I was in love with a place . . . in my mind

Lately I've been listening a lot to "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens. There are a few of his songs that seem to stick with me. I heard this one for the first time, ridiculously enough, while watching the Veronica Mars movie. Veronica was riding home with her ex-boyfriend/best friend/enemy/frenemy, Logan, driving through the city she'd grown up in, with the boy she'd once loved, 10 years from her graduation from high school. This song started playing in the background as Veronica looked out the car window and you can almost see her living in the memory.

There is a line in the song that really resonates with me. "I was in love with a place, in my mind, in my mind. I made a lot of mistakes, in my mind, in my mind." I tend to look at different experiences in my life with a rosy, nostalgic, somewhat regretful glow. So much so that for a long time, I had an odd habit.

I used to drive by the house that I consider "the house I grew up in" in Enumclaw, out in the country. Mostly I'd just drive by, but once I snuck under the fence in the field and just walked around in the woods. Such clear memories of running, playing, imagination, and freedom.

I used to go back to my academy when I was at college, the first few years after I graduated. I wouldn't go during the school day or anything, that would have been awkward. No, I went during the summers when school was out. I'd drive by and suddenly pull in. I'd walk in my old haunts and remember the good times and the not so good.

It became an even more unstoppable habit when I graduated from college. High school had been a nice memory, but college was, for me, a more profound experience. I had many important moments there, some that are incredibly clear and sharp in my memory. So for many, many years after I graduated college, I'd go and visit Walla Walla. I'd come into town to see friends, and in the midst of the visit, I'd go take a walk. My "walk through memory lane" as I called it. I would walk all throughout campus. Through the music department and the practice rooms, the stairways I'd walk as I closed up for the night. The lobby where I'd curl up reading. I'd sit on the steps outside the band room. I'd walk past Village hall, remembering seeing my name on the cast list on the door. I'd go for walks around campus, remembering one spot where a boy said he loved me, another where a boy broke my heart. I'd walk by places where I made stupid decisions and smart choices. I walked by the house that I laughed and cried in. I walked and walked and marveled at my choices. So many different things I could have done and said . . . what directions could I have gone in if I'd done one thing a little differently.

As I'd walk, I almost felt the echoes of myself. I could see her walking ahead of me, blithely stepping into situations, some good, some bad. But mostly, I allowed myself to think back on that time as "the best time", when life was full of possibilities and options. I was indeed "in love with a place in my mind" and I continued to rehash "a lot of mistakes, in my mind".

Embarrassingly enough, it was only a few years ago that I went to visit Melissa in Walla Walla and realized that I had no need to go for my "walk through memory lane". I'm not sure of the exact moment it happened, but I became very aware that it wasn't that place anymore. You can never go back to that place in your mind, the rosy place of your memories. You can never be that person again, the one who runs in dress up clothes through your old backyard, the one who walks through the hallways of your high school and greets your friends by the lockers, the one who hurries to classes and acts in her first college play. At a certain point, I've realized that those places only live in my memory, and I can never  go back simply by the act of going to the physical location. The house of my childhood may still be standing, but it isn't the same home. The academy where I went is still there, but it isn't my school. The stage of Village Hall is still creaking beneath the feet of students, but those feet will not ever be mine again.

Nostalgia is a beautiful thing. It is good to remember. But as Dumbledore once said, "It does not do to dwell on dreams, and forget to live." Wise words from a fictional character:) Why am I sharing this odd tidbit about me? I suppose because it comforts me to imagine that some of you may also occasionally fall into the rosy glow of memory and nostalgia. And my thought to share with you is this; memories are lovely, but living is beautiful.

In pursuit of blindness

I have often thought that the most heart-wrenching sense to lose would be my sight. Granted, any sense would be painful to lose (loss of hearing was right up there), but for me, I imagine it would be sight. I've always had a secret dread of it happening, although I also believe that the human mind is resilient and I would endure it. I shudder at the idea of not being able to see words on the page, the faces of those I love, the immensity of the ocean, and the beauty of the forests. 

