Summer is almost over; it’s hard to believe that it has gone by so quickly. Not to say that I have not enjoyed myself thoroughly. It has been an active and fun summer and I have enjoyed it thoroughly. I am just sorry to see it end and to know that friends that I have seen, made and enjoy very much are far away (or at least far enough that I cannot run out on a school night). I will be back to the grind soon, my mind filled with lessons, plans, backup plans, standards, projects, tests, and ways to make all these things interesting and as fun as I can for my students.

I’ve gamed, I’ve bellydanced, I’ve read, I’ve written, I’ve seen movies, I’ve hung out, laughed, played, etc. Now, that’s not to say that there haven’t been low points; every time has them and there have been a few this summer. I’ve missed my friends whom I wish were nearer, had some rough times that I wish they were there to help with. I’ve curled in bed and cried and Ben has soothed and comforted me. I have appreciated him immensely.

I’ve enjoyed slow mornings in quiet, letting my mind roll and roam and pour out at my fingers. It calmed and centered me and gave me peace to start the day. I am the type that needs time to myself in order to re-focus and function, no matter how I enjoy the company of others. That time served me quite well and I am thankful for it. I shall have to continue making some quiet time to myself when the school year begins, it’ll be of immense help.

It has been quite a good summer, all things considered. Thank you to all who made me so.

Today has been, quite possibly, the most gorgeous day of the summer. The high today was only 80 degrees with a bright blue sky, clouds smattered everywhere, bright sunshine. It’s that sort of day that just infuses your with life and mellows you out at the same time. Ben and I had a late brunch with Ben’s parents, ran to the little local donut/coffee shop, Ben took some pictures of me by the courthouse and war memorial in Winchester, and we thoroughly enjoyed the drive to and from home. Just a gorgeous day!

I love days like this, when I can throw open the windows, turn on the fan, let the air and sunshine into my home, let that light and comfort flow through my house like it flows through my system. It’s quite uplifting and encouraging after a rough night. I think I might go lie out in our swing in the backyard in a while.

I must say that today has done me a world of good.

I love my skin. There are so many different shades and tones in it, but there’s also something unique about it that I cannot quiet explain. I love the color of it and how I’m pretty much a perfect in-between of my parents. I love the texture of it most days. During the winter, of course, it’s the bane of my existence, but that’s just because it needs a little extra care.

I am fascinated by my skin and how it changes colors. How light it gets during the winter when the sun hides for weeks and I’m all covered up against the cold. How my face and neck darken as I turn upwards to greet the spring sunshine. I should probably put on my swimsuit and lie out for a bit on these bright sunny days, try to even up my color a bit. Tanning costs but sunshine and fresh air are free.

Naturally, there are things that I do not like about my skin but they are things that can barely be fixed, if at all, because they are genetic. For the most part, though, I love my skin. It’s taken me 20+ years to get to this point. I remember distinctly telling a friend in middle school that I wished I were white with blonde hair and blue eyes because “that’s what boys like”. I bought into the mass-marketed, Barbie-esque bias just like everyone else. I truly thought I wasn’t good enough. If I had participated in the Clark Doll Experiment, I would definitely have chosen the light-skinned doll as the better doll. I never had dark-skinned Barbies or dolls; I don’t remember owning a single one. They were always so plain; you rarely ever saw them in the specialty versions like Birthday Barbie or Princess Barbie. They were always just the plain old cookie-cutter Barbie.

I hated my skin in middle school and junior high. Acne, growing pains, stretch marks. Meh! Hated it all. Hated myself, what’s more. Had to be perfect, had to be good, had to be what everyone expected. If not, my life would crumble down around my ears and I would be alone. But that’s an old vent. I remember feeling rather mousy when I went to college, since I was a year younger than most freshmen, the frat boys that I and some other froshes ended up doing community work with called me a little pup, which helped me decide to turn the hose on them. I remember beginning to feel comfortable with myself towards the end of college but never really feeling pretty or thinking that I could be pleasant to look at. I was partially comfortable with myself, yes, but a huge part of me still wanted to tear my skin away and start all over.

Ten years later (wow!), through a lot of soul-searching, self-examination, some therapy, and ripping down to what is just me and no one else, along with the love of family, spouse, and dear friends, I have begun to like myself and how I look. I’m not perfect, never will be, but I can be happy with myself. I love being in my skin. I know that I’m never going to be a supermodel or pin-up girl but that’s OK. I think I do pretty well right now.

The Clark Doll Experiment: http://abagond.wordpress.com/2009/05/29/the-clark-doll-experiment/

Few things make me smile more than my 3-year-old nephew. I feel an affection and love for him unlike any I’ve ever felt for a child before. When he runs up and hugs me, squealing, “Mel!”, it makes my heart warm. I remember putting him to bed once when he was very little. I loved the weight of him in my lap and my arms, the softness of his downy head against my cheek as I held his bottle and hummed to him the lullabies that I intend for my children some day. His grandparents said that he slept all through the night that night.

