the movies; I'm a purist, and I hated the way things got left out, even small details, so I stopped watching after the 2nd. But I went to part 1 of the 7th movie this fall - at 3 in the morning the night it came out, sitting next to boys who thought Hermione was hot and kept making comments to that effect. It was so well done - they used all that lag time in the Horcrux search to just take the characters to beautiful parts of the world with sweeping vistas and lonely horizons. That movie pulled me in, attached me again. <br /><br />But this is the end. All those posters - "It all ends July 15" - really, it does. No other series has spanned so much of my lifetime, or captured so much of my imagination, save Narnia, and that's in a different category for me. <br /><br />No, Harry Potter is in a category all its own. And this end of it all - I tear up reading reviews, for goodness' sake; I'm going to bawl at the actual movie this weekend - but it's fitting that after all those Harry Potter milestones throughout my childhood, the series is over and the characters must move on just as I'm leaving behind my safety-netted existence and pushing off into the world of independent adulthood. <br /><br />I find myself resenting the idea that in a few years, the new generation is going to have a different series that they're devoted to - that they'll claim is better than any other. We all know they'll be wrong. <br /><br />Oh, how I wish I could just go back and be a kid again, reading these books for the first time. I miss that wide-eyed wonder.<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-61453992620869971022011-06-26T21:29:00.002-07:002011-06-26T22:29:36.123-07:00surroundedGod is good.<br /><br />I started keeping this blog when I left for Spain, and it seems that it's mostly been a journal of transition since then. Of moving to new places and finding new niches and making -- and leaving -- new friends. <br /><br />Throughout it all, God has shown his faithfulness in the people he puts in my life. <br /><br />I was going to write earlier about this being the easiest first week I've had anywhere, mostly from the job perspective. When my editor first told me he was going to acquiesce my request for a higher salary (look, I negotiated like a grown-up and got my demands met!), he said it was because he'd talked to my references and felt confident that I would be able to learn fast and "hit the ground running." As soon as he told me that, anxiety kicked in -- what if I DON'T hit the ground running? What if I take weeks to get used to the pace and the community and the newsroom? High expectations mean for certain disappointment!! and so on, as I am wont to do in these situations.<br /><br />But this week, I started to think that maybe I finally have a handle on this journalism thing. I stayed until 7:30 on my first day, chasing down the numbers to accompany my story, which appeared on the front of their B section on Tuesday. On Tuesday, I wrote two stories -- both of which were A1 above the fold on Wednesday. My story on Wednesday, with the photo, took up most of A1 on Thursday. And my fourth story for the week came out on the B front today. Minimal edits, and I felt satisfied with the work I'd done.<br /><br />So yes -- best first week of a job ever. While I had some downtime, I wasn't bored and didn't feel useless; at the same time, I wasn't overwhelmed by the information I was expected to take in. Could it be that I'm becoming a real-live reporter?! wowza. <br /><br />While work was great, though, there was still a twinge of loneliness. Nothing too severe (read: no crying); I talked on the phone with lots of friends, cooked my own meals, watched my favorite movies, read Nancy Drew and lay by my pool. But there was no human interaction outside work, and the people there didn't really go out of their way to talk to or befriend me. So I was really banking on First Pres to be a friend-locator.<br /><br />As far as friend-locators go, this one's pretty magical.<br /><br />Went to church at 9:30 this morning; it was VBS Sunday, so quite different from normal service, but I was still able to track down Tyler, the college/career director for the church and a former Ghormley staffer whom I remembered from my middle-school camp days. He invited me to the college/career age dinner & Bible study shindig at his house this evening, and I went -- not without first driving past his house twice, wondering if I really had the guts to go barge in on a group of strangers, but barge I did. <br /><br />It was amazing. Sure, there was initial shyness, but I soon got over it and into good conversations. People think the reporter thing is cool (though they automatically assume they have a PR "in", sigh) and I told my story about seven times, but that was OK. Met people I recognized as campers from my Ghormley days; met people who speak Spanish and rock climb and hike and listen to Eddie Izzard and make inappropriate jokes at the wrong times; met people who felt familiar after knowing them for five minutes. <br /><br />God shows his faithfulness by putting me in the midst of people I need to meet. Seattle, Spain, Port Townsend, Santiago, Olympia and now Yakima. Can't get away from 'em. <br /><br />This is going to be a hard home to leave.<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-86635433039197195362011-06-13T23:28:00.002-07:002011-06-13T23:38:34.922-07:00just aheadWell, that last post was a bit melodramatic and depressing.