Remembering

I think we’re all born with a song. There's this thing in all of us, right from the start, that's an intensely important part of our existence. It shapes us, helps us experience the world, sets us apart. It flavors our passions and choices, from the literature we choose to the places we make our homes.

Somewhere along the way, though, our songs get lost in the industrialization of life. We start thinking we have to sing for somebody or something else. Our songs become career-focused or finance-focused or relationship-focused and the idea of having the ability to sing inwards, just for yourself, feels wrong.

But one day, after you've stopped singing and can barely remember what it even sounds like, finally, finally, finally, someone builds an alley and puts up a birdcage and reminds you to hear your song. And you find yourself thinking, How ridiculous, to think this song wasn't enough.

Finding the perfect fit

This week I enjoyed some much needed dolce far niete, the sweetness of doing nothing. Carefree, easy. I slept past 7:00 and allowed myself to spend my mornings cozy, in bed with coffee and a new book. I made waffles for lunch with my gentleman and we watched movies and read some more, side by side. I explored familiar parts of my city with my friends and found new treasures in places I least expected. I cried heavily over how exhausted I found myself and then ate handfuls of peanut m&ms to make up for the sadness.

I was glad for the company and I was glad for the solitude.

And in the mix of it all, over more waffles and bacon and fruit, I found myself recognizing a youthfulness in myself that seemed almost unfamiliar. Because, you see, this tender gentleman is bringing out the best in me in the best of ways. We ride in the ute listening to bands that I haven't heard in three years, at least, and I still know every lyric. And I am reminded of frisbee after band practice, of swinging at the park after my first college classes, of midnight trips to waffle house and moving out of my parents' house for the first time, of summer and fall and their respective sounds. We cook dinner and eat ice cream and I am reminded of the first time I cooked dinner. We read together and I remember every word I have ever read. We spend time apart and I am reminded of every person I have ever missed. I am reminded of all the things I've left behind.

He teaches me that bringing out the best in someone means realizing that the best parts of you are not always necessarily caught up in who you are right now. The best in you hides in realizations you had at 17 and decisions you made at 19 and adventures you had at 21. The best of you rests not only in who you have become and where you are going, but the deepest, most soulful places you've come from. Instead of always moving forward, bringing out the best in someone allows the sweetest of backward glances, not to compare or wonder or wallow, but to recognize that even though some of the best is yet to come, some of it has already been.

What a wonderful discovery.

PB&J Picnic before the NYE fireworks over the Harbour Bridge. I was reminded of every new year celebrated thus far, traditions built and buried, and why this new year holds promises far surpassing any I have ever imagined. And I have a great imagination.

When things don't go as planned, and being a "twenty-something"

Tonight I got lost. I was planning on going to a small group at 7:30. Instead, I drove around until 8:00 and upon finding the right apartment complex, couldn't find the right room and ended up driving home at 8:30, unable to contact anyone. I was frustrated.

See, it's hard enough moving to a new country and making new friends. I've done those two things. Now the new struggle is figuring out how to manage new friends while maintaining old friendships and having not a clue where anything is in this city. I get lost weekly. Sometimes bi-weekly. Sometimes twice a day, if I'm really lucky. As much as I love it here, as much as I feel at home and am confident this move was the best decision I could have made for myself, life has a way of throwing those dreaded curve balls that catch me off guard and fill me with fear and doubt. Like getting lost.

I have a choice. I can either let the frustrations that come with the weight of a move to Australia overcome me, or I can step out in faith and believe that this season is twice as rewarding as it is challenging. I can believe that this season is enriching me in ways I both see clearly and will never understand. I can sit in my car and choke back tears because, yet again, I couldn't get somewhere and nobody called to see where I was. Or I can let it go, laugh about how good I am at going nowhere, and realize that my friends here don't treat me like my friends back in the States did for two very legitimate reasons: They don't know me as well, and they aren't the same people.

On top of this, I've been reading a lot lately about the challenges of being a "twenty-something." There seem to be two sides. There are those of us who are out of school, living sort of on the cusp of everything. Some days we feel like we're waiting for real life to start and other day we realize we're living the dream. We have the time to be open to any opportunity or call. Then there are those of us who are newly married, starting "real" jobs, and beginning to see what stability tastes like. And whatever side we're on, we want the other. If we're on the fringe, we want the marriage (or at least a relationship) and the stable job and better income and new apartment or house or car or whatever. But if we have that, we want the freedom that comes with singleness, from being able to go wherever you want to being able to do whatever you want. And we all feel like we're the only ones struggling through it.

Here's what's up. Neither of those seasons is better than the other, and until we come to terms with this, we won't be happy with what we have. I long for the day when I'll be a wife, when I'll have a steadier income and my own car and place to live. I long for the day when I figure out what I want to be "when I grow up." But I love where I am now. I love having a job with flexible hours that supplies me with a place to live, a means of transportation, and a community. I love being able to spend my free time with whoever I want, being able to explore or sit at home, if I feel like it. I love everything about this season, even the things that momentarily upset me or make me wonder what in the world I'm doing. I love how this time in my life is shaping me. Guess what? If I had gotten married or started a different job, I would not be being shaped the way I am. Because everything about this season, from my singleness to my adventurousness, is both preparing me for what's next and allowing me to enjoy what's now. This season is not what I expected, but it is wonderful all the same. There's no such thing (within reason, let's not get crazy) as a bad season; there are just seasons, and they are as beneficial or detrimental as we make them to be.

I choose to make this one beneficial. And because this season will be beneficial to me and glorifying  to God, so will my next season. Whatever it may be.