Welcome to 2013.

2013.

The years go by so quickly. And time seems ever more fleeting in its progression. The flipping of a glossy, crisp calendar page to January never ceases takes us by surprise. We are in awe at how much has changed in a mere twelve months. The new year has everyone reminiscing, pondering, examining.

I am no exception. I’m not one to make big resolutions. I’m more the type to drive home with a broken heater on a frigid Colorado night, listening to Passenger and replaying the moments of the past year that stand out in my mind. I allow myself to sink into both the nostalgia and the surges of pain in reliving the many moments. Some of which have changed me, and some of which I will embrace solely for their charm, the warmth they bring.  It’s one a.m. and I wonder why my favorite music is always music that makes me cry.

I rejoice in the present, the refreshing hope of a new year, a new shot at being whatever I want to be. And in the same moment I am flooded by the good and bad of these memories. I allow myself to go further. Two years, three years, even four. I’ve made no promises to myself this year, and I am content in living in my memories, at least for this short drive home. They are movie frames that will never leave me.

There are some moments that occur in the present that you immediately know you will never forget. It is instantly and undoubtedly captured. And then there are moments that take you by surprise; seemingly insignificant moments that make themselves vivid to you when you least expect it. You’re reflecting on the past year of your life, watching the clouds of your breath rise in a car, and then without warning, you are standing in a familiar place, watching in slow motion as a boy turns his face toward you in the sunlight and you count every color in his eyes and recall the exact way his hair shrouds his ears, barely kisses his cheekbones. Or you are overwhelmed by the coolness of saltwater licking at your feet, feel the sinking of every toe into the moist and compact sand at the same time your ears welcome the ringing laugh of a girl you tell all your secrets to.

I remember the hottest days and the longest drives.

I memorize the way the sun sinks behind a boy’s head, transforming his dark hair to gold.

I hold onto the sweet clandestineness of opening a back gate to get to a garage.

I try to remember every scar on my body.

I remember photographs and sunglasses in the back of a van with my best friends.

I trace the outline of a man in a pickup truck, silhouette bold against the soft glow of my taillights in the rear view mirror.

I remember the cracking of glow sticks underwater on a pure, summer night.

I can’t forget the shuddering of shoulders and the tears that fell on my driveway.

I remember pizza and punk music and cold nights under downtown city lights.

I cry.

I smile, too. I smile a lot.

And sometimes I do both at the same time.

Everything In Transit.

It's nights like these, in self-imposed confinement to these four oatmeal colored walls, that I find myself thinking most about transitions.

I'm procrastinating, as per usual, perched at a desk in a corner lit by the soft light of a small lamp. I should be writing an essay, the draft of which is due tomorrow, and as I'm finishing up the first paragraph at 9:45 pm, I'm thinking about transitions. As a writer, in any piece, transitions are ultimately the glue that binds together the random strings of words and ideas we throw down onto paper. Essential.

Anyways (see what I did there?), today was the first day-- in the month I have been here-- that I did not see the sun. I walked to class with my head down, scuffing my heels against the cement that is collecting orange and auburn leaves every day. It was overcast all day, and drizzled through dinner in the early evening. It's finally fall in California.

It seems so strange to me that it is only just beginning, as I am used to an earlier emergence of autumn weather in Colorado, frequently trudging through a foot of snow around this time of year. So the summer seemed longer than ever, and now it is blurring into the chill that is expected of October. A transition much needed.

And I am in transition now, still adjusting to this new place far away from home, discovering faces I have never seen every time I walk across campus.

I keep thinking of church. The school hosts a big welcome mass a few weeks into classes, which is called the Mass of the Holy Spirit, and all are welcome to attend. I know and love the Catholic Church, and I am happy to call it my home. And one of my favorite aspects of getting to know the Church intimately is learning about the meaning behind each ritual, the root of each word, the significance of everything. From the moment that the priest kisses the altar. The word "mass" itself comes from the Latin phrase "Ite missa est," meaning, "It is sent," or "You are sent," and that is why every mass concludes with a sending phrase akin to that. And at this Mass of the Holy Spirit, the priest said in his homily, "Saint Ignatius signed almost all of his letters with a variation of the phrase 'Go forth, and set the world on fire.'"

