How memory becomes hope.

I can think of few things that are more precious than a sacrifice.

And yet, I'm sitting here in my room thinking how irrational it all seems. For someone to give something up for someone else. But it's only irrational here, where we live for us. For now. For a nice everything that the word "mine" can attach itself to.

Every December 13th, it hits me harder. Danny didn't just have FA. He didn't just die because a disease took over his body. He died for a purpose. So that years later, at 1:00 AM, his little sister could once again be in awe of God.

This little sister that still gathers strength from his memory.

You know. You'd think I'd have it down by now, but I still get angry that I'm learning to deal with him, without him.

I still wish his picture would talk back to me when I walk past it in the mornings while I brush my teeth. Not even something serious. Just a joke. For just one second to hear the only voice that I've forgotten. He could sing Achey-Breaky heart to me and I'd be satisfied.

and the thing is, why isn't my question anymore.

Because the why is new every day.

It happened, because it was best (even if it doesn't seem that way).

It happened for merciful reasons.

It happened for our benefit.

It happened for our growth.

It happened for our appetite for eternity.

It happened for invisible reasons that will blow our minds in eternity.

I can keep going if you want me to. But I'm getting to that part in my mind, where the idea has clicked. And my anger is transforming into what it always does on the 14th of December.

God gave up Danny, for me. For mom. For Dad. For Aryam.

Seven years of goodness, to show us the big picture: an eternity with no hospitals, no medications, and no separations.

It is 1:17 AM.

I am irrationally awed by this intricate plan.

And it still hurts, but it also promises to heal when life truly begins.

Here's to the December 13th, when the clock will start at zero, and never run out.

And I will sing/laugh/run/dance/make silly faces with Danny.

Take that, Satan.

Goodbye, November.

Forgive me. I've been...angry.

You see, I found myself in a place I knew I was logically capable of pulling myself out of. But I couldn't quite bring myself to actually leave. And so I was angry at me, for staying. And angry at life for bringing it to me in the first place.

I know, I'm the queen of vagueness. Just hang in there. Or don't...really, I just need to get this out of my system.

So, where am I now? You know that dramatic part in a movie where someone is hanging off a cliff and you think to yourself--if they can only reach that hold to their left, they're going to make it--and then they do.

Well, my hand is reaching.

Short story. One day, I took my daddy rock-climbing. Being my daddy, he was scared out of his mind for me, probably cursing the day he had encouraged me to love adventure. He waited at the bottom for me to clear a rock face, but it had rained recently, and I was having a hard time finding a way to clear the last stretch of the rock. After wedging myself for a few minutes and resting, I decided if I could just reach for this hold I'd been eyeing, I would be alright. At that moment, I shut down my T-ness and jumped to catch it; it was dry, and solid, and exactly what I needed to finish my climb. Thirty seconds later, I was on the top, wondering why I would ever let my fears keep me from such exhilaration.

I'm jumping, and I can feel it...in my bones. I know I've calculated the distance accurately, and I know that falling isn't an option anymore--I will find something to hold on to. I know what the top feels like. I know that getting there, my fears will seem small and insignificant.

Forgive me, for I have been angry. And in my anger, I've lost sight of a lot of things.

Rage is blinding, especially when you pretend it doesn't exist. But my show is over. The audience is gone.

So here it is,

End scene.

It's not you, and it's not me; it's quite definitely us.

I'm quite convinced that this mood I've been in has been transforming any and all emotions that I have into anger. It is 2:28 in the morning, and my brain will not shut down because as always, there are still things I want to say. There are still questions I want answered. Still this beating fury inside of me that refuses to quiet my thoughts.

Hence the title of this blog. Yes, it's supposed to sting. No, you don't have to keep reading. I just have to keep writing until some sense has come from this, and my mind becomes more willing to shut down.

We've all met them. Those contagious people that are no good for us. Maybe family, a friend, a lover. Everything screams that it's wrong. And yet, we remain. Time and again. Waiting for a miracle. For it to either stop hurting, or them to get it right (and my use of right here is relative, it only means our expectations for that person).