<br /><br />I mean, yes, graduation is still anticlimactic and brews a good deal of uncertainty, but I'm not as disparaging as that post feels. The future is exciting -- it always is. I hate change, but as a good friend has often told me, it makes the world go round. <br /><br />And besides, moving to Yakima isn't that big a deal. It's close to home, and not too far from Seattle. Loved ones reside in both cities, and history is bound to repeat itself in finding me solid relationships in Yakima. I've been very blessed in that so far. God followed me to Chile, and I'm sure he can find Yakima, too (even if it is kind of the middle of nowhere). And he's shown his faithfulness in the good people he's put in my life, to come alongside me and feed my extroverted spirit. There's always loneliness, but it's never been forever. <br /><br />I've been thinking recently about all the parents I have in the world. So many people have stayed with me and supported me and encouraged me and offered wisdom and guidance throughout the years -- I wish all young people could be as fortunate as I am. My host mom in Chile Facebook-congratulated me on graduating, and when I visited my landlord-turned-hostdad in Olympia last week, he gave me a big hug and reminded me that he adores me and that I'm always welcome in their home. How do I find these people? How do they find me? Very, very blessed. <br /><br />Then there's the teachers whom I still visit when I go home, who shaped me and put me on the path to becoming the writer and thinker I am today. I had such great teachers. Maybe someday they'll make a movie about them, like Dead Poets Society-style. They deserve it (just not the ending....yeah.) <br /><br />Anyway. Just wanted to make sure no one thought I was a whiner all the time. Only sometimes, and I try to remain delightful while doing it. <br /><br />One step closer to grown-up land...<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-89143860402017113872011-06-10T02:02:00.003-07:002011-06-10T02:22:20.262-07:00looking ahead, looking behindIt's been four years since I graduated from high school. <br /><br />Time has flown. College was amazing, full of unique experiences and opportunities, and I feel like I missed out on rejoicing in all those. It went so fast - it's been almost three years since I went to Spain, a year since I was in Chile, six months since I was even a student. <br /><br />What stands out to me most right now is how much I haven't grown. I've backtracked. Self-esteem and self-respect took a huge dive in Spain and have been beaten back down on a fairly regular basis whenever they start to grow again. I think I was stronger, more secure, when I walked out of the Tri-Cities Convention Center four years ago than I am today. <br /><br />I wrote a poem back then - silly things, those, and I feel silly saying it, but I still have them all tucked away on my computer - about my Peter Pan birthday party. "breathless, as we were, on the cusp of adulthood," I wrote. Graduation was so exciting in high school; I was breathless then. There was so much leading up to it - senior barbecue, final projects, college acceptance (and rejection) letters, senior sensation, the Willy awards; all working to build anticipation and giddiness. And then the senior party right after it, where we exulted our accomplishment and ran on an adrenaline high until 3 a.m. Everyone was in one place, everyone was celebrating, and most of us knew where we were headed next.<br /><br />College graduation is anticlimactic to the max. I got done with classes in December, so even being on campus feels uncomfortable and somehow illegal, like someone is going to see me and point and say "Hey, you're done here, what are you trying to pull?" The ceremony itself today - no rehearsal for it, nothing personal; we wrote our names on cards, handed them to the speaker as we walked up on stage, and he read them off as we proceeded past. Not even in alphabetical order. It was as if no one cared whether it went smoothly or happened at all, or whether we even showed up. Saturday's giant ceremony is going to be even worse - they don't even read your name off. That's the only one my parents can make it to, and what's it going to be? I'll be just another silly-looking black hat in a sea of thousands of students. They won't even be able to distinguish my face from up in the bleachers. <br /><br />I want it to be a bigger deal. I graduated with honors (I think) from the University of Washington - that's still a big deal, right? I mean...I guess it's what most people I know have done or are doing right now, so it's not really a stand-out accomplishment, but I still want people to be excited about it. Mostly, people are dreading standing around waiting for the ceremony to start, or worried about parking and traffic. <br /><br />I know that I'm lucky to have a direction and a job after this. Yes, it's in Yakima, and everyone makes fun of it, but at least it's a job. And in my chosen field, too. That's more than most journalism grads can say, I think. But I want to be excited about it. I was excited when I was working for the AP; I was excited in Chile; I was excited at the Seattle Times, and in Spain. I want that feeling again. My friend took a picture of my today after graduation, standing in front of the "Department of Communication" sign in the COM building in my cap and gown. I've got this