Providence and Seasons

In life, things do not always occur as planned. If you have been alive past the stage of an obstinate toddler, you know this. Yet, so many of us receive this lesson with agonized shock each time it is imparted to us. We question, we shake our fists to the sky, we weep into the chasm of chaos; as Jobs in all of humanity, undone, we cry out, "What is my strength, that I should hope? and what is mine end, that I should prolong my life?" (Job 6:11). Somewhere up in heaven, God is just shaking his head, maybe facepalming a little. For though the tested may, like Job, be among the faithful of the earth, each of us settles during these tribulations into a narrowed scope of "Nothing in life is worth this misery". The cause of it, perhaps, is a fundamental misunderstanding of seasons.

When I was two, I didn't understand why there just couldn't be snow in summer, or why God didn't slap bullies across the face with their own personal hurricane. My thought was that if I brought an umbrella, it had to rain. Many of us go through life like that. But I think now, that God gives us things like day and night and these four seasons to teach us profound and essential spiritual lessons about His ways. Life, inevitably, is an obstacle course of ups and downs that, like the hands of a potter on wet clay, mold us into what we are meant to be. When things are going smoothly, we see a perfect plan in everything-- each harrowing disaster in the past becomes a "bump in the road", and the future could not be anything but lovely and gentle. But the bumps do return, and as you go over them, they jostle, your clay chips, and you start to believe that any possible good in the future isn't worth this present torment. Is it?

I used to (and maybe still do) hate it when people said, "Oh, you need shadows to see the sunshine" or something else to the effect of "no appreciating the good without the bad". Believe me, I know chocolate is fantastic even without tasting broccoli first. That being said, it is true to some effect-- we learn to appreciate more what we are in danger of losing, and in comparison to the darkness, light seems to grow brighter still. Yet I think it's more accurate to say this; sometimes you have to endure the thunderstorm to have the joy of jumping in puddles later. And when you're terribly frightened by the booms and cackles, you learn that the house is safe and that your Daddy will always hold you close as you tremble. So it is that a three-year-old may understand more of God than the adult who gnashes their teeth and denounces faith in every poor circumstance.

As someone who struggles with bipolar disorder, I am unfortunately/fortunately intimately acquainted with this premise.

I won't play it like I've learned my lesson well. Without fail, each time I'm depressed I begin to draw a fantastic parallel to the book of Job. Cursing the day I was born, believing God must hate me for being terrible, the whole 'why is this happening', I'm unworthy of all goodness, general lack of perspective, etc. This presents a very real question on the case of optimism: Is it wrong to feel down? Does God condemn the times we stumble into the tarry pits of "woe is me"?

Let's take a look at the seasons.

Each is beautifully unique. Each is necessary for life. Spring heralds, "out with the lion, in with the lamb", promising gentleness, new life, and clearing of the storms. Summer brings bounty, and what feels like endless sun. In the fall, the produce is swept up, clouds begin to loom in the sky, and leaves scatter from the trees. Winter is barren and dormant, seeming impregnable and as endless as the summer before (though, you know, sledding always livens the days). And yes, too, we see the days pull longer and shorter. Leave it to God to turn a simple axial tilt of a planet into an allegory for all of life.

Galatians 6:9 says, "And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up."

1 Peter 1:6 says, "In this [salvation] you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials,"

And,

Psalm 40:1-3 says, "I waited patiently for the Lord, He turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord."

As Job is reprimanded by God for his blindness in the current situation, it's easy to forget in reading that the very first verse of this book states that Job is among the righteous. He is "blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil." Two important things may be gleaned from this: The righteous are not exempt from suffering, and, it is possible for the righteous to be soul-shatteringly depressed.

The shortest verse in the Bible speaks volumes: Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

The Bible also says, in 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God." Which is a mouthful, but a very wise mouthful.

