Music Lover Monday

They must get in my head when I'm sleeping. They can put my emotion into words, and it feels great to know I'm not the only one to feel these things.
They said it perfect this time around.



"Say it" by Blue October
and


Blue October - Should Be Loved
Music Video Codes at http://www.roxwel.com/

Music Lover Monday-Stuck in traffic & HYPER

These songs are getting a ton of play time on my ipod lately. I am bouncing in my seat right now as I type this, listening to both of these again. DOWNLOAD NOW, if you haven't already.

Are you gonna be my girl? by Jet
(PS. He has a gravel-y sexy voice, no?)


If you're wondering (if I want you to) by Weezer
As a sidenote, I couldn't post the actual offical video (not cool enough, I guess?), but please click here and watch it. It is so damn silly.

Tell me you aren't bouncing in your seat listening to these songs??

The 2nd floor

I press the green button and wait for the soft buzz. I push open the security door, and enter the floor. The door clicks purposefully. Soft music spills out of the stereo in the far corner:a bluesy type of music from the 40's. The room has an air of order to it.

The main room is full of bodies:
Two are sitting side by side on the loveseat-she has slumped over, with her head resting on the edge of his shoulder. Her hands are shoved under her armpits, arms crossed. His head is cocked at a painful-looking angle, hands folded evenly in his lap. A smile plays on his full lips, across his unshaven face. He is not her husband. Her husband will come visit, from another floor, later this afternoon.
There are easily a dozen wheelchairs sprinkled throughout one area, each containing 80+ years of life. The silence strangles the room.
Most are sleeping.
Many are snoring or moaning.
A few are wide-eyed and intent, although I'm unsure what has their attention.
A couple of bodies are barely contained in their wheelchairs-they are baby-stepping themselves through the dining area, singing, crying, or smiling.
One is currently trying to pull herself up to a standing position by grasping the table with one hand, and another person's leg with the other.

There are those that can still walk as well:
A woman who spends all of her waking hours walking the entire floor-down hallways, into other people's rooms. She can no longer communicate, but she's got holes on the soles of her slippers.
A man who is sneaky-he climbs over the gate at the nurse's station, and shows up in my office. He is a bit nosey, it seems, but he has no idea what he is nosing into. He speaks, but it's all jumbled and jagged. You never know where you will find him next.
A woman who is much younger than the rest, and a firecracker. She is sassy, mouthy, and oh-so-sweet. Her eyes are full of life. And frustration.

It's pretty quiet, overall, although there are a few people who still have electrical connections strong enough to talk, sing, joke, or yell. The firecracker introduces herself to me as I walk deep into the dining room; I've now met her at least 30 times this week. But each time, she thinks she knows me, and asks about my mother. She squeezes my hand, crushing my knuckles together.

At times I just sit in the dining room, striking up silly conversations with any or all of them. It's usually pretty comical, although I find great joy in seeing their smiles. Other times, like now, when lunch has filled their bellies, and most (if not all) of them are snoring softly, I find an empty chair, and I sit among them. I watch their faces, searching for some sign of dreams behind those eyelids. I watch them sleep, like I do my girl. Most of the time, my throat tightens, and my eyes fill.
The stories inside these bodies, these minds. The memories, the experiences, the joys. I wonder if they are dreaming of their past, when their brains worked well, their words came out how they wanted, their limbs did as they were told, and they were respected. I wonder if their lives are playing on the insides of their eyelids, like an old black-and-white movie. I briefly question whether there isn't more we could be doing for them, to keep them comfortable, feeling secure. If I sit long enough, my mind wanders to the possibility of one or both of my parents being like this one day. Or worse, my own soul being trapped within a body that has a dying brain controlling it.
It isn't long before the new resident pulls her wheelchair up to me and with a set jaw, says, "I don't think I can help you." 
I laugh.
And she scowls.
And I apologize, grasping her warm hand, all skin and bones.
In the same sentence, she replies with a cuss word or two, and a compliment about my "beauty".
Before I can respond, she pats my knee, and turns away from me, seemingly lost in thought.

If I sit too long, I will be overcome by grief not my own.

For now, I am pulled out of it. I stand and walk to my office space, side-stepping several wheelchairs on the way. I see the wandering man holding a notebook, flipping carefully through the pages. He looks up at me when I say his name, and says, "It's all right here, for everyone to read. Don't you see it?"

