the road not taken

I shall be telling you this with a sigh
Somehow ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference
--Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken

Choices.

That's what it all comes down to in life - the choices you make. Or the ones you don't.

Often times, you make the right choice and are duly rewarded. Sometimes, you make the wrong choice and you learn quickly of your mistake. And there are times, when you make one of those two choices - right or wrong; black or white - and you never really learn which choice you made. If it was good or bad, right or wrong. You're left to wonder in the gray area.

As a perfectionist (in denial, I might add) choices are hard for me. No matter what I choose, I always think I'm making the wrong choice. It's hard to know - to leap blindly towards the future by making a choice - if you're ever going to pick the right thing.

I put off choosing what I'd be going to graduate school for until weeks before I graduated from undergrad. And the stress that led towards that decision was nearly unbearable. The choices that lay before me were numerous and daunting. All of them with good points, yet all of them with negative points as well.

But then, I finally chose and leapt blindly, faithfully, towards my decision.

Many things went into that choice. My ability to get into the program, the chance to do something good in the world, the belief that I was perfectly suited for the degree. There was also one thing that drove me towards my decision - how absolutely, perfectly practical the degree was.

I realize that most people turn their nose up when I mention that I'm getting my masters in nonprofit management. Most people don't really know what it is and are turned off by the words 'nonprofit' But what most people don't understand that the degree itself, is helpful, not only in the world of charitable organizations, but in every sector. Yes, my concentration is nonprofits, but the curriculum is filled with management courses (even accounting courses).

So, yes, my degree is practical. It's also something that ensures I will be helping people and serving my community and fellow man.

But here's the thing: I'm starting to doubt just how good this practical choice was for me. I often leave class in confusion or tears - sometimes both. After spending 2.5 extra hours after class where I was ridiculed and had a paper torn to shreds by a professor, those niggling little doubts that I chose the wrong thing began to pop to the front of my mind.

Perhaps it's the stress. Or the blow to my ego. Maybe it's everything combined that's making it difficult right now and I'll grow out of it with time. But right now, in this moment, I wish I would have picked on terms of passion instead of practicality.

I wish I would have picked the road less traveled.

Maybe that would have made a world of difference.

Or maybe not.

But, for now, I'll just continue to live in the gray area until I know for sure.

the hardest goodbye

This seems to be a season of goodbyes in my life.

Last month, I had to say a series of goodbyes to my best friends. It was the longest goodbye ever. But this week, I was forced to say the hardest goodbye. I said goodbye to my brother before he headed off to war.

I will say that I never thought I'd be sending someone I loved off to war. Regardless of the current climate in Iraq or whether or not I believe this is a just war we belong in (I don't, by the way, it's the liberal in me), this is my baby brother who I've sent off to a war zone where he has the potential to be hurt. Or worse.

I try not to think about the 'or worse' part because my fragile heart cannot handle it.

My brother and I are close. We are 3 years apart (2.5 for 3 months out of the year) and while I am older, I cannot imagine a time in my life that he is not a part of. He's always been there. In fact, one of my earliest memories is of taking him home from the hospital.

And while I could not even begin to guess what his favorite song might be or the last movie that he saw, I can tell you that his eyes are the most lovely shade of blue/green which I am insanely jealous of and his eyelashes go on for miles. I can tell you that he is far more stubborn than I am. I can tell you that he is one of the most generous people that I know.

He is my polar opposite. If we didn't look alike, I wouldn't even think we were related. He is an extreme extrovert. He attracts people everywhere he goes. He's never met a stranger in his life. I admire him for so much that and wish I could be the same.

I call him b-wonder, short for boy wonder. How or why that nickname started, I do not know, it's been what I've called him for so long that the origins have faded. I do remember shortening it to simply b-wonder, sitting around my grandmother's kitchen table and how it's stuck ever since. But it fits. He's my b-wonder.

And now, my b-wonder is off to war.

When I had to tell my brother, my b-wonder goodbye, I told him that I loved him. I told him to be safe. The standard.

Then I told him not to be a hero because he has to come back home to me.

