"...will grow and prosper wherever planted"

I’m going to college! After nearly a month of stressing about where I’m going to go next year, I am excited to announce that I am officially a member of Denison University Class of 2019. I think I knew where I wanted to go these past few weeks, but I had to come to the decision on my own terms in my own way––with thorough contemplation, heavy analysis, and lots of symbolism.

My college mascots: Clifford the Big Red Dog (Denison's mascot is "Big Red") with the ever-faithful Olaf the Snowman, donning a new Denison pin. The two of them remind me of Snoopy and Woodstock. 

Up until yesterday afternoon, I was torn between Denison University in Ohio and St. Olaf College in Minnesota. I had several moments when I nearly decided on Denison, but then I panicked at the thought of actually committing to one place. 

I always imagined myself at a place like St. Olaf. St. Olaf is me in a college––group conversations about favorite soup flavors, warm sweaters, cozy spots by the fireplace, an Olaf stuffed animal, homestyle meals, a dry campus, heavy on the arts, and not so big on sports. Looking on the Facebook page, nearly every student was into the arts in some way, and that was enticing and comforting.

I never imagined myself at a place like Denison. I only applied because I attended the Reynolds Writing Workshop there the summer before my junior year and it’s my stepdad’s family school. I figured if my other colleges didn’t work out, I could see myself being satisfied at Denison. Denison is opposite of who I’ve always defined myself to be––more into sports, the more “typical” college experience (I certainly didn’t have the “typical” high school experience going to a small, project-based charter school), Greek life, and more outward with their accomplishments (as evidenced by their active outreach and promotion). 

I recognized myself at St. Olaf. I didn’t recognize myself at Denison, and that was scary. By going to St. Olaf, I was more sure of what I was going to get, of who I would be. I couldn’t see that so clearly at Denison. From what I gathered, Denison was more diverse in student interests, and while I knew I would find some of "my people" (people into the arts) eventually, it wouldn't be as easy. By going to Denison, I feared that perhaps I was trying to be someone I wasn’t, trying to fit into a more university-style campus (although it has just over 2100 undergraduate students and is by no means a large school). 

Yet there was something exciting about Denison. Before I visited three weeks ago, I was really excited to go on the trip, and I couldn’t understand why. While there, I didn’t find “my people” right away and I was worried about being able to find my place. Yet I liked walking around campus. It was more sprawled out than St. Olaf was. I felt free. It felt like college. I remember feeling somewhat out of body at Denison, as if I was watching myself from afar. I sought out help at the IT office to fix my water-logged computer. I sang karaoke at the coffee house with a Denison student. I talked for almost two hours to another prospective student on the plane ride home, and didn’t even know his name until an hour and a half into the conversation. 

If you’re getting lost in my yo-yoing pros of St. Olaf versus Denison, then you understand a taste of what’s been spinning in my mind these past few weeks. Ultimately, I knew that I could be happy at either school, but that each school would offer me something slightly different. I was trying to figure out what I wanted. 

So let’s backtrack to Sunday, the first major step in my college decision. I woke up feeling deflated and helpless. My inability to make a decision was clouding my focus and making it difficult for me to be present or accomplish anything. I was anxious to get out of the house and get a change of scenery. I messaged my friend Maiel, who is always ready for an adventure, and asked her along for the journey. 

We originally planned on hiking Mt. Monadnock, but as the morning slipped away, that plan got downgraded to Mt. Wachusett and eventually Walden Pond in Concord, MA. We both still had our full hiking gear, complete with backpacks, plenty of water, a day’s worth of snacks, first aid supplies, sunscreen, bug spray, and hiking boots. We were both eager to get away from civilization, which was harder at Walden than if we were climbing to the top of a mountain. We ventured deep into the woods though, eventually finding a stream and following it into an open field by another pond. We sprinted across it, feeling full of life and also slightly rebellious. Ignoring the “No trespassing” sign, we wandered around the pond, and eventually just lay in the field debriefing about life, which naturally for me, involved talking about college.

“The way you’re talking sounds like you want to go to Denison,” Maiel said. 

“I don’t know, I can’t make a decision,” I said, and we soon started our trek back home. On our way, we came across railroad tracks.

Maiel, who also enjoys symbolism, took a poetic approach to them. “You know, railroad tracks are kind of romantic,” she said. “They represent the confinements of society. Society tells you to stay within their rigid path.” 

Continuing with my rebellious feeling, I plopped myself down in the middle of them. (I recognize that to most, my “rebellious” actions of the day may sound pathetic, but they were freeing for me.) Maiel sat down next to me, and we started throwing rocks at the tracks, first one by one, seeing if we could bounce them off the track, and then by the handful, letting them fall where they fell, every rock another decision that we weren’t going to give a damn about and just let happen. 

“Alright, now what you’re going to do is take this big rock, and throw it up into the air,” Maiel said, drawing a line with her foot in the tracks. “This side is Denison, and this side is St. Olaf. Wherever the rock lands, is where you’re going to go to college.” She hid behind the fence a good ten feet away so I wouldn’t impale her with the symbolism, and I threw the rock.

But the story doesn’t end here, because the rock fell on the St. Olaf side. (Besides, while I may have been feeling freer than usual, I’m not someone who can just let what could be a coincidence make my decision.) 

“How do you feel?” Maiel asked.

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “I could be happy at either place!” 

And I ran off the tracks and we continued our journey home, venturing off the trails some more, climbing trees, and trying to get as much outside ourselves as possible.

As we started making our way back to the car, I plopped myself down in the sand by the pond. “I don’t want to go home until I make a decision,” I said. “At home, there’s too much external influence. My mind is too cluttered.” 

I was absent-mindedly playing in the sand for awhile when–"Stop!" Maiel shouted.

“What?”

“You just made a D in the sand,” she said.

“Really?”

“You were starting to make an O, and I was about to say, 'I wish D’s and O’s didn’t look so similar,' but then the O went away and you started to make a line and then you made the D.”

A slightly more defined version of what I drew. 

“I think it’s Denison,” I said, suddenly feeling sure.

“Really?”

“Yes. But I can’t go home, because I know I’ll start second-guessing myself. I need to stay out of my house.” 

We went back to her house and made dinner, and characteristic of me, over the course of the next few hours I started questioning my decision. It was 10:30 at night, and I was once again feeling stuck. 

“I’m not leaving your house until I can call my mom with a decision about where I’m going to college next year,” I said. 