So why this talk of blindness? Lately I have been feeling that the loss of our sight might be what this world needs.  

Does this sound like irrational babble? Probably so. Here’s my reasoning. A man called Tommy Edison has been blind since birth, and he gave an interview on “The perks of being blind”. One thing that really struck me was his last statement. 

“You know what’s cool about being blind? There’s no race. I don’t know from beauty. I know people from what comes out of their mouth and what’s in their heart. That’s how I know people.” 

I don’t consider myself a particularly weepy individual, but this made tears slide down my face. And for a moment, I longed for blindness. Not just for myself, but for everyone.  

There are good people in the world. There are bad people in the world. There are people at every level in between those two extremes. And I do not believe, and never will, that the pigment in our skin has any bearing on the beauty or ugliness of our soul.  

If only our sight could be taken away for a space in time. Not as little as a day or as long as a year. But for however long it takes to realize that we are focusing on that which is immaterial. Then I become discouraged as I wonder if we would then try and come up with something just as irrational to base our prejudices on. Perhaps we would discriminate against accents. Or whether someone’s voice was low or high. It makes me sad to think that, even without our sight, humanity would find some reason to hate or mistrust that which is “other”. 

One reason I enjoy reading science fiction and fantasy is because the authors are able to write about worlds and places that are like our own, with subtle differences. I have read books where discrimination occurred because one race of people had blue skin and the other gold. The darker the blue, the more socially acceptable. The lighter the gold, the lower the caste. I read another story about how the society was matriarchal and baby boys were unwanted and discarded for their “violent tendencies”. And yet another society where your social status was determined by whether your eyes were light or dark. Ridiculous, right? 

I am not trying to make a focused statement about recent events in the news. I'm not well enough informed to do that. I suppose what I can say is this: we are not living in a post-racial society, because we still talk about people according to their color.

I hope someday to live to a very grand age, maybe 105. And I hope to sit next to a young person of my acquaintance and tell them stories of when I was young and the foolish things people did “back in the day”. I hope to casually mention that I was talking to “a Black/Asian/Hispanic/White person” and for that child to squirm and say “Ms. Haning, that’s so old school (or the appropriate colloquialism of the day).  Nobody talks like that anymore”. I hope one day to see confusion on the face of that child when I say that, back in the day, people noticed what color your skin was. And I hope to see that look of confusion on their face as they are genuinely perplexed and ask me, “Well, what does their skin color have to do with anything? People are just people.” And I will say with no small amount of satisfaction, “Exactly.” 

Perhaps that wish can only come true in heaven. But it shouldn't. It really shouldn't. I want that wish to come true in my lifetime. I want to be "blind" to the surface things, to the shade of another person's skin, to outward differences from me. I want to look at another person and see just that; a person.

I sometimes feel that I can't talk about these types of things . . . hot button issues. I don't want to offend or talk about something that I can never truly understand/experience. But I suppose, in this instance, I would rather say the wrong thing than be silent.

“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than it’s opposite." – Nelson Mandela

Personal Growth . . . in Solitude

I know I've written about this several times, so I beg your pardon if this is sounds like an echo of previous thoughts. It's on my mind a lot though, and I've come to a bit of personal conclusion on it, for now at least, so thought I'd share.

I realized, recently, that this marks my 8th year of living alone. I last lived with a roommate in college in 2006. This is by choice, of course. I really do prefer living alone (nothing disparaging towards my past roommates). At the end of a busy day, the peace of coming home to quiet is almost a physical relief. Not having to consult with someone or make meaningless chatter is a big deal for me. But still . . . 8 years of living alone is a long time.