great, slightly cocky smile on my face, like "Yeah, I pwned that, now let's see where else I can kick butt." I want to feel that feeling. I want to be on the cusp of something, something exciting and worthy of my attention and enthusiasm. Instead, I feel let down, somehow. <br /><br />Seattle's feeling less and less like home. Olympia's not home anymore, and Richland doesn't feel quite right, either. Where am I going and what am I supposed to be doing now? <br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-389706830164590842011-05-11T00:02:00.002-07:002011-05-11T00:26:50.974-07:00out of the dustIn the month since I last blogged, I finished up my job with the AP in Olympia, went home for about a week to visit, kind of went on a couple dates, and moved back to Seattle, at least temporarily. <br /><br />Also got a job offer for a job that just doesn't feel right.<br /><br />I'm feeling very directionless right now. It's an almost foreign feeling -- I've known I wanted to be a journalist since at least senior year of high school, when most of my friends waffled around and changed majors or mindsets or goals several times. Within journalism, I've had a very clearcut path: Accepted into the major freshman year, the Port Townsend internship fell into my lap, then the Seattle Times picked me, then Reuters in Chile, then graduation, then the AP. All incredible experiences, and all in a very neat and tidy succession. I never had to choose between one chance and another; the opportunities just presented themselves one at a time in an orderly fashion and were easily identifiable as the place I was meant to go.<br /><br />But now, I have no idea. And it's terrifying. But not overtly so; it's that same vague dread and uneasiness at the future that I felt right after graduating, but stronger because I feel like I'm supposed to be more grown-up and responsible now. I've already had a real job -- I'm out on my own -- I have to keep ascending and maturing and making grown-up decisions, even when I don't want to. <br /><br />So what's the grown-up decision now? I have a job offer for a yearlong spot at a paper in eastern Washington. I don't want it. Don't get me wrong; I'm glad I grew up in eastern Washington; I think it's beautiful, and I still love going home to visit. But I don't want to live there. I've spent the last three years trying to get away from that side of the state. Except for Spokane, there really doesn't seem to be anything promising for people my age. I don't want to take a job because it's safe and then never dare to break free from it. I'm only 22! This is the time of my life that I want to be off doing exciting things, while I'm young enough to be flexible and unattached and adaptive and enthusiastic and willing. This is not the time to settle down in the Palm Springs of Washington. <br /><br />But I'm so anchor-less right now that I don't even have the discipline to sit down and really try to find jobs elsewhere. I don't know what to do with myself -- I haven't been so lacking in structure for probably six years. I've been unemployed for two-and-a-half weeks, with nothing to do but hang out with people and watch TV and climb. I think the last time I had that long a vacation from work and school was probably the summer after freshman year of high school. I've worked every summer since then, with usually two weeks or less in between school and internships. I don't do well when I'm just sitting around. I need structure, someone or something telling me what to do, or I just get lazy. <br /><br />Oh balls. I just don't know what to do. Is it that I childishly/shallowly don't want to take this EWa job, or that it really doesn't feel right for me? Is the only grown-up option to take the job, even though I foresee nothing but loneliness, depression and lack of excitement in that place? <br /><br />Moving is always going to be hard. I still want to do the foreign correspondent thing; that dream hasn't changed. But there's a degree of "is it worth it?" that has to be heard. Moving to Olympia was probably the hardest one yet, for a number of reasons, but I could always assure myself that it was worth it. I was working for the AP at 21 years old -- my first job out of college! Moving to a small town in eastern Washington is not something I could get excited or proud about. And no one will visit. People get that incredulous "oh man, that sucks" look on their faces when I tell them about the offer -- and I have that same face on when I talk or think about it. <br /><br />Where's God in all of this? I wish he'd just tell me what to do in a really obvious way. Gideon got a wet fleece; how about a wet newspaper or something? I want this decision to come ready-made, so I don't have to risk making the wrong choice. I don't want to get stuck somewhere I'll be miserable for a year, but nor do I want to get stuck without a job, or with a non-journalism job. And this paper would be a good training ground; a good first job. <br /><br />The talk at my church tonight was good. This series is about "where do I go from here?" so it was a good message for me to hear, but didn't have quite the explicit instructions that I was hoping for. <br /><br />The music was good too. We sang <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OR7VOKQ0xJY">this song</a>, which I already loved, but it gave me new ideas tonight. <br /><br />You make beautiful things, <br />you make beautiful things out of the dust<br /><br />Made me wonder what God could make out of eastern Washington.