“Do you need some wine? Do you need to get drunk to clear your head?” Maiel joked.

“No. I need fresh air,” I said. We went outside on her porch and I leaned over the railing, trying to imagine myself at each school and seeing how I felt, like what Mom used to make me do when I couldn’t figure out which stuffed animal I wanted to buy in the store.

“What’s your soul telling you?” Maiel asked after a few minutes.

“It’s telling me that St. Olaf is comfortable and is warm sweaters and my cousin Rachel and an Olaf stuffed animal. And Denison is scary and new and exciting.”

“And what do you want?” she prompted.

“Denison.”

“Really?” 

“Yes.” 

I left as quick as I could after that, anxious to call my mom before the doubt kicked back in. I called her in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, not wanting to risk the doubt that might sink in when I got home. I told her my decision, my tone scared, confident and excited.

That night, I felt the lightest I’d felt in a long time. I found my Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffed animal in the attic (Denison’s mascot is “Big Red”), and threw on my Denison sweatshirt. I danced, skipped, and ran around my neighborhood twice, smiling so much it hurt and crying because it was the first time I could really see my future. I laid on the grass for awhile, looking at the stars, and slept a sound 10 hours that night.

And then I woke up in the morning, panicked. All day Monday I was mopey and unsure. I started reconsidering St. Olaf and was leaning more towards there, even though we had a “Denison celebratory dinner” with burgers (Ohio has lots of farms and therefore good, grass-fed beef) and fries and chocolate shakes. On Tuesday, I went for a run with my childhood friend Coltin around Walden Pond and then out to breakfast, and I talked both of our heads in circles about which school I wanted to go to. We went back to his dad’s house and he was fixing his car. There was part of me that said I should get back home to work on memorizing songs for the musical Rent, but there was part of me that just wanted to stay and watch him work on his car, because that was new and exciting. There wasn’t much for me to do though, so I ended up leaving.

On my way back, I passed a flower stand and decided I really wanted flowers. What I originally wanted was magnolia flowers, a la the line in Carrie Underwood’s song “Crazy Dreamer,” “Hello you wild magnolias, just waiting to bloom.” But magnolias grow on trees, and even if I had the space to plant a new tree, the flower stand didn’t have any magnolia seedlings. I realized what I really wanted to do was plant something, so I went to O’Connor’s Hardware Store and bought a packet of wildflower seeds.

It’s then I made my decision. I would go to Denison, where I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to get. I chose this particular packet of wildflower seeds for two reasons: one, because it didn’t specify the types of flowers that even could grow, and two, because of the line on the back of the packet,

"The large selection insures that many varieties will grow and prosper wherever planted and reseed themselves each year." 

I, too, will grow and prosper wherever I’m planted, and I like the idea that I’m not sure what I’ll look like in full bloom.

I bought the seeds and drove home blaring Taylor Swift’s song “22." Luckily no one was home. I ran upstairs to my room, grabbed my checkbook and Denison acceptance packet, looked up how to write a check, and got out of the house as fast as I could to drive to the post office to mail my $300 deposit before anyone could get home and see what I was doing.

When I got to the post office, I slowed down my brain enough to fully recognize what I was doing and accept that. I didn’t want to make a rash decision, although I was purposefully keeping myself moving forward to stop myself from going into another circle of indecision. I asked a nice man at the post office to look over my deposit check and make sure I signed it correctly, and he told me to add the two 0’s over the 100 after the words "Three hundred" to indicate that it was $300 even. After quadruple-checking the check and enrollment card, I sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the blue mailbox where I couldn’t reach in and change my mind.

Turning around, I saw a girl I used to sing in the choir with that I hadn’t seen in years. 

“I just mailed my deposit into college!” I said, eager to tell someone.

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“Denison University!” I exclaimed. She was the first person I told.

“Congratulations! My friend’s a junior and he was just touring there today,” she said.

I drove to Bedford Farms ice cream to get sugar cones because we had chocolate coconut-milk ice cream and chocolate Jimmies at home, and I wanted a celebratory ice cream cone. The girl behind the counter gave me six cones for free, because she couldn’t find a button for “just cones” in the register. I gave her a nice tip, and then turned back at the door to say, “I just enrolled to college!” 

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Denison University!” 

“My friend will be a freshman there this fall and will be playing baseball!” she said. I was ecstatic––two people within a half hour who knew someone either attending or looking to attend Denison.

I wanted to share the joy. I drove back past my house to Market Basket to get a gallon of chocolate ice cream, and then finally drove home. I nonchalantly put the ice cream and cones away, and asked my stepdad where I could plant some wildflowers. I planted my seeds, digging my hands in the dirt and getting it under my fingernails, usually not one to enjoy dirty hands but loving the fresh earth scent. When my mom finished with her client, I gathered my family in the living room and announced my decision, and we all had ice cream cones. Shortly after I went for a walk and called my dad to tell him, and as I was finishing my walk I passed my childhood friend Bella’s house. Eager to tell someone else, I knocked on her door but didn’t wait for her to let me in.

“I’m going to college!” I shouted. I stayed for dinner and we hung out for almost two hours, which we haven’t done in a long time.

I’m writing all of this today, the day after, because I needed the time to process it all for myself. I didn’t post my college decision on Facebook yesterday, or tell all my friends and family. I didn’t wear my Denison sweatshirt to bed or drink out of my Denison mug. It would’ve been too overwhelming. I actually avoided packing a lot of red for my New York trip this week. I had my initial excitement, and now I need to process it. It reminds me of how I felt after my first date freshman year. I had my initial giddy excitement when I was first asked on the date, and then afterwards I was more quiet but feeling very content and fulfilled. That’s how I feel now.

I had another moment of self-doubt last night, questioning whether I'm trying to be someone I’m not by going to Denison. I don’t know what I’m going to get at Denison, like I don’t know what’s going to grow in my wildflower garden. And I feel okay. I will bring my sweaters and stuffed animals and love of theatre to Denison, but I will also be given the space to grow in an environment where I'm not surrounded by my familiar tastes. 

I usually like being in control and knowing what's next, but I also like what happens when I’m out of control. I let myself be free and let what happens, happen. It’s how I fell in love this year with a boy two years my junior. It’s in those out of control moments that I surprise myself. I venture outside of who I’ve defined myself to be, and I grow. 