We have a wholly loving and gracious God, our Providence, who blesses us with the trials of seasons so that we may reap their joy, grow strong in Him, and mature our hearts to gratitude in all things good and righteous. The moments of anguish here on Earth are not ignored by Him, nor are we condemned for the ill of depression. He does not waste our suffering. God tells us not to lack faith in these times, not to assume we know better (Job 33:4, 38:4); but He also tells us to heap our burdens upon him:

"I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." ~John 16:33

The earth itself, in every trail, is but training to trust in Him, for He upholds us with His mighty hand (Isaiah 41:10) and carries our every anxious burden (1 Peter 5:7). We are children in thunderstorms, and in our desperation, we cling to our Father or the protection, salvation, and love He always, unconditionally, irrevocably offers.

Sow righteousness for yourselves,

    reap the fruit of unfailing love,

and break up your unplowed ground ;

    for it is time to seek the Lord, until he comes

    and showers his righteousness on you.

~Hosea 10:12 

New Year's Resolution

Working myself into shape was not my New Year's resolution this year. In fact, my resolution last year shifted mid-January from "go to the gym at least 4 times a week" into "never make a New Year's resolution ever again". This is for one simple reason: New Year kinda sucks for introverts, in a lot of ways. A pinnacle among them being the rush that occurs directly succeeding December 31st. If you haven't made a resolution for the year but plan to go to the gym during the month of January for any reason, just don't. Walk in circles around your living room if you have to, or go kayaking downhill in the snow, but avoid the gym for a quarter mile radius.

It's a cultural phenomenon that I like to narrate a la National Geographic. It's the prime season for the developing plumage of these lanky mammals, and they flock to the local calisthenics hole for a much needed "leg day". Ah, look, there's one female of the species now. She's roosted upon what looks to be an artifact of Medieval torture. If you listen closely, you can hear her dying inside...

But that usually gets me in trouble.

Okay, look, disregard that; the problem with these resolutions is that everyone tries to pick the same thing. My big issue with this whole New Year thing isn't in the essence of me celebrating with my cat and a party popper at 9pm ("It's 12 o'clock somewhere"), which, by the way, I actually didn't do this year so the joke's on you, Mom. No, this issue begins the following morning. And it has 99% to do with this glorious blessing that is introversion:

Gym resolutions would be so fun if I was the only one who made them! All of you, stop it. It's my thing now. Give up and go home.

Just once I'd like to ask someone what their goal for this year is to hear them say, "Oh, you know, a bowl of ice cream every other morning, the usual" or maybe "Gee, I hadn't really thought about it-- I think I might like to ride an ostrich this year." People could stand to be a whole lot more accepting of the things they genuinely enjoy, and that'd do it. Here's the thing: the shift to New Year isn't going to change you. You could make the choice to eat better, go to the gym, or get more sleep any other day. It's far better to start the year in a way you'll be glad to end it: Loving yourself.

If painting makes you happy, sign up for the class. Maybe you could challenge yourself to random acts of kindness. You could buy yourself some new mechanical pencils and fuzzy socks, or check Facebook less often, or go walk dogs at the local shelter-- while getting in shape may be a great objective, there are so many other experiences worth living. If your goal is to lose 15 pounds, add in a little bonus of "Visit that fresh market I love, once a week." If you love the concept of your goals but hate how you get to them, you'll run out of willpower along with your happiness. You have to love the journey or you'll turn back on the destination. (I know this because my dad always threatens to "turn this car around right now")

And what do I love to do? Well... read. So I custom-built a 52-week challenge, and it's just descriptive but also vague enough for you to do it with me, if you'd like! Then we can all talk about the books we read in one glorious online nerd haven. Basically, here are the specs: One book per week throughout the year. You can cram all you want, or you can read one each week, but you have to read all 52. In addition, while 13 are free-reads, a whopping 39 have prompts. You can take them in any order you like and push in your free book slots whenever you like. You can also, of course, read books outside of the challenge, or customize it for your own use. Or, you can apply multiple prompts to one book you read. (Though if you do that, you're kind of a party pooper, okay?) A lot of these prompts hail from this year's Popsugar reading challenge. I can't let myself completely decide the prompts, because the whole list would sound a bit like, "nonfiction about physics, nonfiction about birds, nonfiction about Vietnamese cooking..." But I digress. Here it is:

