Being the age you are...

I distinctly remember this moment in sixth grade when I bought my first pair of "high heels".

I remember how long I felt like I had waited, since I was four and putting purple plastic heels on all my Barbie Doll's. I was in Target with my mom, I had just bought my first pair of dressy black pants from 5-7-9 (Yes, I was that cool) and, don't worry, they were bellbottoms. I was walking down what seemed like endless aisles of shoes that were just ok, until I saw them. The shoes were chunky grey sandals with silver flowers stitched intricately on the straps. In my head I saw my pink toe nails peeping out of these gray sandals that I would obviously be wearing with my very trendy black bell bottoms. The thought was so magical that I felt, for the first time, the lusty feeling of exhilaration that comes with wishing your life forward. The addiction of wishing we were "just a bit older" or "just can't wait to be in this stage of life because the one I am in right now is like winter death."

So the process of rushing through my life began. When I was in sixth grade, I just KNEW things would be better in 8th grade. When I was a freshman, I just had the determined thought that Junior year would be my year, the most life-altering finish line for the happiness I was looking for. I realized as a senior that I still hadn't quite made it, so I just figured it was because I set my sights too low, because how could I forget about college?

Often, comments from other people that range from "act your age" and "stop being so immature" to "what a little adult you are", have warped our view and pressured is in all kinds of really un-fun (yup I made that a word) and detrimental ways. And our growing stops being growing and starts taking life instead of giving it.

See, I feel like God knew what He was doing when He made our brains have to "learn things". He didn't accidentally make a sixth grader have a sixth grade understanding. God loves growth, in fact He celebrates it. Some of the first things He made were things that grow, and the last thing He made, us, is never DONE growing. God made us to be exactly the age we are, in our spirit, mind and heart, when we are that age. So what are we doing wishing our days in so many other directions?

As I have been sucked into the lie masquerading as "planning my future" "looking like an adult" and "being mature", I have watched my years actually fade away from me instead of give me life. But isn't that so backwards? I have this crazy ability to forget to learn from where I am, but more importantly to celebrate the age I am. To BE the age I am.

But wouldn't it be a magical, freeing, beautiful thing to let our children, our youth, our adults and our seniors be exactly the age they are? To let them be children and play. To let them date the wrong guy for two weeks, or lecture words of wisdom, because they have a few more years under their belt.

I wish I had a fairy godmother. I wish, perhaps, that I had a time machine. A way to transport a message back to myself about being patient, waiting on my brain cells to kick in and being free in who God made me to be for exactly that moment. Ah to be content in being the age we are. To tell our past selves never to rush the days because, actually, the days will eventually seem like they are rushing themselves. To look at the small things as beautiful rights of passage at the RIGHT time, never too early or too late. What confidence we would carry into each stage of our life! There is something magical about being the age you are, celebrating your wisdom, learning your lessons and being exactly the person God intended you to be in the moment.

It's like texting, only for your body...

What's better than a t-shirt that says things like "I'm with Stupid", or "Kiss Me, I'm Irish". Well... if we're honest, probably lots of things, but mostly these awesome "Candy Cuffs" crafted and personalized by none other than Foster Weld (http://blog.fosterweld.com/blog/steph-norwood/attention-ladies-want-a-free-30-gift-card)

I have probably wasted 2 years of my life trying to figure out the subtle ways to get my husband to ask me on a date. It's not that he doesn't care, or is clueless, but ladies, I have learned the hard way subtlety is like a foreign language with no english translation in man world. So, dang it, gimme a candy cuff that says "Ask Me" and I will wear that thing loud and proud. Nothing like an obvious hint to get a great date, eh?

And what's more, since our communication skills have advanced to the world of texting (since having a conversation face to face seems to have gone out of style...) what better way to save those little texting fingers of yours, which are most likely exhausted from all their hard work these days, than to wear what you've been trying to say all along? Less effort and more obvious. It's like texting for your body, the next step in the wide world of personal communication. Get on the bus everyone!

For more info about a fab free giveaway, check out this lovely ladies site!

http://thecraftysideoflife.blogspot.com/2011/03/foster-weld-30-gift-card-giveaway.html

love

cait

because underneath it, we all want the same thing...

Religion is a breeding ground
Where the Devil's work is deeply found,
With teeth as sharp as cathedral spires,
Slowly sinking in.

God knows that I've been naive
But I think it makes him proud of me.
Now it's so hard to separate
My disappointments from his name.

Because shadows stretch behind the truth,
Where stained glass offers broken clues
And fear ties knots and pulls them tight.
It leaves us paralyzed.

But in the end such tired words will rest.
The truth will reroute the narrow things they've said.
The marionette strings will lower and untie
And out of the ashes, love will be realized.

God knows that we've been naive
And a bit nearsighted to say the least.
It's broken glass at children's feet
That gets swept aside unexpectedly

Sorry, not sorry...