I spent time with several of my friends at different points this week and, as it usually does, it draws my mind towards comparisons. Most of my friends are married and/or parents. They've all been married for a good chunk of time and for better or worse, don't have much alone time to speak of. When I spend time with them, it's easy to slide down the slippery slope of feeling like they are all further along the life path than I am. It's easy to feel like they are all growing and changing, maybe inexorably past me. Sometimes I feel like one day, I may find myself so behind in life, I'll never catch up. I know it isn't logical. Not everyone takes the same journey in life and it's an exercise in futility to compare your life to someone else's. But I make that mistake more than I care to admit. I wouldn't call it envy, at least not on my better days. More than anything, it seems to be a vague feeling of helplessness that I can't seem to keep up emotionally and relationally.

When I observe the lives of those around me, I see their struggles. They are growing, changing, and experiencing life in a way that I'm not, through their relationships (married, parental). They are hurting, loving, frustrated, happy, content, terrified, neurotic, and above all, growing and changing.

I suppose lately I've been wondering if it's possible for me to keep up and achieve that level of emotional growth in solitude. It is very peaceful, but real growth is born through the struggle, or at least it has always seemed so to me. When I come home to my quiet, peaceful place, I occasionally feel a pang of terror; is this it? Am I always going to be this person, always alone, never changing, never growing, just this? Don't get me wrong, I'm not wallowing in poor self-esteem. I'm a decent friend (I can do better, always). I try my best to contribute in my family, although I could of course do better there as well. I work hard and support myself so no one else has to. I pursue the creative outlets that challenge me. I spend a considerable time in introspection, which hopefully results in a clearer sense of self.

It just seems as though lately, I struggle with the idea of being a whole person . . . alone. It must be achievable, I see others doing it. And I know that it is fallacy to believe that you can only be made whole through the love of another person. It is a beautifully romantic notion, but I shrink away from it. I don't want to listen to Ingrid Michaelson when she sings that, "They say you're really not somebody, until somebody else loves you."

I want to believe that I can achieve fulfillment, joy, happiness, and peace in life, even if I remain always in solitude. I don't want to be always waiting, hoping, that someone will come along in life to "complete me". I want to be complete in and of myself.

The only conclusion I come to when I get to that dark and solitary place is a quiet presence that tells me I'm not alone. A quiet communion with God that reminds me not to worry so much, because I'm never alone. Perhaps a gentle chastisement that I cannot be complete, truly, by myself, but only through Him. And ultimately, I believe that if I trust in it and believe in it, God will help me grow, in the midst of my solitude.

A Journey . . .

So, yet another blog about why I haven’t been blogging. Have you all been sensing a theme? If I was a regular reader of this blog, I’d say, “Ugh, this chick is inconsistent!” True that. But hey, at least I’m consistently inconsistent, right?;)

The character sketches have fallen a bit by the wayside, although I have 3 that are semi-in-progress. It can be hard to write about people who are important to you in a way that doesn’t embarrass them.

I also haven’t updated the masses on my online dating experiences because I have discovered a powerful truth. However bad I am at normal dating, I am exponentially worse at online dating. It’s a slow slog and I’ve already become impatient with it. I’ve got a bit of a countdown in my head. “5 more months and I can end these year-long subscriptions. Do you hear that, Lord? In 5 months I’m taking myself off these websites and if you want me to have companionship, you’ll have to shove him bodily in front of me. Onward and upward!” 

But the final and most important reason that I’m not consistently blogging is because I’m continuing a journey that I started back in 2009. It was just an idea in my head. I wanted to read a book on a particular subject, spiritual warfare. But I wanted to read a very particular type of book. I wanted to read about angels, but not silly stereotype angels or the angels that are rampant in recent books (as romantic characters with burly chests falling in love with some mortal woman, ugh). I wanted to read a book that told a real story, a story of the battle, of the civil war. A story of what the situation could currently look like.

But I couldn’t find anything. I picked up book after book and nothing fit. I couldn’t find a book that fit with the fledgling story in my head. So I started to write one.