As I read along, I'll be updating my list of books read in the following. It'll offer recommended books for specific prompts, mini reviews, links to larger posts, and general asides:

• New York Times Bestseller: Life After Life (by Kate Atkinson). A while back I tried to read this book but only had the stamina to get halfway through-- it's not a good first book after a dry spell, I'll note that. It is, however, the most brilliant anti-war novel ever crafted. I hear y'all in the back screaming Slaughterhouse-Five, but I must politely disagree. I've read both, and here is the difference: Slaughterhouse-Five, while a masterpiece all on its own, merely convinces that war is brutal and irrational. Life After Life hits with force, spiraling through a tapestry of the destiny of one woman, Ursula, amor fati, into the pained realization that we cannot know every story. Friends become strangers. Family becomes the enemy. Time after time, new pathways are revealed, new insights, people who we think will live forever and then live short. Life After Life is unique because it looks to the sky. The whole world as a snake with a tail in its mouth. And it dies, comforted, in the hands of a stranger.
• Finish in a Day: The Crucible (by Arthur Miller). This is one of the three books I brought with me to this year's Winter Camp for my church-- and, due to a surprising amount of sociability, it was the only one I finished. To give warning, it is capable of messing you up psychologically and bringing you awash to your knees in emotion in a mere 143 pages. The very nature of humanity, in all its perilous vengeance, is examined under the light (or, shall we say, darkness) of the Salem witch trials. The deleted act is best read as an epilogue to a very cataclysmic preceding scene; and through it, in the entirety of these acts, you will begin to question what malignant nature resides inside of you, yourself, no matter how pious. The just are not safe, and the wicked are martyrs. Good show, Arthur Miller, good show. 10/10.
• Graphic Novel: Tina's Mouth: An Existential Comic Diary (by Keshni Kashyap). The following is addressed to those of you who think I can find no fault in literature (it is accurate, on most occasions): I had such high hopes for this one. In the very "prologue" of the diary, which is addressed to the existential philosopher Sarte, 'Tina' writes, "I'm not one of those girls who write in diaries about boys and popularity and that sort of thing, in case you were wondering". This happens to be excruciatingly ironic because it is the only thing this book deliberates on, besides some subtle nuances to do with caste systems and appropriation of religion; but its only worthwhile content consists of a few quotes from Camus and Sarte. Sadly, yet another work of fiction that portraits teenagers as hormonal drones incapable of grasping any measure of common sense, let alone meaningful philosophy. I could excuse this if it was well-written or slightly unpredictable whatsoever, like Why We Broke Up, but alas, this book has next to nothing to offer except for a certifiable reason to go out and prove it wrong. Yikes. I feel like I need to wash my mind out with another book.
• Book by a Comedian: Man Up!: Tales of my Delusional Self-Confidence (by Ross Mathews). To be honest, I'll be a bit biased about this one. That's because I am now, certifiably, one of Ross's best friends. In fact, the book's third sentence is a sharp, "So now that we're best friends (oh, by the way, we totally just became best friends)"-- And that's all you need to know in preview for what follows. If you're interested in a spunky, raunchy, cheeky take on everything from pajama pants to lap dogs to butternut squash, this one is for you. It's a great palate-cleanser from a long string of books, and there's never a dull moment (also, Ross is gayer than a rainbow lollipop in the hands of Neil Patrick Harris). Read it and gain a new best friend! It's witty and entertaining all the way through. And while you're at it, do yourself a favor and watch through all the Ross the Intern moments-- you won't be sorry. 
• Random From the Library: Finding Zero (by Amir D. Aczel). Aczel weaves, through poignant spirituality and captivating memoirs, a tapestry of numbers that span not only human experience and the meaning of its incorporeal void, but of an existence that transcends all that we are capable of perceiving. Not only does this striking account brilliantly explain Eastern philosophy and its relation to the origin of sets and infinite nothingness, it captures some of the most fundamental aspects of human psychology and its cognitive abstraction: the longing for beauty, the satisfaction of an endless journey, the quintessential soul of questions without answers, and of course, that pivotal hidden corner of the mind where the concept of Zero merged with the vastness of the Infinite to flourish and grow to fruition. 
• Translated: Why We Broke Up (by Daniel Handler, illustrated by Maira Kalman). This was once a Spanish series, but has since been compiled, translated, and turned into one of my favorite books. It was quite a shocking revelation to me that one of my favorite childhood authors was capable of stealing the limelight in my heart once again-- Daniel Handler, aka, Lemony Snicket. I'm thinking of making up a cheer about this. Something like "Lemony Snicket, he's the ticket" or "Go Handler, he's our man(dler)", but honestly, I'm begging you, just read this book. The illustrations are lovely and the man's a literary genius.
• Required for High School: Uncle Tom's Cabin (by Harriet Beecher Stowe)
• New York Times Bestseller: The Five People You Meet in Heaven (by Mitch Alborn)
• Set in Europe: A God in Ruins (by Kate Atkinson)
• The Mind-Body Problem (by Rebecca Goldstein)
• A Twist in the Tale (by Jeffrey Archer)
• What Alice Forgot (by Liane Moriarty)
• Blue Cover: The Soul of an Octopus (by Sy Montgomery)
• Recommended by a Family Member: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (by Douglas Adams)
• The Restaurant at the End of the Universe (by Douglas Adams)
• Frida's Bed (by Slavenka Drakulic)
• The Psychopath Test (by Jon Ronson) 
• Just Mercy (by Bryan Stevenson)
• Becoming a Movie this Year: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (by Ransom Riggs)
• First Book Seen at a Bookstore: Diary of an Oxygen Thief (Anonymous)
• A Field Guide to Awkward Silences (by Alexandra Petri)
• This Land is Their Land (by Barbara Ehrenreich)