Let Anything At All Happen Just Beyond the Sunrise

Although I promised myself a few weeks ago that I would move out of In the Heights, my school's recent High School Musical Theatre Awards (TAMY) nominations–nine total!–have refueled my love and longing for its familiar streets. I long for the bodega and Daniella's salon. I long for the sweet Piragua. The other day my friend Ella sang "Breathe"–one of Nina's solos–in her senior recital, and as I heard the introductory chords, I couldn't help getting choked up. I long to be back onstage as Nina.

The line dividing myself and Nina is thin. I understand the self-imposed pressure to succeed, to make people proud. The feeling that I never do enough. I understand the hesitation, the fear of the unknown. As I watch the DVD and listen to the music, I feel almost like I'm watching my own life. As I watch my character fall in love with the character Benny, I feel as if I'm watching myself fall in love.

I listen to our duets and get the same warm feeling I get when listening to a Taylor Swift song about a boy I like. I watch us onstage and I can't help wishing that the love was real. Because somehow, in Nina's love for Benny, she is able to forget about the future, and leave whatever happens "beyond the sunrise" to God's will.

And then I remember that Eric–the actor who played Benny–and I were just acting. It was Nina and Benny who were in love. Not me and Eric. And I have to pull myself out of this fictional world to actually live my life. But it's difficult. It's like breaking off a relationship––some days I'm fine, and others, I have to listen to songs on repeat.

At some point, I should be able to live like I do onstage, in my real life. And I don't mean specific plot points–I don't need to drop out of college, and backtracking to my role as Rizzo, I certainly don't need a pregnancy scare. I mean my approach to life. Onstage, I live in the moment. I feel the energy. And I act accordingly. My 28-performances of Les Misérables last summer taught me that no show is ever going to be the same. I have to just let myself feel what's going on around me. That is what makes the characters onstage, and the events in the story, believable. That is what keeps them fresh every time.

As much as I sometimes wish it were, life isn't scripted. I have to let whatever happens beyond the sunrise, happen, and not worry so much about the future. And somewhere along the way, I'll hopefully find my Benny.

Outside the Heart-Shaped Picture Frame

I believe Valentine's Day is intended for two groups of people: lovers and children under the age of ten. For the lovers, it is an excuse to buy each other chocolate and flowers and write romantic love notes. For children under the age of ten, it is an excuse to eat lots of candy (although apparently now schools don't allow candy valentines for their class parties due to health rules) and perhaps get a valentine from your elementary crush (I still have the Fun-Dip from my third grade sweetheart stapled into my journal). 

For everyone else, it is just another ordinary day, filled with some chocolate and lots of cute couples to be envious of. Maybe envious is too strong of a word. Jealous? 

But when I think of the girls walking around with roses from their admirer, or who have their hair curled for a Valentine's Day date, envy is a word that comes to mind. Because their day fits that heart-shaped picture frame. They have a reason to celebrate Valentine's Day, and it's hard not to feel a little left out. "If only someone would offer me a chocolate or a cookie," I thought at lunch, and then laughed at myself for being melodramatic. I've been spending too much time on the stage. 

I have to remind myself that everything I have ever tried to fit in a picture frame has ended in disappointment. Shouldn't I know by now that the best things are often outside the frame I molded? The best things are often the ones I didn't plan? I'll remember next year (or the year after that). 

Regardless of the fact that I wasn't visited by Cupid on this particular Valentine's Day, I found other reasons to celebrate, and upon reflecting back, it wasn't as bad as I first made it out to be. 

The morning began with a two-hour delay and a Valentine's Day-themed breakfast. Heart-shaped raspberry chocolate chip waffles, whipped cream, and strawberries cut in the shape of a heart. I think we only use these heart-shaped plates once a year, but they're great for that one time.

Also, a blend of french vanilla and strawberry-banana yogurt, topped with a strawberry heart and speckled with chia seeds. 

Then, instead of a hot Valentine's Day date, I babysat for my director. Which in hindsight, ended up being the best way I could have spent my Valentine's Day night. Like I said, Valentine's Day is meant for two groups of people: lovers and children under the age of ten. My director's daughter (she's six) and I had a Valentine's Day-themed dinner: peanut butter and fluff sandwiches cut in the shape of a heart (fluff died pink with Hershey's strawberry syrup); heart-shaped strawberries and kiwi; and strawberry milk. 

Then we made valentines and played charades.

Maybe next year I'll have a valentine, but in the meantime, I'll stick with my heart-shaped waffles, strawberry milk and babysitting. (And by the way, the heart-shaped peanut butter and fluff picture frame was delicious...especially with the toasted bread.) 

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Hope, Love, Faith

Photo Credit: Madison Busick
My long-time friend and supporter and an amazing photographer! Check out her awesome blog!
http://maddieseeingtheworld.blogspot.com/

I had a particularly religious Easter today, considering I am usually not a very religious person. It is not that I do not believe in God; it's not that I don't pray. Because I do believe in God, and I pray regularly. However, I have always struggled with conforming to the doctrine of a religion. I am Catholic and my grandparents are all religious, but neither of my parents are regular church-goers. I didn't grow up committed to weekly mass; I have never felt a strong connection to my church community.

I wish I did. Some of my friends are close with their youth ministry groups and I think it's a fantastic way to be part of the community. Is there something wrong with me? Is there some part of this whole "religion thing" that I'm not getting?

As I said earlier, I believe in God. But going to mass every Sunday doesn't make me feel any closer to Him...at least not at the church I go to. Good sermons are rare there; it feels like mass is always the same. The preachings feel...outdated. And I can't grasp anything out of the Bible readings because I don't know what to listen for. What are the most important parts?

For whatever reason my body decided 4am was enough sleep for the day, so after an hour of trying to fall asleep, I decided to no longer fight it. What else to do at 5am on a Sunday than read "Les Mis?" 

Still curled up in bed, I flicked on my bedside lamp and curled up with my favorite purple pen to relish one of my favorite books. The chapters I read today were apropos for Easter Sunday. They talked about 19th-century religion, particularly the monasteries and convents of the Bernardine nuns––Jean Valjean hides with Cosette in the Petit-Picpus convent (founded by Spaniard Martin Verga) after rescuing her from the Thénardiers and escaping Javert once again. The nuns living in the Petit-Picpus convent live a strict life, to say the least. They fast several days a week, one nun must at all times be praying for the sins of the world, no men are allowed in the convent except the archbishop of the diocese and the gardener (who the convent makes wear a bell to warn the nuns of his approach), among other things. One interesting custom I read was about the induction of the novices. Victor Hugo described it as the following:

On the day when a novice makes her profession, she is dressed in herhandsomest attire, she is crowned with white roses, her hair isbrushed until it shines, and curled. Then she prostrates herself;a great black veil is thrown over her, and the office for the deadis sung. Then the nuns separate into two files; one file passesclose to her, saying in plaintive accents, "Our sister is dead";and the other file responds in a voice of ecstasy, "Our sister isalive in Jesus Christ!"