Don't expect. Rule number one of loving humanity.

I'm such a rebel. Such a rulebreaker.

Such a heartbroken mess.

So really, it is you. But it's only the you that I think I need you to be. Only a perception of what I think is best. Of my answers. Of my solutions.

But it's also definitely me. The me that cannot let go of what I want. What I desire. Which quite simply, should be simpler.

But more than both of these, it is simply us. Separately, everything works. But together, everything falls apart. Or breaks. Or tarnishes. We can't ever say what we really think, because that would mean admitting that we simply cannot live together.

Until now. When I am done.

and on and on and on.

Where am I. How did I get here. Why.

My life revolves around questions. Because if I have answers, then I can find solutions and ways out. But recently, I can't find answers. I can't even find the right questions. And when I do, I remind myself to forget them so that I don't have to worry about being wrong. Which I'm almost certain that I am. Because sometimes the answer is not knowing the answer.

Pause. Let me wrap my head around that last statement. Everything about it screams that it's wrong. And yet, it's the only thing that makes sense right now. Because I can't have the answers that I want.

So much for being logical, right?

Okay. So where am I?

I'm back to where I was before I left. Back here. Back to where hurt is found. Where it grows as time passes. Where it multiplies and transforms itself into new, undiscovered things. I am back to where everyone told me to run from.

Running. I really love to run. But I'm tired of running. I have to solve this.

How did I get here?

Remember that door I told you about a year or so ago? The ugly little door under the cherry tree? I found it again. Stumbling through old thoughts. Old fears, hates, angers. There it was. Small, dusty, and seemingly meaningless. When I opened it just a little, everything was different. But was it really? I think it was just my perspective. When I looked at it this time, it wasn't terrifying anymore. Just simple. Petty. Silly, if you will.

Why?

Because "the heart's memory eliminates the bad, magnifies the good, and thanks to this artifice, we manage to endure the burden of the past." Thanks Gabo, couldn't have said it better myself. That's just it; the past was forgotten (temporarily) and I let myself...let myself.

Now comes that terrifying question: was it right?

I look at Autumn raving all around me. Turning, falling, going, being. They know they die just to live again. I'm going as if I know what's on the other side. I don't. Well, I do. I know that this doesn't work out. Because it never was meant to in the first place. Why is that the one answer I can't accept?

It's valid. It's sound. It's proven.

I want to snap out of this. I want to open my eyes and see clearly again. It's like I only have one contact in, so half my life is out of focus.

half of me can see myself making every possible mistake. While the other half (which is accustomed to being in focus) pretends it doesn't know it's making mistakes.

I don't know.

I won't ever.

I do.

My Favorite Things.

Chocolate covered coffee beans.

Magnolia Flowers.

Perfect Grass.

The way light plays before it cedes into night.

Sunsets.

Mountains.

The ocean, rivers, creeks.

Sunflowers.

Venus's eyes in Botticelli's The Birth of Venus.

Really great food.

Cooking barefoot.

Drinking Mango Sweet-Tea Slushes on my porch while looking at the stars.

Feeling like my hammock is hugging me.

Clean Sheets.

Solitude after a noisy, chaotic day.

Charming, Chivalrous, Christian men.

Feeding people.

Hosting Parties.

Winning.

Clean Soccer. Spanish Soccer, German Soccer, Gerard Pique.

Italian(s).

A very good cappuccino.

Languages.

Being comfortable with someone.

Arguments that end in respect.

Pranks.

Dressing up.

That moment when a seemingly useless piece of information becomes useful.

Contagious smiles/laughs.

Emotions strong enough to bypass judgement.

Cuddling with my dog.

Sitting by fires.

Waterfalls.

The smell and taste of fresh Basil.

The Notebook.

When God humbles me.

Finishing a stressful task.

Looking at the valleys from the top of a mountain.

Surprises.

History.

When it storms without thunder.

1. So I am not afraid.

2. Because I get to play in the rain.

Being chased.

Traveling.

Late Night talks with God.

Every single line, expression, and drop of epicness in Gladiator.

The book of Ephesians.