Okay. This is my real resolution, and I implore you to consider it: Love yourself. While you fulfill your goals to get in better shape or advance in your career, be proud of the person you truly are. Take time to grow in your strengths and cherish what you enjoy, and spend time with those you love, because the year will go by fast-- and you won't want to waste a single moment by being anyone other than the amazing you. Trust me on this one. This year is full of possibilities set out just for you.

My Boyfriend is Actually a Super-Spy

Cody is a weirdo, but of course you already knew that. My point of stating it is merely to explain, in some part, why he 1. Wants a trench coat more than anything else in the world, probably, and 2. When he gets sleepy, his life goals shift from "doctor and family man" to "James Bond, Tracy Draco in his arms, heroically jumps from an exploding building along a zipline to rescue the entire world. As he walks away, valiant once more, he acknowledges the fated success with a subtle whip of his super snazzy trench coat."

Despite never wanting to actually go see a spy movie, this seems to be his persistent life mission. I'm not quite sure why. He shows little other evidence of being mentally deranged. I think he may actually be a secret agent, and this is his way of telling me, but then again, he's really throwing me off with his catastrophic inability to keep a surprise.

He tries really hard, though.

It was a gold sword.

But I'm convinced that all of this is just a red herring to distract me from the fact that he really is CIA's most gallant agent, a Coeur de Lion, in all his fearless glory. You see, I've been keeping case files, and I'm sure with the mounting evidence, there's little one can do to disagree with me in this. Beware the following, m'lady, for these are surely...

Signs That Your Boyfriend is a Special Agent

For all these reasons, I find it an indubitably inerrant conclusion that Cody is, in apodictic fact, a super spy. This comes as a shocking realization to me, despite all the warning signs. Oh, how could I have been such a fool? I've fallen for the relational guise of this- this-- person sitting on a throne of lies. There's no pamphlet of "So your SO's an SA". There's no standard procedure for starting such an audacious argument.