I love listening to Nathan talk, seeing him smile and run and laugh and squeal. I am terrified of being a parent someday, few things scare me more, but I still want it. I want to hold our own little one in my arms, feel the weight of their life there. I want to watch my child sit in their father’s lap, begging for stories and saying their prayers. I want to read them their favorite storybooks until they have them memorized. I want to help them with their homework. I want to counsel them through tough times. I want to watch my children with their grandparents, both sets. I want to whisper to them about nightlights. I want my children to see how much their parents love each other and that we like each other as well as love each other. I know there will be times that are hard, frightening, tearful, saddening. But I know that God will carry and help us through it, just as he carried and helped us and our parents.

I want to tell my children that I love them. I want to teach them to sing and pray, to laugh and be merry. I want to play and pretend with my children, encourage their imaginations and their creativity. I want to teach my children to ask questions, to be advocates for their own knowledge. I want to encourage them and teach them to encourage others, help others. I want my children to see our faith and learn from our lives and our experiences in it.

Yes, having children frightens the life out of me but I still want it. I do.

Wow. I just realized as I was finishing a previous writing that I do indeed love the process. At Tribal Revolution, on a creativity profile that Ariellah had us work on to get to know ourselves better, one of the questions was “Which do you enjoy more, the process or the result?” I just realized that I love the process. I love the result, too, definitely. But getting there is what drives me, what I love.

I love working on a story, researching it, editing it, fact-checking. I love learning things that I never knew before. I loved learning about the Star Wars Universe pretty much from scratch to write my first story. I loved studying Etruscan history, social and politic structure and burial rituals to add only a few  points of interest into a fan-fiction piece. The process, the need to learn and know those things and incorporate them into my art, it drives me.

I love developing and putting together costumes, letting the creativity flow in the pieces that I pull together, modify, or whatever. If I cannot buy what I want, I will figure out something else that will look lovely. I am not very talented with sewing but it doesn’t mean I cannot create. The make-up, the hair, the accessories, they are all part of the costume and all equally as fun to create. I mean, when else are you going to pack on the black eye shadow, just to smear it all over the place to be a crazy version of Harley Quinn? Not to mention giving yourself a Glasgow smile with red lip stain.

I love learning a dance, even though practice can be hard, I love it. The finished product only lasts a few minutes but, because of the practice, I can keep a dance piece in my head for years.

I love the creative process! I love the result, yes, but I love the process of putting things together. Watching the pieces fit, or fixing them so they do, learning new things to incorporate….creating.

I love looking through my old journals. I have all of my journals from my first or second year in college until now. I’m not as prolific in writing in my journal as I used to be, though I am trying to still update it as often as I can. I would love to be able to leave those journals to my children someday; I think they would find their mother very interesting and, most likely, crazy.

One Christmas, when I was home in Cayman on break, the electricity went out on Christmas Eve. With no TV to watch with my mom and no music to listen to, I decided that some alone time was appropriate. I took a candle into my room, to my desk, sat down and opened up my journal. I began to write, just laying out my vacation thus far. Mom came into my room and chuckled at me. “Playing Jo, sweetie?” she asked. I couldn’t help but smile and nod, “Yep!” I enjoyed sitting there and writing by candlelight, letting myself fall into my thoughts, the starlight twinkling in my windows.

In college, I had an observation table at the Student Union, where I would sit and people watch and make comments in my journal, usually about the theatre students, who fascinated me. They were always so loud and boisterous and interesting to watch. It was like being at the butterfly farm or a bird sanctuary and trying to take in all the color and movement at once. I would sit there for hours and just write about what I saw and what was in my head. It gave me a certain sense of accomplishment, I think.

For a long while, I took my journal to work with me so that I could write in it during lunch, and, for a long time, it became my sounding board. The place where I could yell and scream and loose my venom. The first two years of teaching were extremely rough for me and my journal became the place of cries, prayers, and lamentations. When Ben and I were dating, I wrote everything down, what happened when, where we went on our first date, what it was like getting to know him. My students are amazed when I can recite the dates when we met, Ben asked me out, we had our first date, we officially became a couple, Ben proposed, we got married, etc. These were my firsts, my only’s, and I want to remember them.

If you have ever seen the movie “SE7EN”, then you will remember the scene I am speaking of. The detectives find the home of the man who has been killing people according to their vices (greed, lust, sloth, gluttony, etc.) and one shelves they find dozens of notebooks, every page filled, front to back, in every book, in some of the tiniest lettering. Morgan Freeman’s character refers to it as “his mind poured out on paper”. I like that feeling when I am writing in my journals, or on the computer. I enjoy pouring my mind out on paper and into print. There’s a freeing sense to it, like letting a weight off your back. I imagine that it’s a similar feeling to, if it were real, siphoning your thoughts off into a Pensieve. Yes, I am a geek. Deal with it. But when the thoughts flow and so does my pen or my fingers, I sometimes find myself sighing when it’s all over, as though I’ve run a marathon or built a wall and I flex my shoulders now that the weight is gone. I even enjoy the resettling of a new “weight” so that I have to pour myself out again to have it lifted. What can I say? I love the process.