This was new for me. I did quite a bit of writing, but it was mostly journaling. A few short stories, but nothing that anyone ever read. I’d never attempted a project of this scope before. It was fascinating, exhilarating, and utterly exhausting. I’m the type of person that can become very fixated on something I’m excited about. And when I’m excited about a story, it takes over my thoughts, both waking and sleeping. For months, I lived and breathed this story. I wrote upwards of 50k words and there was so much more to the story. I shared it with a close friend and we obsessed over plot details, character names, and just the general fun of world-building. It was a good solid 6+ months of obsession.

And then I hit a wall. Not quite writer’s block, I guess I’d call it a wall of un-motivation. I got tired of writing and thinking of nothing else. I got more involved in other areas of my life (church, friends) and decided to put it aside for a bit. Give myself time to let it simmer.

Every so often, over the years, I’ve picked up the story and tried to dive back in. I’ve written a few pages and done some brain-storming. I even downloaded a fantastic writing software, Scrivener, and semi-organized it. But I could never immerse myself as I’d done before. The story was still interesting to me, but my motivation was nil. 

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend about achieving personal goals and dreams. It struck me during the conversation that a passion in my life has always been to someday publish a book. Even if it ended up just being a self-published book that only my friends and family ever read. Books are such a huge part of my life, I’d always wanted to find a way to tell a story of my own. So I decided it was time to dive back in, really and truly.

I spent several days just re-reading the whole manuscript. It took some time. Things that I’d written 4 years ago that had, at the time, seemed great, didn’t work at all. I discovered some reasons why I’d gotten lost before. I then spent a few weeks just organizing the story. Plotting, writing chapter summaries, developing my characters, researching, and fleshing out the story. And then, this past weekend, I started writing again. A good solid 6 hours of just writing, with another few just spent plotting and pondering. 

It is consuming again. When I’m not at work, I’m thinking about the story. When I’m trying to sleep, I keep coming up with bits of dialogue or interesting scenes, which I then of course must write down. And when I finally fall asleep, I dream of the story.

I’m not sure if there’s another way of going through this process. I suppose the question to my creative friends out there is; is this normal?

Normal or not, for now this seems to be my process and this time I’m determined to complete the story. It’s the first one, so it may not be successful beyond people who love and support me. But I can say to myself that I did it. And, ultimately, it’s important to pursue your passions, even if they never amount to more than personal satisfaction of finishing a journey.

Character Sketch - Aunt Deb

*Disclaimer: This character sketch is a snapshot from my viewpoint. It is not the sum total of the individual and it does not encapsulate every facet of who they are. It is a piece of who they are to me.

When I started writing this a week ago, I thought it would be easy. Silly me. But I did especially love writing this character sketch, because my Aunt is a mess of contradictions. She is one thing and then almost entirely another.

But first a bit of history; Debra Jean Demaline. Deb Maxted. Aunt Deb. She is the leader of the great trifecta, the she-clan, the sisterhood of the Demaline girls. She is the oldest sister, my mom the middle child, and my Aunt Donna the baby. The three of them have a sisterly bond that I have always been a bit envious of. They are best friends, partners-in-crime, and can finish each others sentences. It's a little eerie.

Growing up, I secretly categorized my Aunt Deb as the "stern" aunt. This causes me great amusement as I look back, because I think it's more of a reflection of who I was. I was a bit selfish growing up and a bit spoiled. Aunt Deb has no patience for selfish or spoiled kids. She was a physical education teacher throughout most of her career and I think she is able to see the character of young people pretty clearly. In fact, I would say that she makes pretty fast assessments of people in general and they are often accurate. Anyway, she was the stern aunt, because she'd call me out when I was whining, remind me to pitch in when I was slacking or trying to escape work, and calmly knocked me down a peg when I acted like the world revolved around me. My selfish, spoiled self was rather affronted:)

But then I grew up. Life happened, sometimes quite painfully, and I learned that, in fact, the world did not revolve around me. I learned that there were people around me struggling. I began to consider others feelings and somewhere in the midst of that, I discovered something. My aunt is very, very good at the hard stuff.