1. Firstly, I'm upset because he didn't include me in this--  I've seen a Mission Impossible, I know the general plot of Taken, and I'm loosely aware of Goldfinger-- I KNOW HOW THIS WORKS! And thus, I'm definitely qualified.
2. Secondly, I can build a dang fine robot, thank you very much. No need to leave me out.
3. Thirdly, I am your girlfriend. How dare you, Cody. At least let me pack you lunches when you go out to take down the SPECTRE empire.
4. Since you weren't even considerate enough to provide me with a consolation pamphlet, as aforementioned, I made my own.

Of course, I realize that he may not actually be a spy, but in light of the overwhelming evidence, I'll have to dismiss that minuscule possibility.

You see, he even talks to me about it, a little.  There's a global empire called Ingress, of which there are two factions: the Enlightened and the Resistance. He definitely got into the mess of this heated battle first, and called for my support amidst the fierce opposition. So, I tried to join, but unluckily, I found out at the very beginning that we have much different perceptions of what is "awesome". No, no, not in the way you think-- I didn't think the game itself was stupid. Basically, here's an overview: The Enlightened want to help Shapers infiltrate the earth, to help humankind evolve and possess, well.... enlightenment. The Resistance fights against the Shapers to save earth from the destruction of humankind, but the Enlightened say that they're just afraid of the possible change.

Here's the debate that ensured.

• I think you should be on the Resistance with me, so we can be on the same team. I want us to work together.
• Resistance? Are they getting their faction names from every cheap spy-action cliché ever?
• Well, when you think about it, "Enlightened" sounds pretty stupid, too.
• At least the Enlightened aren't driven away from the betterment of humankind by a raging paranoia.
• AT LEAST THE RESISTANCE IS SAVING EVERYONE FROM DEATH!
• There are worse things.

What you wouldn't guess about this argument, however, is that Cody won. He seems to do that every time, somehow, because I'm merely concerned with making my point, and after which I concede and do whatever it is I said I wouldn't, without so much as a complaint. It's a nice arrangement.

In the months that followed, Cody developed what can only be labeled as a fixed, pathological obsession with Ingress. It's gotten worse as time goes on, and I feel like eventually I'll be taking him to a psychiatrist, bawling as I confide that he hasn't stopped playing for six weeks, and he'll be tapping at his phone whilst dashing through the halls mumbling about "portals".
Yet, it makes me happy. You should see him talk about Ingress-- his eyes light up, he smiles broadly as he shows you the game's progression, he talks about strategies for the future and adventures he's been on as, for a moment, his heart knows that he's fulfilling his buried dream of being a spy. It's so precious. The game may be fun, yes, but my favorite part about it is how happy it makes him. Watching him let out a whoop of delight as he streaks across a field to get to his next portal is a highlight of two things: How dorky he is, and how adorable he is. Adorkable.

Let's cut the mushy-gushy stuff. Today is Christmas!

Why do I point that out? Well, since our families will both be busy over the break. Cody and I arranged to exchange gifts on the 19th. What he didn't know is that I lied when I said I had to cancel plans. I feel a little bad about this, but not too much, and you'll see why in a minute.

It has been claimed, several times, that I am an "all or nothing" person, and this is about a true of statement about me as "You read books sometimes". The 'sometimes' diminishes the actual weight of the statement, and from it you wouldn't guess that I read books in ardor, without ceasing. It's the equivalent of "Tis but a scratch". Likewise, the statement of "All-or-nothing person" should be altered into more precision, thus becoming "YOU ARE A LAVA OR ICE DRAGON". That's the amount of all or nothing I'm talking about. A lot.