In other words, the nuns attempt to make themselves dead on Earth so that they may be closer with God. This idea is difficult for me to grasp. After all, didn't God put us on this Earth for a reason? To live it? To live it in the image of his son, Jesus Christ? 

After pondering these chapters for about an hour, the sun had risen so I went for a run in the trails. I felt like I was being reborn, as if I too had been resurrected. It is times like these I feel closest to God. 

Cutting it a little close on time (as always) my family and I did something we rarely do: we went to church, or rather, we went to the non-denominational chapel my younger cousins go to.  It's an entirely different experience from the sermons I'm used to. There's lots of music and singing––not traditional gospel songs, but more modern religious ones. Everyone is up out of their seats and happy.

But what really struck me was how relatable the pastor made everything. With my good fortune, the sermon was centered around "Les Mis." The pastor cleverly tied in the mourning of Mary Magdalene over Jesus' death–some people theorize that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute and Jesus' lover–with Fantine. A girl of about my age sang Fantine's song "I Dreamed A Dream. "I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living," she sings. The pastor talked about how Mary Magdalene, like Fantine and like many of us in some point of our lives, had a dream that was different from what her life turned out to be––a life without Jesus. And with this, the pastor talked about hope––how hope is only empty wishing if it lacks reason. Mary Magdalene had given up hope; she believed she had nothing left to live for, so she wept. "Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" (John 20:15) Jesus asked Mary after rising from the dead. She did not recognize him at first, but when she did, all hope was restored. Jesus was that hope. She clung to him, but he said to her, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God" (20:17). 

The pastor talked about how Jesus is the hope living within us, because Jesus lives within us. Life does not cease on Earth. When we lose someone we love, we will see them again someday. As Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil write in their musical:

Expanding on the "Les Mis" references, the pastor also talked about how Victor Hugo–the author of "Les Mis"–struggled with religion during his life. He believed in God but disagreed with many of the beliefs of the church. Where did he stand? Who was God to him? This morning I read one of my favorite chapters I have read in "Les Mis" thus far, in which Hugo questions God, infinity, and existence.

Volume II, Book Seventh, Chapter V-Prayer

They pray.

To whom?

To God.

To pray to God,--what is the meaning of these words?

Is there an infinite beyond us? Is that infinite there, inherent,
permanent; necessarily substantial, since it is infinite; and because,
if it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent,
since it is infinite, and because, if it lacked intelligence, it would
end there? Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence,
while we can attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence?
In other terms, is it not the absolute, of which we are only the relative?

At the same time that there is an infinite without us, is there
not an infinite within us? Are not these two infinites (what an
alarming plural!) superposed, the one upon the other? Is not this
second infinite, so to speak, subjacent to the first? Is it not
the latter's mirror, reflection, echo, an abyss which is concentric
with another abyss? Is this second infinity intelligent also?
Does it think? Does it love? Does it will? If these two infinities
are intelligent, each of them has a will principle, and there is an
I in the upper infinity as there is an I in the lower infinity.
The I below is the soul; the I on high is God.

To place the infinity here below in contact, by the medium of thought,
with the infinity on high, is called praying.

Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad.
We must reform and transform. Certain faculties in man are directed
towards the Unknown; thought, revery, prayer. The Unknown is
an ocean. What is conscience? It is the compass of the Unknown.
Thought, revery, prayer,--these are great and mysterious radiations.
Let us respect them. Whither go these majestic irradiations
of the soul? Into the shadow; that is to say, to the light.

The grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing
of humanity. Close to the right of the man, beside it, at the least,
there exists the right of the soul.

To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law.
Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree
of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars.
We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery
against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject
the absurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary,
to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion;
to clear God of caterpillars.

With all these questions and with chapters like this, "Les Misérables" is still considered a very religious book. Book Seventh is called "Parenthesis," which many say is due to the fact that Book Seventh does little to progress the plot. This may be so, but it doesn't mean it is "pointless" or by any means "random"; someone as brilliant as Victor Hugo wouldn't put thirteen pages in "just because he felt like it." 

Book Seventh is essential to the plot because it addresses the question of religion, of God, and of faith, all of which are themes that are essential to recognize and to ponder if one wants to read "Les Mis" with any level of depth. 

And shouldn't we all always be questioning? No matter what it is? Maybe we should take a lesson from the five-year-old, who always wants to know "why" (unless of course our parents ask us to take out the trash, in which case it doesn't matter why we have to do it, we just better do it). 

As Claude-Michel Shönberg and Alain Boublil wrote:

I'm not sure I believe God created this Earth and everything on it. I may be a dreamer, but there's also the realist in me that just can't fathom that idea. But I do believe in some higher being. I see God in all that is beautiful and all that is good. I see God in the frosty 7am trails. I see God in my friend who goes out of his way to talk to the shy boy in class. I see God in the big blue eyes of my little cousin as she asks if I can "please the blue egg dye." 

But maybe "seeing God" isn't what I mean. Maybe a more accurate way to think about it for me is to feel God––like I feel God's presence when I'm running on the beach. I might challenge Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil and say, maybe "To love another person is to feel the hands of God." 

Yes. Even "Les Mis" can be questioned.

Never stop questioning. Never stop hoping. Never stop believing, whether that be in God, in yourself, in others, in humanity, whatever it is you believe in. And whatever that thing is, believe it with all your heart.

Wishing you all "a heart full of love" in the week to come!

"A Heart Full of Love"

I love curls in my hair. I love opening night in the theatre. I love homemade oatmeal. I love dark chocolate and almonds. I love running at sunset. I love switching my contacts for glasses at night. I love the woods in the winter. I love singing in the car with the windows down. I love eating with a spoon. I love analyzing Shakespeare.

I love many things, and today was the day for loving. Today was " A Heart Full of Love" (to quote Les Mis).