She is deeply compassionate, caring, wise, and practical. She gives it to you straight. She is an amazing listener and can cut right to the heart of the matter. So somewhere in the midst of the turmoil of my life, she stopped being the stern aunt and became the wise and realistic aunt.

My Aunt Deb and Uncle Stan were married before I was born, so for me, they have always been a dynamic duo. They are another amusing example of an introvert and an extrovert making it work. My uncle is a chatty, friendly extrovert who strikes up conversations with anyone and everyone. My aunt . . . well. I tease her that she doesn't really like people. She is very fond of individuals, but people as a whole? Not her favorite:) Being someone she is fond of is an honor, because she's choosy. They don't have children and I will make a confession here and now: A part of me is glad to not have to share them with kids of their own, outside of their other nieces and nephews. My aunt has stood in more times than I can count as a bonus parent. So has my uncle . . . but I'll save that for his character sketch down the road.

One thing we have shared from early on was a love of reading. She is almost as book obsessed as I am, and between you and me, that's saying something. Not only that, but she enjoys reading a lot of the same unusual books as I do. There are lots of books that I love that I would never recommend to casual readers. Books that are hard to categorize or that some people would find straight up odd. Those are the books I share with my aunt, and then we chat about them. She really takes in the stories, which is something that I love about her. It's not just about the entertainment for her, it's also about the journey and what they teach her. She is a big Tolkien fan, and not just the epic scope, but the poetry and the songs (you know, the bits that other people skip?). The artistry of writing appeals to her. I loved sitting next to her and watching the Lord of the Rings movies and some of the Harry Potter series. Generally I hate talking during movies, but we'd keep leaning over in excitement or fury over changes.

My aunt loves art. It is something we definitely do not have in common, because I don't have an artistic eye at all. But I love watching her look at art. She connects to it, interprets it, and lets it speak to her. It's kind of fascinating to watch.

I have been told that my aunt was the rebellious one when she was a teenager, sneaking out to go to concerts and listening to forbidden music in her car with the windows down. But the music we both liked listening to was generally just folksy acoustic and Third Day. And I mean, granted, Third Day is rock but it's Christian rock. Not really the same. It wasn't until I took her to a Third Day concert and watched her jump up with her hands in the air on a particularly raucous song that I realized this was another piece of her, hidden away mostly. There is a little bit of a rock chick in my aunt, forever slightly contained by a life employed in the SDA church.

I'm convinced that, had life taken her in another direction, my aunt would be a hippy, living out in the woods and making her own soap and clothes, never using money and eschewing gadgets of all kind. Instead, life brought her to where she is today, and the glimpses only come across in her stubborn refusal to pay a penny more than she has to for things and being the only iPhone user I know that rarely checks her phone.

One of my favorite things about my aunt is her ability to show me another perspective. I can be stubborn, although not vocally. I hear things I don't agree with all the time, and no amount of lecturing, logic, or yelling will convince me away from my perspective. I also tend to have grand ideas that take over my thoughts and consume my interests. When I have discussions with my aunt, she has a unique gift of saying just the right thing to suddenly help shift my perspective. It's incredibly subtle and hard to describe, but sometimes she just says a few words and I can suddenly see the big picture. It makes her a pretty wonderful sounding board.

My aunt has the best laugh. I think most people who meet her probably think she is a bit standoffish and quiet at first. But she is the warmest person. She laughs with her whole face, eyes crinkling and smile huge. Just hearing her laugh makes me happy.

She decided to make a career change a few years ago and is now a physical therapy assistant. She tells me stories about her interactions with patients and I can only think how blessed they are. My aunt sees the person within, encourages at the right time, coaches when you need it, tells you to stop being lazy when it's true, and looks outside the box for solutions. Her patients to have her on their side for their health battles.