<br /><br />I guess we'll find out soon.<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-14336064092102211582011-04-11T23:55:00.002-07:002011-04-12T00:14:53.548-07:00a question of weightI want to change the way I think.<br /><br />I can have a week of kickassery -- filing two or three stories a day, getting news tips from representatives who know me and respect me enough to seek me out directly, and most notably, an in-depth weekender that got play on front pages across the state -- and still be knocked down by a few moments of self-doubt.<br /><br />Why does the negative weigh so much more than the positive? I felt like an awesome possum today -- many thanks to the people who encourage me in my success; I store those comments up and reread them to remind myself that I'm doing a good job. <br /><br />But then as soon as I got enough downtime to slow down, and didn't have House floor session crap filling every corner of my brain, I floated back down to this funk of not feeling like I'm quite good enough. Again, I think it has to do with a few specific people not caring or not recognizing something that I feel should get more attention.<br /><br />At least that's a change from my recent mindset; it's no longer, Why am I not doing a good job, but rather, Why can't you recognize that I'm doing a good job? I'm 21 and my first job is working as the No. 2 reporter at a statehouse bureau, and I've filed about 90 items in the past three months -- that's worthy of note.* And for me, admitting that I'm good is a step stronger than where I was a few weeks ago. <br /><br />But still. I want the good moments to outweigh the bad. I want the giddy feeling I got when people wrote me today to tell me that my story was on the front page of my hometown newspaper to carry me over for the next week. That's how it should work; that's how it would work if I could simply reverse the way things currently are. The way my mind works now, a negative moment can cast a shadow over several days, but positives are fleeting and easily brushed off.<br /><br />I want a job with the AP. I want one so, so badly that I'm not even thinking about the fact that I'll be unemployed in two weeks. I love the pace of the wire service; I love that I can write as much as I want and not worry about page space, because it'll all get picked up online somewhere; I love that I'm known (at least to the Democrats) exclusively as "APMolly." I love writing fast, pounding out stories, and I love being counted on by the other publications here. "Are you doing something on such-and-such? Great, ok, that means we don't have to." <br /><br />I don't want to work at a daily newspaper now. I want to work for the AP -- one story a day is too slow for me. Yes, I probably wouldn't be able to sustain this pace for long, and yes, it's been exhausting and effing difficult, but at least for the next few years, while I'm young and enthusiastic and ambitious, I want to keep up this pace. I don't want to lose momentum now; I just found my stride! <br /><br />Damn it, US jobs market, please just let a miracle happen and open up a job at the Seattle bureau.<br /><br />Love always,<br />molly<br /><br />*I'm not trying to be cocky...honestly just trying to convince myself that I'm good at what I do, and that it's ok to acknowledge that in myself. It's a work in progress; forcing myself to say it and write it is helping me to believe it.mollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-11840875876353564452011-03-28T23:34:00.004-07:002011-03-29T00:04:49.581-07:00musingsMy life right now is filled with two things: journalism and climbing.<br /><br />I'm just interested in examining how I settled on these two pursuits. A friend recently pointed out to me the oddity of choosing journalism for my career -- for someone who is so dependent on receiving praise or at least affirmation and encouragement in what I do, I sure picked a hell of a job. <br /><br />Journalism -- writing in general, for that matter -- is something where you can never reach perfection. It's so varied, and so subjective; your style and goals change whenever you change editors or audiences. Don't break up your sentence structure in APNewsNows. Write with confidence for weekenders. Don't use "says" in the writethru, but do in the newsnow. And on and on. <br /><br />And with companies like the AP or Reuters, you may have half a dozen editors reading and rewriting your work. By the end, it might not even be recognizable as your story. And you have to be OK with that.<br /><br />How'd I wind up here? How did I, seeking to be right as often as I can, end up in a job where there is no one right answer, no one right way of doing things? I have set myself up for a life of constant anxiety and endless, undefinable pursuit of something "better."