Thought-out gifts.

Thinking up gifts.

Beautiful music.

The illegal fear that creeps into me when I drive barefoot.

When churches feel like a house of God.

Watching people sing their national anthems.

Finding the perfect seating position so that you can roll the car windows down without hair blinding you.

Latin American Literature.

Hand Written Letters.

Old-ness.

My Marmot Kompressor.

My Vibrams.

75 Degree Weather.

Empty Beaches.

My growing "Italy" fund.

Falling.

And then getting up.

...to be continued.

Adventures in Chichicastenango.

What do you see in Chichicastenango?

On non-market days you see ladies with stubbornly Mayan facial features in their indigenous clothes. Usually, they are followed by a couple of children, who will all look at a foreigner with amazed eyes, even though the town lives off foreigners.

On Thursdays, a carpet of color covers the center. It is market day. Everywhere you look, there are pieces of culture. And everywhere you look, a multi-lingual Guatemalan is waiting to catch your eye and sell you something. The prices are always negotiable, and morning sales are thought to be blessings. And even then, you will get ripped off.

Wait a second.

Even on the other side of the square you can smell the incense from the cathedral. An offering for good business, safety, and security. Your nose could guide you there with your eyes closed.

Oh, but do open them, for at the steps of the cathedral are hundreds of flowers: purple, white, yellow, red, orange. It really is quite a celebration on Market Day. Ladies swing cans of incense at the doors of the Cathedral.

Going in, you are conflicted between taking in the colonial structure and looking at the indigenous people prostrated in front of alters--burning candles, taking flowers--crying and pleading with genuine hearts. Then, you see them walk out, more sure in their God's judgement than we are in electricity.

A passionate guide will tell you the story of how Catholicism and Mayans collided, and how religion became a mixture of our history and La Madre Patria.

If you're lucky, you will head to Don Diego Ignacio's house for supper. A beautiful house with dirt floors and a courtyard full of flowers and laughing children. As one of the twelve Mayan Shaman's in Chichi, he will read you your Nawal and tell you stories that his ancestors have passed down, and that his grandchildren are memorizing to tell to their descendants.

Behind his house lies Pasqual Abaj, the Mayan ceremonial hill. It belongs to his family; half is his, and the other half is his brother's, who lives next door. At the top of the hill is an alter. Fire rings cover the ground where sacrifices have been made. Flower petals dance on the ground where someone came to beg for safety, health, and happiness...or came to praise for those very same things.

Curious as they are, you will have climbed the hill with an army of Don Diego's grandchildren.

And during the descent, you feel your heart break a little for the goodbyes that must come. But there is hope, because few things change in this little town. Storms come and go. Thieves are silently disposed of. People die, and new ones are born to tell their stories.

Yes, there is hope. Hope that when you return, they will remember you and serve and love you as much as is in their power--which to them, is never enough.

It has its charm, this little town. If you stay too long, it will hold on to you and break you into a life of a passionate indifference to the rest of the world.

Luckily for me, I was born with wanderlust, and there were other places calling my name.

Catching Up.

How do I even begin to chronicle my adventures to you?

If I start writing now, I'll run out of battery before I finish. So how about I just outline a couple of the amazing things I experienced/learned/feel like sharing? I made up my mind before you could answer, anyways.

1. I LOVE my daddy. He is incredible, a beastly driver, a noble human being, and...the best daddy in the whole wide world.

2. I am the person who is most likely to find relatives at any point in time in my life.

3. Guatemala is freaking amazing.(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

4. Guatemala is full of absolutely adorable, amazing old people.

5. Guatemala is full of the sketchiest roads you've ever driven on.

6. If you go to Guatemala, don't go to Tecojate.

7. If you go to Guatemala DO go to Tiquisate where the sand is black and the coconuts are to die for.

8. Pay for tour guides. Tour guides make everything better.

9. My life/family is full of eccentric, different, and incredibly talented individuals.

10. The best places to eat are usually little huts on the side of the road.

11. Guatemala can make you forget what feeling cold is like.

12. I am really confused; 40% of Guatemala thinks I am the spitting image of my father, another 40% side with mom, 10% think I'm my grandmother.