When I was about 6 years old I learned the magic "healing" of an apology. I learned that when I said those two words "I'm sorry", or "my fault" that I had an unending power over conflict. That all of a sudden everything was solved and I could continue on my way, with all my friends and life band-aids perfectly in tact. That I would never have to face a problem head on again, because all it took were those two magic words to make everything better. It was like being invincible to the little "life bullets" that we all get shot with every once in a while. But not me. No, not Caitlin in her nifty little Keds and scrunchy...I had found a way around it.

I kept reaffirming this belief by tracing it to scripture. And scripture was sometimes (accidentally) used by others to teach me that, despite the exhaustion of my soul, I was doing the right thing by letting everyone suck me dry. By "loving others first", by "being selfless and being last in the kingdom", by "putting others needs above my own." Essentially the most important part being overlooked, that being honest with myself was just as important. And so, as many can attest to, I have become a chronic apologizer. Literally. You could step on my toe, and I will be the first to jump in before you have a second to breathe in oxygen, I will say "Oh, I am sorry." For what? For standing? For breathing? Who knows. All I know is that I have spent my whole life being sorry.

I have spent the last three years reaping the scars, opening the wounds, and facing head on the exhaustion this has burned into my life. And I have made a decision. Sorry, but I am not sorry. Not anymore. My grandma said something wise to me today, as she always does. She is like a little fortune cookie that is 4 feet tall and minus the cookie part. But still...wise as ever.

She said "There is absolute truth, no doubt. But sometimes, with people, that is a bit harder to say. You have to remember that what is shown to you, through someone's words and actions, is truth to you until you are told otherwise, because it is all you perceive. Sometimes, what you perceive is the only truth you know until you know otherwise. And that is valid and valuable. You shouldn't have to feel bad about that because it is the only message you are getting, and what you think and feel about it matters just as much as what it is."

Thanks Mema, for being my fortune cookie. And thanks, dear friends who have, for validating me in knowing that I don't have to be sorry anymore.

Dear Life...

A few things.

I guess I should start by saying thanks for sticking by me. You know...keeping me going even when I do the stupid things that could possibly ruin you. When I make bad choices that affect your friends...sorry for that. But I am grateful for you. Because I feel like our journey has just started and it has already been a beautiful one.

I just want to add that sometimes, I don't feel quite prepared for where you are taking me. The little things you surprise me with aren't always as fun or pleasant as you try and make them, and sometimes I don't do a good job handling the bumps in the road.

Also, I am still learning. I get overwhelmed a little too easy, and, if I am honest, can't juggle very many commitments. I don't think that makes me immature, naive, or silly. I just like to really invest deeply and I tend to spread myself too thin if I try to do too much. Just not my gift. I will keep trying though. I know I tend to forget things a little too often and show up a little too late to everything, but I promise, right now, I am doing all I can.

stick with me...

Anger is a vicious liar.

But what can you feel when you want to just be angry?

How do you react when someone biologically determined to love you is full of shit?

Ode to Truthful Writing

Dear Shauna.

I know this may sound odd and just a bit creepy, but I think you became my “friend” at just the right time. Somewhere in the deeper, and more obsessively creepy areas of my soul I feel like I could never be thankful enough for more truthful and colorful writing. As if it is a secret meant especially for me.

There are quiet moments when I realize that books are a special kind of friend to me. Like a reflection of the life I need to know, of places and loves and losses that need to be added to the running tab of stories I keep in my heart. Somehow, that ragged comfy green chair in the corner of my living room brings me to another place entirely when I am holding a book in my hand, a cup of tea in my other and sitting at just the right angle.It is then, with truthful and deep writing staring me straight in the eyeballs, I can really let be what is.

In moments when I need to be reminded that love and loss are as equally linked as passion and pain, I find it written there.

In moments where I need the solidarity of the choices I made in college and the woman I am facing today, the moments where I recognize that at my best my strengths have created a more beautiful earth and at my worst my weaknesses have wounded people as if I have laser-eyes, I find it written here.

When I need to remember how to love him, Jared, that is. How to hold his hand and just be. How to say just the right thing or smile and rest on his shoulder just the right way, or how to say “you are my family and my love.” I see it spoken there.

If insecurity is fighting its way through my too-soft-around-the-edges body, or my talk-too-much-love-too-little brain, I see a glimmer of hope for myself here.

When I need to be reminded that at my most radiant it is about loving people not pleasing them, creating not demolishing, eating and tasting not depriving, I see something truthful speaking in those pages.

There is a solidarity that I do not deserve and cannot explain in between the painted cardboard binding of books. There is a place for me to cry without embarrassingly wiping up my tears and apologizing.

There is a place to imagine free of judgment and questions. But most importantly there is a place to be reminded of the woman I want to become. The way I want to live and love. The way I want passion and zest and to fight back when life starts kicking me. There is a way I want to grow up but stay young in my rawest, most tender parts.

There is beauty in truthful writing. A secret to be found and a smile that can only be shared with the black and white page before me. But, at the most perfect moment, this is all I need.

So thank you, Shauna, for being one of many who lets me creepily bond with your writing. Thank you for bearing your soul in such a way that truly, I believe, even if it is forever in the pages of my dearest books, we are kindred spirits.