My day started early today (4am) with writing, which, alongside acting, is one of my greatest loves. I worked on my submission for a writing camp. I made myself a cup of tea and worked until 6. I took out my Flintstone's bun and my curls failed––I guess wearing the stupid bun on top of my head in front of the hot junior in my driving lesson yesterday didn't count for anything. Regardless, the curls looked good enough in a ponytail.

For breakfast, raspberry and chocolate chip heart-shaped pancakes on a heart-shaped plate.

Above, my pancake with whipped cream and Nelson's Candy deluxe chocolate sauce. 

After already drizzling chocolate on mine, I got the idea to actually write on the pancakes, so I left a little note for my mom.

In my first class of the day, I analyzed Shakespeare, the romance master––although the only possible romance in the Hamlet scene we studied today was between Hamlet and his mother Gertrude, which was uncomfortable. 

School was filled with lots of treats today: cookies and Hershey kisses and the quintessential candy hearts. Student Government passed out carnations at the end of the day as a school fundraiser. 

My math test...not so romantic. But I got it done, which means I am done with math unti the Monday we come back from February vacation. 

After school, I met with my English teacher from last semester to discuss my writing camp submission. After writing itself, my next love is talking about it. I spent time at play rehearsal, went to the home basketball game for my school, where the girls won with a 3-pointer within the last five seconds of the game. I was covering the game for my school newspaper, so at the end of the game I made sure to snag a quote from the boy's assistant basketball coach, who is about 25 and very good-looking––and of course I had to shake his hand. It's just business, right? 

Then, as I left, this good-looking senior said "bye" to me and brushed my waist with his hand. 

I ended the day with two of my favorite loves: peanut butter and brownies.

All in all, a solid Valentine's Day.

What filled your heart with love today?

Notes and Cookies

http://www.landolakes.com/recipe/3007/lunch-box-oatmeal-cookies

"Hey, Mom," my little cousin says, his voice barely a whisper. He leans over her shoulder where she sits at the kitchen table, going over the week's to-do list and researching a new apple crisp recipe to make with the boys later that week. "I have a girlfriend." He smiles, lets the words resonate in the air. He's in 6th grade.

"Really, now?" she says, trying not to act too interested for fear of scaring him away. "What's her name?"

"Tanner," he says, suddenly shy. His mom nods; she knows who she is. A skinny little string bean with a Red Sox cap and dark hair down to her waist, which she tucks behind her ears. She looks like a tomboy, but doesn't play any sports. She's brainy, though. A real scholar. We always knew my cousin would find someone smart. Smart girls don't overlook his irresistible charm and manners, his big goofy grin and excited brown eyes.

He takes out a carefully folded piece of looseleaf paper from his pocket. The worn creases are evidence of how many times it's been opened." She likes me," he says, sliding the note across the table so it covers the grocery list for the week. In swirly cursive letters it reads, "I think you're cute" with hearts in place of every apostrophe and quotation mark and on top of the 'i'.

His mom stifles the "Aw" in her throat. "Well, why don't you have her and few other friends over for pumpkin carving? That way it doesn't feel awkward with just the two of you."

My cousin shuffles his feet. "Well, I don't know, Mom. I think we were just going to volunteer at the Fall Festival together at school." He suddenly looks up, afraid he hurt her feelings. "Is that alright?"

"Of course, I don't care," his mom says. He sighs relief and climbs the stairs to finish his math homework.

His little brother, who had been sitting quietly playing with his Power Rangers at the other end of the table, pipes up. "Hey, Mommy," he says.

"Yes?"

"I have a girlfriend, too," he says nonchalantly, while continuing to duel his Power Rangers. He's six.

"You do, do you?" she says, eyebrows raised.

"Mmhmm."

"What's her name?"

"Katie," he says, his tone now with a hint of superiority. "We share snack together."

Oh the days when relationships were as simple as folded up notes and sharing cookies at snack time.

11:11

Did you notice the sky today? So perfectly blue and not a single cloud in the sky. The Dogwood tree blooms pretty pink in the front yard and the petals open their faces to soak up the sun. The air is cool but refreshing like a dip in the ocean. The oatmeal this morning was especially tasty and particularly pretty with mango and bananas and strawberries. Owen was ever so charming this morning and our cat Maya wasn't so loud and snotty. I smiled at the sun, I smiled at the grass. Said, "How do you do?" to the dandelions and waved to the dog walkers. I ate breakfast with Grandma and took my sweet time. I sang to the dishes and danced in bare feet. 11:11 comes along, and I can't think of a wish. My life is complete.

What do you wish for when you see 11:11 light up on the clock? Or when you blow out your birthday candles? What do you wish for on an eyelash? Or a dandelion puff? Or a shooting star? Don't answer out loud. Do you usually wish for the same thing? Or something different every time? Wishes are the perfect time to ask for guidance with your crazy dreams. It's a wish, after all. Cinderella wanted to go to the ball in a pumpkin carriage. No dream, no wish, is too crazy. All you need is a little bibbity-boppity-boo.

At A Standstill

http://ravis-sante.deviantart.com/art/rainy-heart-124198359

Everything today has been going slowly. I wake up, brush my teeth, and just lay in bed for thirty minutes with my glasses on but my eyes closed. Just thinking. Smiling. The house is quiet except for the light pitter-patter of the rain on the windowpanes. All the more reason to stay in bed. Eventually, though,  I do get up. I stretch, make myself breakfast (oatmeal of course, especially on a dreary morning) and chew slowly. Even my Global Studies homework doesn't seem so bad. I write word by word, pause. Let a daydream pass through. Mom and Michael come home from an auction. I admire the treasures they brought home and we chat. No rush. 

All day goes by like this, quickly but slowly. I am aware of each hour passing by, and it's a wonderful feeling, to be in no hurry. To be able to take my sweet 'ole time with everything. All day I journal, move my pen like a paintbrush across the page. I am in a daze. I'm not giddy or giggly or jumpy like I've been all week, but just genuinely happy, fulfilled. All day I smile to myself and listen to my favorite songs on repeat and let my mind wander. It's a beautiful day when you can let your mind take a leisurely stroll through dreamland without any curfew. I'll have to give my mind a vacation more often.