13. When in a market place, EVERYTHING is on sale. And even after 30 minutes of haggling, you will probably still get tricked by the vendor.

14. When in Guatemala, go to a church and get infected by their fervor.

15. The Mayans were absolutely brilliant.

16. The Mayans were also very petty.

17. It is impossible to go to Guatemala and NOT fall in love with a child.

18. Aryam is the best, funniest, smartest sister in the whole wide world. You wish you had games/secret handshakes like us. (No punch back).

19. Even my dead family members are interesting.

20. There is nothing quite like pineapples from Rio Dulce.

21. Antigua, Guatemala is magical.

22. Everyone should find out his/her Nawal from a Mayan Shaman.

23. Cafe herbido is the way to go.

24. Coffee is even good when it's boiling hot outside.

25. More people should invest some service time in Guatemala.

26. There are some crazy-beautiful, selfless individuals in Guate.

27. In the United States, we are spoiled.

28. Marimba is beautiful.

29. I came back speaking very Guatemalan Spanish.

30. I am tall Guatemalan.

31. I can't wait to go back.

I like to be free.

When I was a little girl, I dressed up like a princess if I felt like it. And if it rained, I played in puddles in the Georgia red clay all day long.

If I wanted to, I would run away into a book, or play detectives with my favorite friends.

Can't it all be that simple now?

I still love to dress up.

And the texture of Georgia Clay on my bare feet still makes me feel like I'm home.

I still run away, but I now I leave for different continents. And my friends and I play mafia instead of detectives.

And yet, it's not that simple. And I find that my freedom grows harder for people to accept.

Mmmmm.

Water is so dreadfully free. I sometimes envy it. The rain and its tears without remorse; without the terrible preconception that crying in public is shameful. And the rivers, they just keep going, regardless of whether the sun is having a good day or not.

If I close my eyes just right, I can imagine a me that is as free as water.

And then I open them again and see a little girl who is more scared than my seven-year-old self ever was.

Because I grew up, and when I did...my freedom went from unlimited rays into boxes of propriety.

And you see, it is not that I want to be this scandalous, indecent child. I just want to laugh and cry and run and live and love, without the feeling that someone is watching me--wanting to fix me and put me into a box that I won't fit in.

That is why no one is here. Because my freedom is too much. And since I am free, I cannot be trusted. And since I cannot be trusted, I clearly cannot be tolerated. And so beautiful evening strolls fade away I once again learn to be strong for my little free self.

But it's alright, all this freedom. For the most part, that is.

I have my days.

There are times when all I want is to be fixed. To do away with the idiosyncrasies that make me unsuitable for sharing hearts. I want to be appropriate and graceful.

But that's only sometimes, and only in moments when I absolutely need melodramatic thoughts to get through a day without breaking.

My freedom. I love it.

Without it, I suffocate and I can't function. And the only words that ever come to me are angry and annoyed, because someone is trying to take my freedom, to make it their own.

Please trust me, because when I'm in. I'm in, regardless of my rounds.

Yes, I love to be free.

A world traveler from my dorm.

It's happened again. I drank coffee; an espresso to be precise. In my defense, I was at an Italian restaurant. Old habits die hard, you see.

You know what else just happened? That awful empty feeling. The one that starts in your stomach and grabs your heart before you have time to protect yourself. Like an enemy. Wait. Simile isn't necessary in this case. This feeling is my enemy. Coming uninvited. Sneaking up until I can't think straight. I can't see straight. And I can't talk out-loud to discredit my irrational thoughts because my roommate is sleeping.

Think. Breath. Rationalize.

Yes, let's be rational.

What is it about this that always makes me uncomfortable and defensive? Why am I feeling this way, why are you my enemy?

Because I believed. I believed in the goodness of mankind. And it slapped me in the face. I didn't turn the other cheek.

I spat back. I bit. I kicked. I scratched.