The stories we share

I met a woman the other day, at my internship, who is in her late 80's. She picked cotton in Arkansas with her mother, starting at the teeny tiny age of 6. SIX. She remembers picking cotton and putting it in her mother's apron.
She is the first person I have met that picked cotton throughout her childhood and into adulthood.

I met a man last month, at my internship, who has lost his ears and several fingers due to diabetes. He will soon lose at least one of his legs, up to the knee. He rides an electric scooter wheelchair thingy. He honks at people as he speeds through the halls. We raced one another-I was on foot. He won. He has a wonderful sense of humor, and such a fascinating memory.
He is the first man I have met that has outlived his wife.

I am meeting such amazing people at my internship, their histories rich with love, loss, joy, and sadness. I am humbled daily, by their ability to ask for help, graciously. I am so appreciative of the things they share with me, tidbits about their children, their childhoods, their marriages, their losses. I am in awe of them.

The stories they share (and those they hold onto) are so important to all of us. They provide us with the missing pages ripped out of our history books. They can guide us in our own screwed up lives, if we just stop and listen, really listen. They can teach us things about grief, strength, motivation, love, and forgiveness-things we all could use some lessons on.

As I walk the hallways of the facility, I speak to everyone I pass. I shake with anticipation when I enter the building every morning: Who will I meet today? What will I learn? Who will share a piece of themselves with me? How will I make someone's day?

For the lady who told me about the cotton farms in Arkansas, all it took was someone taking an interest in what she had to say. She spoke more to me, in that 35 minutes, than she has in the past month. And it had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my ability to just LISTEN and take interest.

When I leave at the end of the day, I am reminded that I have so much to learn-about life, love, patience.....

Driving home the other day, I was struck by how similar these two communities are: the aging population and the blogging community. With a blog, we have so much to offer one another, just in sharing about our own lives, our own hurts, experiences, mistakes, joys. A blog post can be a gift to someone else. It can offer relief, a sense of not feeling so alone in something.

I have said many times that I blog for ME. That I pour myself out for my own sanity, my own relief, my own self-analyzation. And that's true. This space is my soul on paper, in print, carved into the tabletop of the real world. As my followers come and go, I continue writing....when it's easy, when it's hard. When the story is silly, and when it is heartwrenching and frightening. This is MY story.

At the same time, I try to keep in mind that I have readers-REAL people with REAL problems and REAL hearts and minds. I have readers who might get something out of what I put here-a sense of peace, an inspiration, an answer, a starting point for a change....or even just a laugh. And that just amazes me. Truly amazes me.

I am equally amazed when my readers inspire me, lift me up, and calm me down. You guys are a blessing. I am so thankful for this blogging community, so thankful for you, and you, and YOU.

And so it goes.....

After a quiet yet patience-taxing weekend, I am at a loss. I sit here with so much I want to write, so much I want to say, yet...
I am silent.

I'm busy and tired and short-tempered and need a break and love my internship and love my part-time job and am sick of cleaning and doing laundry and am exhausted and....

I know I have the strength to keep going. This schedule won't last forever. There will be small breaks that will re-fuel me (Like today, after I go to the drycleaners, pay bills, do schoolwork, do admin stuff for my hubby, go to the grocery store....you get the point).

What weakens me is the realization that I can't do it all; I am not a ninja, I am not made of magic. I can't play with my girl every second of every day. I can't entertain her, or keep her happy. I can't do everything when my hubby needs it, or when I want it. I can't teach my girl valuable lessons (like how to be kind to the girl who is always mean in her class). I am out of patience. I am tired and there's a dull ache behind my eyes, even now. My bed beckons me. I want to surrender to sleep, and let someone else do the hard stuff. But there is no one else.

So I ask you:
How can you teach your child to be kind and patient, when you yourself struggle with it daily?
How can you teach your child to do the right thing, to think before she acts, to keep others' feelings in mind, when you yourself are insanely frustrated that things.aren't.going.the.way.you.want?

I realize that every day doesn't need to be a lesson in living for my girl. I realize that every day won't be perfect. I realize I over-analyze things.

I am trying to learn to STOP. and BREATHE. and just BE.
But how do you just BE when you are constantly scrambling, fretting about your possible mistakes in the art of being a parent, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a student?

I woke with a start early this morning, at 3:11am, with this verse bouncing between my ears:
"Be still, and know that I am God".

I'm trying. I really am.

Music Lover Monday

I have no idea why I like this song. The energy is just contagious.



She's a Genius by Jet

Wordless Wednesday (shitty snapshot)

Yes, those are my knee highs. And yes, Max IS INDEED trying to pull them off of her legs.