A Week of Happy Things

This was a week of very happy things, making me regret not having posted more often. Honestly I have no good excuse for not posting more often, considering my homework load was particularly light this week, but I still probably only averaged seven hours of sleep every night. I got distracted somewhere, I suppose, perhaps with all the happy things going on around me! But it would seem quite silly to write a post about my regret for not posting more this week about my week of happy things, because who says I can't just share all my happy things in one post? Snippets of happy things combined into one big happy post?? Little vignettes, my favorite type of writing style: short and poetic and vivid and to the point, perfect for capturing little moments. (Although these are nowhere near polished, so please excuse their lack of poetic quality. I suppose they're more like little rambles of happy things.) If you're interested, Sandra Cisneros has beautiful vignettes in her book, "House on Mango Street." I still find myself returning to her book whenever I'm in need of inspiration.

***

Happy Vignette #1: Pick Up the Heart

The sky is ocean and the ocean is sky. At this time of day, the horizon line blurs so it is just one big canvas. The air is cool but there's a warm breeze blowing off the water. It's probably not much colder there than it is out here. Everything is at equilibrium, serenity, peace. Everything is at a standstill. The ocean is like one big sheet of Plexi glass, the clouds hover in a blue/gray mass but do only that. It's like running through a still life, a television show on pause.

As I run, I watch my step, avoid tripping over the jagged rocks, when I see a heart rock, stretched from the sides with long wings and a squat torso. But by the time it has registered in my head it is a heart rock I am already past and too stubborn or non-caring to turn back. Immediately I scold myself. "Why'd you do that?! That was the perfect heart rock!" Whatever. It's not the end of the world. But then, less than a minute later, I stumble upon another heart rock; bigger, better, screaming louder to be picked. This one's full and hearty, like a big bowl of homemade oatmeal. Again, I run past. But no...back up. I force myself to turn around. This is a sign, almost as if saying, "You didn't take the first one. Here's your second chance." A second chance at love. A second chance to live in the moment. Because what reason is there not for me to turn around and get the rock? So I run back. At first I think it's too big to carry, but Mom and Michael say we'll manage. We do. We take turns carrying it all the way home, spreading and sharing and passing along the love.

Happy Vignette #2: The Little Fishies That Could

http://www.capecodtravel.com/attractions/nature/herring0597.shtml

Paddle, paddle. Swim, swim. Don't give up! You're almost there! "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming, that's what you do is swim, swim," Dorey's words of encouragement come back to me from a favorite childhood movie, "Finding Nemo." What a smart little fish, Dorey is! Despite her poor memory and sometimes harmful naiveness, she never loses hope. No matter what predator she and Marlin ran into, no matter where the current took them, she just kept swimming. Swimming through life. 

As I watch the little herrings struggle up the ladder––the final leg of their journey––I am reminded of this song. Herring (also known as alewives) are one of the most abundant fishes in the world. Every year between April and May, the herring make their journey from the ocean to freshwater ponds and brooks to spawn, a sure sign of spring on the Cape. Their migrations are called a herring run, and assisting them in the final portion of their journey are ladders built at Stony Brook in Brewster, MA. (To read more about them, click on this link.)

After a week of 80º weather, the sun decided to take a break last weekend, so Sunday was cloudy and sleepy. But if you looked hard enough, you could see the little herring flapping their fins, swimming with all odds against them, and finally, when confidence was high enough, making the leap to the next level. Then they would swim to a corner to catch their breath, where they would rest awhile, building their anticipation. I couldn't help cheering for them every time one made a leap, and crying for them (not literally) when one would miss the jump and slide back down the levels like Chutes & Ladders. I also couldn't help feeling a bit angry at the seagulls who selfishly circled the perimeter of the brook, waiting to swoop for an easy meal. Other seagulls were so fat they couldn't even fly, so they perched on a nearby bench, eyes wide with greed. But to think these little fish had come all this way was admirable, and thinking of them swimming up that ladder made me think about the hardest workout I've ever done, and agree this journey was probably harder.

Happy Vignette #3: A New Recipe

Okay, so this recipe isn't ingenious. I didn't even have to turn on the stove or mix something in a blender. It simply combines all of my favorite foods in a nutritious and utterly delicious snack that is perfect for a post-workout, pre-workout, mood-booster, any time snack! There's no complicated directions or ingredients, and substitutions are welcome and highly recommended. During play rehearsal week I was eating and drinking honey like my body was made of it because it's supposed to be good for the vocal cords. So, to give myself an extra dose of honey, one morning I decided to squirt a little honey on my toasted English muffin with peanut butter. The honey melted like ice cream under hot fudge on the warm peanut butter, becoming runny and dripping over the edges (so this is a bit messy!) But, for those of you who have been following my weekly "Did you notice..." updates and who read my post about oatmeal, you know I love texture in my food. The crunch of granola in oatmeal, the hot and cold of a warm brownie with ice cream, you name it! I also love the presentation of food. One time I ordered French Toast at a restaurant and it was just four slices of yellow bread (cooked of course) on a plate; no strawberry, no whipped cream, no accessories. It had quite a bland personality. Anyways, the other night I was making myself my new peanut butter and honey English muffin obsession and I decided to slice up a banana on top (I used three slices on each), and for that extra crunch, a few almonds. And now I have a new obsession. The carbs from the English muffin, the potassium from the banana, the protein from the peanut butter, the sugar from the honey, and the fat from the almonds...you can't get better than that! I guess I could call this "invention" "Megan's Obsession." I encourage you to try some of your own variations with your own foods...maybe Nutella and honey? Nutella and jam? A different fruit? Pick your favorite foods and give it a whirl! I would love to hear what you come up with.

Happy Vignette #4: Fifteen

This week, I am the girl in Taylor Swift's song "Fifteen." Dancing around my room, lost in giddiness (I think my character from Pirates of Penzance might be rubbing off on me). When I first turned fifteen, I didn't feel any different from fourteen. My friend told me fifteen was going to be my year. I laughed, hoping she was right, hoping that something interesting would happen! But I wasn't getting my hopes up. Now, something is finally happening! All week I've been adding to my playlist, picking songs to fit my mood and listening to them on repeat. What I love about music is how a song can perfectly sum up everything you're feeling. It's almost as if the song was written for you! And when you have someone in mind when listening to a song, it makes it all the better.

***

What makes you happy? Do you like re-watching your favorite childhood movies? What's your comfort food? Do you collect anything? I would love to hear your stories, and as always thank you to those who participate in "Did you notice..." and to all those who comment. I love hearing from you! And of course, thank you to all of you who stop by and read. It's exciting for me to think who might be seeing this; it's exciting to have an audience! I hope your week is very happy and inspiring.