Until just a few years ago, I didn't realize just what a blessing it was to be an aunt. Then my nieces came along, then an honorary nephew, then another niece and a nephew, and still more honorary nephews . . . and even more to come! It is only in having the experience of being an auntie that I realize just how special mine are. Aunt Deb, I love you and I'm very, very grateful that you are you who you are and that you're my aunt. I'm the luckiest.

Character Sketch - My Macee

*Disclaimer: This character sketch is a snapshot from my viewpoint. It is not the sum total of the individual and it does not encapsulate every facet of who they are. It is a piece of who they are to me.


I start with one of my favorite people. I think I also begin with her because she is difficult to capture, and I needed to see if I could succeed before writing more.

Melissa MacPhee. Macee. Melissa Ann Rae. My best friend. Oh those silly, girly terms. It is not an apt description for our friendship. She has had a wealth of friends since I've known her, all of 11 years now. We met during college, at a time in my life when I finally, at long last, had just gotten my feet under me. I was in the midst of doing something I love, acting on stage. We were in the Diary of Anne Frank together and I have a clear memory of that being one of the most fun, creative points in my life. I made a few life-long friendships as a result of that experience, and my friendship with Macee has become an anchor in my life.

We are an odd pairing. The introvert and the extrovert. Macee is a people person. People are drawn to her like moths to a flame. But unlike a flame, she brings only light and warmth, no singeing or zapping. Her first instinct is always to help, to encourage, to uplift. She is a cheerleader. And from the first, that has always been what she has given to me. She is my #1 fan in friendship. My ideas are always wonderful, my accomplishments are always trumpeted, my quirks and geekery are encouraged and indulged, my hair always looks great, and she always takes my side. To her, I am "hon", "darling" "honey" and "pretty lady". She firmly believes that I am a closeted genius writer and is one of the few people I've allowed to read my stories. She laughs at my jokes and answers the phone when I call, even though she loathes talking on the phone.

To my dear Macee, I am something truly splendid, and that is the great gift she gives me effortlessly.

To most people, the first thing they see is "knockout". She is completely beautiful. Amazing, long hair that looks fantastic in any color. Tall and slender. The loveliest blue eyes, filled with joy. And a smile that you can't help smiling back at. And great teeth. It's ridiculous how nice of teeth she has. In another life, she would be a model. And if that was all you saw when you looked at her, you'd be missing out.

Melissa is devoted. She will give of her time, her energy, her kindness, her love and her patience. She gives it freely to people. All sorts of people. Nice people and maybe not always so nice people. People who deserve it and those who don't. There were times when she gave freely to anyone who needed it, regardless of whether they returned it or not. She has had to learn a hard lesson, and that is that not everyone is capable of returning those gifts. It was hard for me to watch, because I am selfish with my emotional gifts. I generally give only to those I know can return it at some point, except on rare occasions. We had some conversations about that. She learned a little bit from me and got better with putting up some boundaries. But she has continued to be more generous that I ever could be. She still gives generously, if a bit more carefully. The care and concern that she gives to others is one of my favorite things about her. It is also what makes her excellent in her career as a recruiter.

She has a ridiculously big family. They are a beautiful patchwork of blended families. For some people, this would be a continued challenge, an emotional landmine. For her, the more family, the more love and joy to share. She has the gift of building and sustaining connections. She has happily adopted and been adopted by members of my family over the years.

There are very few people who can make me laugh the way she does. Her laugh is infectious. She is wry, witty, silly, ridiculous, goofy, sarcastic, comedic gold. She can talk at an incredible speed when excited and gets excited over little things, just like me. So get us together when we're both excited or hyper and good lord, speed records are broken in our chatter. We become ditzy teenagers (although ironically, we didn't know each other as teenagers), in a frenzy of shared connection and silliness. A shared addiction of diet Dr. Pepper has led to never before seen giddiness. A whole new facet of my personality is revealed when we hang out. There is no one else that I act like that with, no one else who could convince me to do a flowy dress photo shoot. She brings out the BFF in me:)

We share the guilty pleasure of reading YA books, texting each other new books that we've read and enjoyed. I have a category on my Goodreads bookshelf called "possible books for Macee". I also know what not to recommend to her . . . anything vividly violent or scary. Yes I know, why would I recommend that anyway? Well, she had issues with the Hunger Games. Apparently children being forced to violently kill each other gave her nightmares. Go figure. Either she's weird or I'm missing an essential morality chip.