I told him not to be hero because I'm selfish. I need him to be in my life - a constant, permanent fixture no matter how many days or miles separate us - and to walk me down the aisle one day in his uniform.

I told him not to be hero. But the thing is, he already is.

a day in the life: sniglet the cat

The following is snippets from my daily life with this crazy, little 3 pound tabby cat.

6:00 am - Stomp on owner. Meow loudly. Lick owner's face. Announce it's time to wake up!
6:01 - Get pushed off owner.
6:05 - Stomp on owner. Meow. Lick owner's face.
6:06 - Get yelled at.
6:07 - Undaunted. Stomps, meows, licks.
6:09 - Get thrown off bed.
6:10 - Regroup.

7:00 am - Stomp, meow, lick owner repeatedly.
7:01 - Owner finally gets out of bed
7:02 - Get tripped over while owner makes her way to the kithen to feed you.
7:04 - Get fed.

8:00 am - Stomp, meow, lick owner repeatedly.
8:01 - Get thrown off bed
8:02 - 9:30 - Repeat stomping, meowing, licking until owner finally gets up.
9:31 - 10:30 - Follow owner around, getting tripped over.

10:31 - 11:30 - Whereabouts unknown.

11:35 - Owner finds you in the closet, in the corner, behind a box. Forced out of hiding.
11:37 - Owner forces you to play with Max, Violet, and Eloise (the mice).
11:45 - Owner asks for your opinon on her outfit. You dislike it and ignore her.
11:46 - Snuggle with owner.
11:50 - Owner decides to leave you, you smack her in an effort to get her to stay.
11:51 - Owner kisses you goodbye.

11:52 - 4:00 - Sleep in peace.

4:01 - Hear owner's keys. Greet her at the door.
4:02 - Follow to owner to bedroom.
4:05 - Follow to bathroom.
4:08 - Follow to kitchen.
4:09 - 4:12 - Beg for treat.
4:13 - Eat treats.

4:15 - 5:30 - Whereabouts unknown.

5:31 - Reappear. Beg for dinner.
5:35 - Get fed dinner.
5:40 - Reward owner by sitting behind her on couch.
5:42 - Owner takes out the horrible, annoying flashing thing. Starts clicking.

5:44 - Get annoyed.
5:45 - Leave.

5:50 - Owner seeks forgivness.
5:55 - Forgive Owner.
5:56 - 10:00 - Sleep on the back of couch, next to owner.
10:01 - Relucatantly follow owner to bed.
10:05 - Snuggle up next to owner and sleep some more.

It's tough being a Sniglet cat.

thoughts on big city living

The first time I saw the skyline of the city I would be working in and going to school in, my heart sank.

Hello big city.

I am, admittedly, from a small midwestern town (hello sterotype!). My hometown boasts 2000 residents, where everyone knows everyone, and all roads lead home. The epitome of a small town.

When I moved to the town I now call home, where there were 48,000 more people with interstates, roads with a speed limit over 25 miles per hour, a true downtown filled with bars and retuarants, it was what I believed a big (ish) town to be like. It was, of course, much, much larger than any town I'd ever lived in.

My sophomore year of highschool, I boldly proclaimed that I was going to be a journalist. In New York City. I'd write for the Times and live in a cute little loft, walking everywhere in the city in my 3 inch Jimmy Choo's. That was the life. That was my dream.

I was a city girl. No big, open county for me, no small town living. Not for this girl. It was the city life for me.

And then I took journalism and that idea went rapidly out the window.

But I still clung to that long-held idea that I was destined for a big city. Full of life and lights. Not that I'd ever lived in a big city before, but the image was so dramatized and brilliant in my head that I couldn't think of myself anywhere else.

Then, the roots began to grow into the town I now call home and my wings were clipped. There was no need for the hustle and bustle of a big city. I had a home. As big as I believed it to be filled with familiarities and loved ones.

The dream was changed - I dreamt of cultivating the roots I had put down in my beautiful city.

In an attempt to better myself, I uprooted myself and moved.