I started a war. Survival of the fittest. If I was kicked, I would throw a rock back. If you cut me, I would tear you to pieces. No, not physically. Only with my words. And with my cold heart. Which was really just a victim of this enemy that latched on. Squeezing so hard. I became numb.

Then, like rain erases the pollen...so my pain dissipated.

In order for it to all be gone, there needed to be several great storms. Surprising and terrifying displays of thunder and lightening. With each one, I shook. Never knowing if pieces of pollen would stubbornly stay behind.

I'm still going through some storms. The pollen is hidden. Well hidden.

If I walk in the right light, you can see it sometimes. Just a speck in a strand of hair. Then the light changes. It's gone.

I found pollen tonight. Under my nails. For a second there, I lost control. Chaos entered my brain. I could feel the pressure on my heart again. The emptiness spreading.

Then. I spoke out loud in my mind.

Be rational.

I cut my nails. And it was gone. Leaving behind an immense feeling of silliness. Silliness of the fear that gripped me for a whole three minutes.

I forgot for a whole three minutes that if I close my eyes just right, I have a brain full of memories of walks in the rain, unforgettable sunsets, and dreams of new discoveries.

I'm closing my eyes tonight, to dream of the world I have to discover. Rivers, mountains, volcanos and villages. That is where I'll be.

And when the rain comes to wherever I am, you can bet I'll be sure to stand in the storms for a long time to rid myself of these last bits of pollen.

Buona notte a me. Viaggero stasera.

Cue Mood Music: Here Comes the Sun

Rain, rain. You bring too many memories. Like the entire month of November in the city of my heart.

Walks in the rain, in the least water-resistant shoes. Millions of excuses to stay in bed. Late night conversations inside the walls of my beautiful Villa.

The first awful pangs of a premature goodbye.

I'm not exactly sure what is going to come out of my mind this afternoon. The title makes me think that I want to end on an encouraging note.

Hold on a sec. Let me try to find one.

Better Together just came one. Oh no. I'm supposed to be rationalizing my way out of this mess. I'm supposed to think straight; to start working on my letting go.

Somehow the only thing that comes to mind is the way the sun shines in the gardens at Villa. The way banana gelato tastes for Sabbath Lunch. That delicious feeling you get when you see the Duomo as you enter the city. The illegal excitement you get when you climb over the bridge and swing your feet over the Arno. The feeling that the statue of David is staring at you looking for consolation. The butterflies you get at the thought of the statue of David staring at you. Getting to the bottom of the hill in heels, in one piece. Humming a line of Volare and having five people begin to sing simultaneously, changing the mood of the entire day. Tuesday night salottinos, Friday Night Worship, and singing afterward until your vocal chords are numb and all the praise within you has caused you to lose any hopes of sleep. Winning battles of wit because of language barriers.

I'm not sure if you're up to reading another list of all the things I miss. Mainly, I miss not having to wonder. Being right there. Knowing I would wake up to another day of laughter. Rain or Shine.

Not that I don't love it here. Don't get me wrong, UGA. You're rocking my world. Hard. I love you already.

Italian Monday Nights, International Lunches, Living in Myers and sleeping in Morris, getting lost and then found again. All of the reasons to put off homework. All of the gentlemen on campus who will hold a door open if they see you within 100 feet of the door. Reading Cookbooks for lit classes. Walking everywhere and getting a chance to think clearly for a couple of minutes. Snowmaggedons. Mafia tournaments. Myers hall again. Maybe even the hot water hunts.

You get the point.

It's just. I've got this city engraved in my heart. In my eyes. In my tastebuds and my smiles. When I close my eyes I pretend they're open, and looking out on the ponte vecchio. I make myself believe that one day I'm going to come home and find everyone I love there.

And now that I think about it, it's like that with everything. I keep hoping that every broken tie, every lost friendship, will come back. Unbreak itself. We're older, wiser, stronger...why can't we handle being genuine again? I'm back from Italy physically, and I feel like I know so much more about it because I miss it so much. Everything is clear now. No fog, no maybes. Going back in time is not what I want. I want a continuation in the present. Who we are now.

So, I only see one solution. Going back. Round two.

No more running.

See you soon.