It seems like such a significant message. It can be made alive every day in this transitional state. When change seems to be engulfing you, when you are overwhelmed with the pressures of adapting to newness, becoming something new, keep this to guide your way.

Go forth. Set the world on fire.

Freckles.

We're driving through Utah where the river runs red from the desert earth. We're some 400 miles from home, and still have so far to go. I'm listening to sad songs as the rocks become castles and the clouds hang lower than ever. Then it's Jack's Mannequin in Arizona and days later we're downing skinny lattes going 80 on the interstate toward Nevada.

I've been thinking about stars lately.

On our trip out to California, we camped at the Grand Canyon for three nights. When I was eight years old we hiked the Grand Canyon and stayed at the Bright Angel Campground at the bottom. Seven miles in and ten miles out in 120 degree July heat. It was just Mom and Dad and I, and some of the greatest memories of my life. At night, we would open the flap on top of the tent and just lay under the stars in our tee shirts and talk in a whisper.

And here we were ten years later, and I've still never seen so many stars as you can there. The nights are hot and the Milky Way runs wild across the heavens, a sheer stream of gossamer illuminating the deep blackness. The stars are overwhelmingly numerous, dizzying in a way you cannot imagine unless you have witnessed them.

Andrew McMahon, arguably my favorite musician, has always had a preoccupation with the sky and with stars. In almost every song, a reference to the sky or stars or space can be found. He has Van Gogh's Starry Night tattooed on his forearm, and said once in an interview that at the top of his bucket list was to go to space. I love it.

And now I'm all moved in and comfortable, two weeks into classes. California is beautiful and the mild weather, overabundance of longboarders, and towering palm trees make it feel like paradise. Lilacs and roses grow alongside my building on one side, and their fragrance pervades the air at all hours.

But I don't see stars. Some nights I only want the stars. I want Orion's Belt in the winter and the Big Dipper in the summer and I want to know that the universe is expansive beyond my wildest dreams. I want to see the stars glow and imagine that they are God's freckles. Or the watermelon seeds He spat out. I want to talk to Andrew McMahon. I want to know how big the biggest star in all existence is. Why are all the poets and songwriters and romantics so obsessed?

This home is new to me.

I've been thinking about stars lately.

New Beginnings.

It's 2 am and my eyes are burning. I'm running barefoot back to the front door. I know I can't look back to the glowing red of your tail-lights because I know I will need you more. And the moment that pickup  truck roars into gear and drives away, the only thing on my mind is how I wish it would come right back.



A few people have recently mentioned the prospect of blogging to me, so here I am now. It sounded like fun initially, but my more valid excuse for starting this is perhaps that it could be beneficial in some way to my dream of being a writer. Also, I think it might be something I could personally thrive off of in some way. It could be food for me.

I am moving to California this week, and this summer, I have been nothing but ecstatic. But now I have been rubbed raw of this excitement and I'm physically sore from the stress of the inevitable. I fell in love with a boy in 2008 beneath a swingset, and now four years later, I still replay our first kiss. My father told me then that I was silly. I was young and there was so much for me to learn about the world. He told me that what I felt then would be nothing compared to what I felt at age 17. And that what I felt at age 17 would be nothing compared to what I would feel at age 20 or 21.

He was both right and wrong. He perhaps never imagined that I would be with the same boy, and so in this way, he was mistaken. When I fell in love with you, it was absolutely overpowering. I truly believed that there was no more fervent love in all the world. What I had found was the epitome. I was consumed by my love for this boy. But my father was correct, however, in that what I thought was the epitome was only a faint reflection of the love I feel now. Because every day, heaven's existence is proven to me simply in the existence of this boy.

And the notion of moving thousands of miles away from him has me torn.

The coast is calling me. I am bound for travels, for this great adventure. But he is my North Star, my compass for these brave explorations. Take a dive with me.