Sweet & Happy Dreams,

Megan ;)

Inspired by Oatmeal

This post is inspired by a blog inspired by another blog. The blog I was directly inspired by is The Magpie's Fancy by Gigi Thibodeau, who I can always count on for a post filled with something happy and beautiful: a new recipe, a walk in the woods, a beautiful free write, all of which are always accompanied by beautiful photographs. (Wow, have I used the word "beautiful" enough?) Yesterday, Gigi's post was inspired by another blogger by the name of Katie, author of Chocolate-Covered Katie, a healthy dessert blog. She blogged about one of Katie's oatmeal recipes called Peanut Butter Breakfast Pudding, which, I'm in agreement with Gigi, combines all of my favorite foods: oatmeal, peanut butter, bananas, and chocolate (which is optional but I will definitely try). Oatmeal and peanut butter especially are my two staple foods. I have them for breakfast at least five mornings a week, and they never fail to jumpstart my day. Usually I just have a bowl of oatmeal and slice of peanut butter toast on the side, but I've never figured out a way to combine them before. It's a crazy dream come true! Between Katie's ingenious recipe and Gigi's delicious photographs, I think I know what I'm making for dinner tonight.

So, this post is indirectly inspired by Katie of Chocolate-Covered Katie. What I love about her blog is that she doesn't only supply amazing recipes, but she also blogs about health, and how we shouldn't feel obligated to eat or not eat something because it's "healthier." She blogs about listening to your cravings, but finding healthy alternatives for them, too. Why make yourself miserable by depriving yourself of your favorite foods? What good are you doing?

Personally, I  know food makes me happy. No matter how terrible of a day I could be having, a dish of my favorite ice cream or a Reese's peanut butter cup (the one candy I always mark "Off-Limits" in my Halloween bag) can brighten my day. They always say "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Well, I think my stomach is the gateway to my heart, too! This past week being school vacation, I had the opportunity to make myself breakfast more than usual. I love the mornings I can wake up leisurely and prepare breakfast. It always sets the mood for a happier and fuller day. I hate the mornings when I'm rushing out the door to catch the bus and have to gobble up my breakfast. I can't enjoy it. My brother always comments on how slow I eat, but it's because I don't want it to be over! Mealtimes are by far my favorite times of the day. When they come around, I want to savor every. last. bite.

In talking about food, I will admit that I can be very picky. Sure, I'll eat anything and I love most foods, but I do have a thing for the quality of a food. In my eyes, presentation is key. It doesn't matter if all I'm having for breakfast is a bowl of cereal. Just putting it in a special bowl and taking the extra time to slice up a banana on top makes it all the more appealing and all the more delicious for me. It's a treat for myself. The same way you may put on makeup sometimes, even if you're just lounging around the house all day; you're dressing up for yourself.

If you read my post about art class , then this is not the first time you have heard me say that I wouldn't consider myself a particularly artfully-inclined person. I love art and I wish when I was bored in class I could think of something other than a heart to doodle in my notebook, but alas I was not blessed with such a gift. I do love to decorate though, and this love for decoration comes out in my love for cooking and, to bring this post full-circle, my love for oatmeal.

What I love about oatmeal is that it never comes out the same and there are so many different ways to play with it. Decorate it. Eat it! Chocolate-Covered Katie has over sixteen different oatmeal recipes and tips that make me want to eat oatmeal for the next sixteen meals. In fact, as I was drooling over Katie's recipes this morning, I myself was enjoying none-other-than the comfort of a self-prepared bowl of old-fashioned oatmeal and a slice of peanut butter toast. In making the oatmeal, I couldn't help myself getting fancy with the toppings. 

Like how Chocolate-Covered Katie combined her favorite foods to make Peanut Butter Breakfast Pudding, two years ago my mom combined two of her favorite breakfast foods, yogurt and oatmeal. Old-fashioned oatmeal with a yogurt top-hat.

To make the oatmeal, all you need is rolled oats (approx. 1/2 cup per serving). We prefer milk as the base because it makes it extra creamy. Water works fine too, or even a combination of the two. As a general rule, I usually put in a little less than double the amount of liquid as we do oats because I like a thicker oatmeal. (So if you use 1/2c of rolled oats, pour in about 1c of milk or water.) It all depends on how thick or liquidy you like your oatmeal. Pour your milk/water and oats into a pot and stir on medium-heat until the oats absorb the liquid.

You can use whatever yogurt you want for the top hat. I always put on a dollop of plain yogurt because I like to leave the flavoring job to the accessories! Because now, here comes the fun part. Accessorizing!

For my oatmeal this morning, I sliced up half a banana and one fat strawberry. Then I sprinkled a little granola to add an extra crunch, and to top it off, I made an almond flower with a dried blueberry for the middle. If you're like me and love texture in your food, you will love this recipe. The smoothness and coolness of the yogurt contrasts wonderfully with the warm and hearty oats. The fruit gives you something to chew, and the almonds and granola add a nice crunch. It's the cherry on top.

Sometimes when I make oatmeal I drizzle a little honey or maple syrup if I'm in the mood for something a little sweeter. The best part about oatmeal is that the recipe all depends on your personal cravings. It is a food designed for YOU! 

Well I could write about oatmeal (and food in general) forever, but alas I must pull myself away to finish up homework before school tomorrow. Inspired by Gigi and Katie, I will certainly be blogging more about food in the future!

Happy Experimenting,

Megan ;)

P.S. I apologize for the quality of the images. I think investing in a digital camera might be a wise idea, especially because I love what pictures can do to a post...they really make it come to life! Until then, I guess that's what the effects in iPhoto are for!

Heart Rocks/Heart Stones

http://cambriansea.blogspot.com/2009/08/heart-rock-beach.html

In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd share a piece I've been working on for quite some time now. Besides the moon, I also have an obsession with hearts. I see them everywhere! Today especially, being Valentine's Day and all; in my pancake, in a box of chocolates, in Valentine's Day carnations. But more specifically to my obsession with hearts, I have an obsession with heart rocks. My mom started collecting them years ago when she and her friend were kayaking and she found a heart rock the size of a bowling ball. I've found that once you find one, all of a sudden you see them everywhere! My favorite thing about heart rocks is that they're all different. Some are jagged, some are fat, some just barely classify as a heart. One day when I was with my friend, I got to thinking that they all had different personalities, too...