<br /><br />Perhaps I'm a masochist. <br /><br />The other main pastime, then, is almost an about-face. Climbing is full of clear-cut victories, and the climbing community is, I would venture to say, one of the most encouraging groups of people you could imagine. Here I have found an activity where I am congratulated -- and can congratulate myself -- for simply reaching one rock higher on the wall. I enjoy it for what I accomplish; it is a solo effort, but not a solitary sport. For once in my life, I am (almost) able to stop comparing myself to the people around me and recognize that I can be happy with where I am. <br /><br />It's also an activity that shows progress -- something else that's hard to track in journalism. With my job, I can see over a wide span of time that things have changed; at the end of my Reuters internship, I knew why the stock market fluctuated and what the consumer price index was and that the currency devaluation in China affected Chile because China was the world's No. 1 importer of Chile's No. 1 export copper. Whew. <br /><br />And now, during the Legislature, two and a half months in I can identify legislators by face, if not by voice; I know a bit about what can be targeted in budget cuts and what's off the table; I know the day-to-day procedure of the session. <br /><br />But there's not a lot of measurable progress in the actual writing. I still make the same mistakes I was making in my first week. I still obsess over understanding a topic before calling a legislator because I don't want to ask stupid questions. My stories are changed less substantially than they used to be, but editors still call with questions and alterations.<br /><br />Climbing shows progress rapidly, almost immediately. You see the fruits of your labor: you climb more often, push yourself harder, focus on technique, and you improve. I like being reassured that I'm getting better; effort without reward is often deemed pointless.<br /><br />Anyway. I have no conclusion yet. Just self-analyzing in the most public medium there is. Like y'do. <br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1027804021560184052.post-69030652804804064482011-03-22T16:59:00.004-07:002011-03-22T17:23:46.595-07:00well, I like my sunshine-and-rainbows approachFor all my complaining and lack of confidence, I really do love my job.<br /><br />It's something I need to remember frequently and loudly, because journalists as a rule seem bound and determined to be cynical. I love <a href="http://overheardinthenewsroom.com/">Overheard in the Newsroom</a>, but it gets a bit repetitive and grating if I read too much at once. <br /><br />This is a job where you see a lot of stupidity; not denying that. And seasoned reporters don't hold anything sacred -- any tragedy is just timely fodder for comedy. You cover corruption and inefficiency and selfishness so often that it's sometimes hard to find a good story to hold onto. That's one of the reasons I so enjoyed covering the miners saga this past summer in Chile -- not only was it a thrilling, around-the-clock breaking news story, but it was a good story, coming at a time when Chile and the world needed a good story. Thirty-three men presumed to have died awful, despairing deaths half a mile underground survived -- that's fun to write about.<br /><br />But it's not just those epic adventures that make me love my job. I love it because I'm always learning, and learning the most random things. I'm working on an update for my cougar-hunting-with-hounds story, so yesterday, a representative gave me some articles from WSU to read. I learned that there are a few scientists out there who believe killing off the old male cougars in a population makes the younger hooligans act out more, thus increasing the danger to humans and livestock. These scientists talk about cougars -- and elephants, and condors -- as if they were people, with a complex social dynamic in which the mature animals teach the younger ones what's appropriate. Random, but fascinating. <br /><br />I'm still lacking the institutional knowledge I really want, but I'm trying to accept that that only comes with time. For now, I'm taking it in as fast as they give it to me -- transportation budget proposals, liquor privatization possibilities, which-lawmaker-is-under-which-state-agency's-thumb -- everything. <br /><br />I'd still very much like to do environmental reporting. That's what piques my interest most these days, and it would let me learn more science. ("Science" sounds so vague, and immediately gives away my humanities-major tendencies...oh well.) More learning, every day learning, meeting new smart people who are less bound up in politics than my current sources are.<br /><br />It's nice to be reminded sometimes that I have a cool job. One of my friends from the UW, who is going to change the world and is currently working on a triple major or something equally absurd, gets all excited whenever I talk to him about what I'm doing or post a new story on Facebook. It's encouraging, especially in a time when most people consider journalists to be gossip-mongers and exploitative and loose with their reporting integrity.<br /><br />Today I'm reminding myself that I'm good at what I do. (Well, not right at this moment, since I'm blogging instead of researching cougar hunting.) The Senate transportation budget came out today; I started writing at about 2, and with numerous Facebook breaks, had an 800-word story by 3:30. A budget story, too -- lots of numbers to check and compare to the House's proposal; lots of information that needed to be boiled down into some readable format. The only edit it received was the addition of a graf comparing it to the governor's budget proposal.<br /><br />So I'm good at this. And I like what I do, on the whole. And I only have a month left of employment, so I'd better enjoy it while it lasts.<br /><br />Love always,<br />mollymollshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03309196519251665492noreply@blogger.com3