She sings like a freaking Disney princess. And yes, I mean that in the best possible sense. She sounds like a combination of Belle and Ariel. I know this because I have sat in a car with her while we've listened to Disney songs and she sings along and sounds just. like. them. If there are any Disney talent scouts reading in, just an FYI.

Since I've known her, she has gone through many changes. She got out of her punk phase (mostly;), acquired some body art, became an auntie, ate a few crickets, adopted a puppy child, overcame her Adventist roots and learned how to dance, traveled the country and the world, dated some frogs and ultimately married a prince (which was a singular relief to me), and is about to graduate again (overachiever).

Through it all, she passed the point of friendship in my life and became family. And she always will be.

Photo Credit: Dacia Haning (Yes, I'm bragging)

Catching up . . . and an idea

I've had a few people mention that I haven't blogged in a bit. Nice to be missed, I suppose. Here's the scoop though . . . I'm a moody writer. What does that mean? Well, it means that I have to be in a certain mood to write certain things. I write quite a bit all the time. Digital journaling is a thing for me. Some people are classy and considerably cooler than I, and they handwrite in trendy journals or old-fashioned books that have been gutted and had blank pages inserted. They write in beautiful handwriting in parks and coffee shops. Like I said . . . classy. I'm not classy, I type. I print slowly and get impatient when my hands can't keep up with my racing thoughts. I rant quite a bit, and hand writing just isn't conducive to a good rant. But I digress . . . moody writing. For a considerable portion of my writing, I'm writing things that aren't fit for public consumption. I think things out while I'm writing. I might be mentally gnawing on something and I'll write about it until I've mulled it into something I can make sense of. Or maybe I had a bad day and I want to vent. No one wants to hear my mental gnawing or my venting. At least I hope you don't . . . that would be a bit damaged of you.

But at times I'm in the mood to share. Occasionally I'm in the mood to show a little piece of myself that I'd otherwise keep under wraps, if anyone cares to read it. Sometimes I learned something, through the mental gnawing and venting, that brought me to a place I want to share. And then I want to share the struggle, the journey, the joy, the insight, the hilarity, the irony, the happiness.

And sometimes I have ideas. Generally, these ideas are ridiculous. For awhile I thought about writing an ongoing story and posting pieces of it occasionally. But I felt wildly intimidated by that idea. I write creatively quite a bit, but only rarely let people read my scratchings. I am my own worst critic of my writing, but it doesn't make me feel much better when others agree with me:)

So I had another idea I thought I might try. Character sketches. I have a lot of pretty fantastic people in my life. The biggest blessings in my life are the people that God has placed in my life. Based on that alone, I really do feel like God cares for me deeply, because He has placed me in the center of love. So I'm thinking, depending on how often the mood hits me to write them, I might do character sketches of some of those people. My family. My friends.

What is a character sketch? Well, it's the way I see a person. My perception. It will not capture every facet, it will capture the piece of them that is mine, the part that only I will ever have. When you have a relationship with a person, that relationship is a part of them that no one else can or will ever have. Every conversation, every experience, every hug, is a gift for you and you alone. So when I decide to share a character sketch of a person, it will be who they are to me, or how they seem to me. Maybe not entirely accurate, or only accurate to me. It will be my snapshot of the people who bring meaning to my life.

Maybe it won't be interesting to anyone but me and maybe them. Hopefully it doesn't ruffle any feathers if my snapshot is out of focus or isn't shaped right. But maybe, just maybe, I can sketch out a clear picture of some of my favorite people.

Or maybe I'll write one and the resounding responsive sound of crickets will indicate "never again". We'll see.