The town I currently live in is nothing to write home about. The city I work and go to school in, however, is a true big city, on the outskirts of a major US city. Compared to places like NYC, Chicago, and LA, the population is only a drop in the bucket. But to this smalltown girl, it's certainly big city living.

According to the census, there are 180,000 people.

I am quite certain that all 180,000 people are on the interstate when I want to go to work/school/Target.

Four weeks into big city living has me thinking I'll never be acclimated to living in a big city such as this. How anyone could get use to the traffic is beyond me.

The traffic! Oh, the traffic!

I once thought 20 minutes was a long time to get anywhere. My daily commute is double that. If traffic's good. My average speed on the interstate is probably 50 MPH simply because of the sheer volume of cars. I swear that I nearly get into an accident (or two) every day. It is sheer insanity.

The moral of the story? Big city life ain't for me.

eight years later

It was eight years ago that the whole world changed.

Like most moments in history that stand our brighter (or darker, I suppose) than most, those who lived through them remember every last detail. Where they were when they heard (or saw), what the weather was like, what happened in the moments following.

I was in a classroom. I watched, in real time, as the second plane hit the World Trade Center. President Bush was in town. It was sunny. The day passed in a blur of different news channels and talk of war.

The whole world changed. Everyone will tell you that. The darkest day in our history. The greatest attack on America - on our home.

Yet, my world didn't change. My day-to-day life remained the same. The only thing that changed was what was shown on my TV and what everyone talked about.

I have been to New York City - the greatest city - twice.

Both times after that fateful day. I have visited Ground Zero and stood where thousands lost their lives and thousands saved lives. I mourned those lost and celebrated the heroes who rose up. I mark this day each year, every year. I remember where I was, the sunny weather, and the terrifying scenes that followed.

And while this is my home, it never hit home.

Until this day, 8 years later.

Because 8 years and 3 days after the attack on this county - after the planes flew into buildings, towers fell, and people lost their lives to an act of terrorism - my baby brother is headed to war.

A war that begins and ends with that attack on this county, eight years ago.

Eight years later and it finally hits home. It's finally personal.

My brother, like thousands, maybe millions of others, is becoming a hero because of September 11th.

home sweet sweet home

With the sun rising behind me, I had made the three hour drive home. It's only been two weeks, but the pull was just too strong not to return after a hellish week.

As I crossed the county line, I nearly cried with joy and relief at being almost home.

As I walked into my [old] place of employment and saw my best friend, quickly embracing her, I did cry with joy and relief.

I was home.

And as I sat in my [old] boss' office, pouring my heart out about how horrible everything was - work and school and the big city - I cried with heartache and sadness and anger.

After an hour of advice, encouragement, brainstorming, gossip, laughter, and some more tears, I emerged from his office refreshed and inspired. He was exactly what I needed for my weary soul.

My best friend was exactly what I needed for my tattered heart. Two weeks without seeing a friend had worn me down and has probably been one of the worst parts of living where I know virtually no one. It was pure happiness just talking and laughing with her.

My next stop was my parents. I hadn't told a soul I was coming, so I was a giant, life-size surprise who showed up at their front door. Though, when I had called, a block away, and asked my mother if she wanted to hang out with me and was told no and was then met with nervous laughter when I told her, no, really, I was right outside, I'm not sure that was the best sign.

Apparently their empty nest isn't so empty after all.

I raided their fridge. Spoke of all my misadventures and promised I'd tell them when I was coming next.

The rest of the afternoon, I spent with my friend Lindsey, waiting for her baby to kick. Sadly, the baby takes after it's mother and refused to kick for it's auntie.

And then, it was time to go back. I dragged my feet all afternoon because I not only dreaded the long drive ahead of me, but because I didn't want to go back at all.

My city makes me feel peaceful and happy. It just feels right being there.

If I hadn't left my cat behind, I might not have gone back.

But I did. I came back. It was by far harder to leave the second time around then it was the first.

However, I came back refreshed and rejuvenated by my friends and family and home, ready to face with coming week supported and inspired.

The short jaunt still didn't deter my homesickness. I'm not sure anything will until I really am back home where I belong.