           Heart rocks or heart stones. Only at the title and I'm already stuck. "Heart stones" is more...poetic on the tongue. The sharpness of the "s" and the "t". The repetition of the "tuh" in heart stones. "Heart rocks" is...ordinary. "Stone" cuts through water; rings out like a cymbal on a tile floor. But, crisp while "stone" may sound, it is dark, like from a fairy tale by The Brothers Grimm. The title should be welcoming, encouraging. The word "stone" associates with too many negative terms.

        “Heart rocks” is smoother; no rough edges or sharp corners. While “stone” cuts through water, “rock” meanders along the edge. “Stone” limits the items associated with its strict syllables, while the long “aw” in “rock” welcomes any shape or size, similar to the toys from the Island of Misfit Toys.  “Rocks” is ancient, a reminder that beauty remains even amidst some of the darkest ages. Like humans, each heart rock carries independence. They have unique personalities because they all belong to a different person.

        There is the pancake heart, belonging to the fat man. Big, flamboyant, always smiling. Just a happy-go-lucky type, like a Golden Retriever. Some say his tongue hangs out the window as he drives Old Yellow, singing Jason Aldean with his authentic Southern accent. The grammar school kids crowd to the front begging him to do that funny shaky thing with his voice just “one more time!” Taped to his dashboard are the pictures the kids have drawn him, with bowling ball hands and big, orange-slice grins. Just a guy who loves life and everything and everyone in it. So his heart keeps getting larger as he makes more room for the people and places and things that he loves.

       The puzzle heart is that of the divorced man, trying to reassemble the broken pieces. He sits cross-legged on the floor of his little apartment, the moving boxes still stacked high to the ceiling. None of the furniture has arrived yet, and that single lawn chair looms over him as a heavy reminder of how alone he is.  It is one of the set of four him and his ex bought with their first house, before Joe even peeked his teeny head out. Chance would have it they only conceived two children, and their oldest was always tenacious when it came to who sat where; he himself sat in the same chair for nearly five years. When he picked up Joe for his T-Ball game, he wasn’t surprised to see the remaining three rocket lawn chairs on the side of the road with a “FREE” sign taped to their blue, pin-striped backrests. At least no one new will take his seat physically, even though someone will undoubtedly take it emotionally. His children are so young, after all. Still, he can’t bring himself to unpack everything (to open those boxes would make it all seem too permanent) except for one that sits on the floor in front of him.  In his hands is a 4x8 framed photograph of his children.  It captures a typical family Sunday from last fall; he and his wife had taken the children apple picking, and in it Joe lifts Lexie to pick an apple off the lowest branch. He moves around the photograph, trying to find the perfect place for them on his windowsill. He then attempts to place the photograph of him and the kids on the ferry they took to Portland last summer. Gradually he is finding their new positions, making a new puzzle, forming his new life. Picking pieces off the floor and trying to put himself back together; finding where the pieces fit.

       The almost-heart dances in the young teenage girl. Thinks she's in love. Maybe she is, maybe she's not. Playing games of, “He loves me, he loves me not.” Just trying to figure out this crazy word called LOVE. That new boy seems so...perfect. Maybe he could be the one?? Hugging him feels so natural, holding his hand feels so...right. And he shows her off to his friends in her T-shirt and jeans, holds her hand for all to see. Notes in her locker and a slow dance in the street, no music; all the clichés from every Nicholas Sparks novel and Taylor Swift song. And when he tells her she’s beautiful, she believes it. Because the last guy only ever texted it; he looks her in the eye and says it.  But she is unsure. “Is this love?” she asks herself. “Is it possible to be in love at this age? To feel this...happy? Does a Romeo really exist?” Thus she remains a "kind-of" heart, not exactly in focus but on the right track.

              The nearly-perfect heart rests in the old married couple. They say the “right person” is out there waiting for you, that you are “destined” to be together from the start. Five years older than she is, he served his country while she finished high school. While she was in Canada keeping a book of quotes, he was over in Puerto Rico doing the same. Destiny. In college they met when he went back for his Masters degree, and shy man though he appeared, she saw through the taciturn diffidence to the sweet and brilliant marshmallow underneath. Four kids later, the honeymoon phase died down inevitably, but they still had their annual one-night excursion to the Cape. And while at times they may have feasted on fried bologna and mashed potatoes for dinner, they made due with what they had. But then he lost his job, and with that he lost all he thought he could contribute to the family, and began to pull away. Like a cramp they worked through it, until they were the last ones remaining on the dance floor for the “Who’s been married longest?” contest. When he sets the table so her engagement with Jane Austen need not be disturbed; when he returns from the market with two unexpected bags of Utz potato chips. “Oh mon dieu! You shouldn’t have!” she gushes, never too old to get butterflies. So after years of chipping away at it, their nearly-perfect heart is defined.

The doodle heart flutters in another teenage girl. When she draws it in her notebook, when she signs a card, someone’s yearbook...she’s always drawing hearts. The lines cross so it looks like a bleeding heart flower. She starts from the left and draws the half, then crosses over so there is a dividing line between the two halves and then draws the right half, finishing with a little tail. Her friends make fun of her for her hearts. “You always see hearts!” they tease. Clouds, leaves, boulders, shells, mustard on her sandwich...hearts. Because she just wants to hit the target and find that one boy, hoping in doing so she may succeed in placing her heart amongst the billions of other hearts in this world. She wants the heart of her old grandparents, the unpretentious Southern “thang” of the bus driver, to repair her divorced father’s broken puzzle, to shed her “almost heart”. Her doodle heart splits in half because she constantly feels torn in two. She wants to please everybody; she hates making decisions. Mom’s world vs. Dad’s world. And the tail represents her longing to stay in the past: to relive the 2010 track season, to go back to when her family fit in a perfect box. It is the anchor that ties her down as she tries to sail away and voyage new seas and explore fresh lands. But then, where the tail hangs down, there leaves a gap, which allows her take in the sugar but also drain out the acid. Which is why my heart is not a rock or a stone, but a doodle. Because my heart is constantly changing and being changed and forced through tight alleys and taken on a roller coaster and inflating and deflating. And you can’t set that in stone. 

Here's hoping you all will find your heart someday, whether it be a doodle, stone, rock, or a heart-shaped pancake.

From my heart to yours,

Megan xo