Unfortunately, in the category of romance (a word upon which I will now go to vomit), I'm usually a "nothing" kind of person. I view it as more of a best-friendship, and not a lovey-dovey thing. I'm calculated about my words and very precise in the way I scrupulously avoid being clingy or over-affectionate. I do care, deeply, I just have a deplorable tendency to want to make it seem like I don't. And poor Cody, then, is one of those knights in shining armor who gallantly arrives only to find that the princess is more interested in eating pizza and watching Netflix than attending a royal gala. He does pretty well at being accommodating, though.

This guy does so much for me, and he's such a sweetheart all the time. He's been stressed lately, though, over school and friend problems and such, and I've decided that it's time for me to stop coyly playing the "nothing" card. He deserves far more than I've been giving him or could ever give him, but I'm going to keep trying. I'll do it because he's amazing, my best friend, probably the closest thing I have to a personal adviser and/or psychiatrist, and he keeps me from doing incredibly stupid things like walking to the cafe in the snow in my pajamas because I want a chai tea at six in the morning.

I made this.

It's an Ingress-schemed scavenger hunt that stretches through the mall, ending at the sushi place he really wanted to go back to. Along the way he got movie tickets for whatever he wanted to watch (He ended up picking The Martian), money for treats at Cinnabon (which we used to buy more books), little letters at every checkpoint, and $20 worth of anything he wanted at Barnes & Noble (true to his secret agent theme, he chose a book called "Mini Weapons of Mass Destruction"). His guide was an actual, declassified spy manual from the 1940s; and the adventure ended with me paying for dinner and giving him his actual Christmas presents. Also, my family was in on it, and my sister Jackie had the master plan in case he got lost. It took hours and hours of preparation

A little too much thorough thought. And yet, I managed to screw it up.

I am a largely impatient person, and due to a personal lack of foresight, which lead to a lack of walkie-talkies, I had no idea where everyone was and thought they were being too slow. So, I decided to tail them-- I ended up bumping right into him as he marched his way to Vans for clue number 3. Almost literally. Was my reaction to play it cool and act like it was purposeful? Heck no. I panicked, shrieked, and dove behind a kiosk.
I know, I know: "Good thinking, Julia, that surely didn't make him notice you even more." This is the number one reason why I'll never be allowed to go on a secret mission with him-- I don't know how not to be flamboyantly obvious.

But somehow, he loved it. He was tearing up when he finally got to the sushi bar at the end, and I couldn't have been happier to see him (as I said, I'm impatient).

I know this post has been long, but the conclusion is this: Cherish the people close to you. Never try to mask how you feel, when there's so much to gain from loving others. Those who should really be the important ones will appreciate your extra effort, and you, for it.

There's nothing to be lost by showing that you care-- besides a little dignity, you know, if you're really bad at surprises. 

The Unstable Quadrants of INFP Agression

I read on one MBTI website that INFPs are either non-confrontational or moody and extremely explosive. I'm not sure I quite agree. Not that the website was bad! It was great. I love the posts, you're awesome, bless you, I appreciate your contributions, make no amends; I don't mean to insult. Well, see, INFPs as I observe them have several levels of anger, which I like to separate into quadrants:

So, as you can see, these four quadrants are derives from a combination of two variable statuses: subtle vs dramatic, and anger vs annoyance. These are the traits of, respectively, "expression" and "emotion". Of course, there are many other categories and contributing factors, but this table represents INFP confrontational styles at their simplest. Allow me to expand upon the characteristics of each of these various factions:

The Care and Keeping of Popular Culture

It's no secret that I practically stalk the mailbox like a mighty lioness lurking on the suburban savanna each mid-month until the fated issue of Popular Science arrives. After which, I seclude myself in my room for hours, because it seems that I invariably become frustrated that no one shares my ideals of proper magazine etiquette. It's really not their fault. I'm extremely and annoyingly picky.

My suggestion is this: if you're going to read any glossy-covered publication, pick something you genuinely enjoy so you won't be tempted to do something awful to it like marking up the articles to circle things for your wish list.

Or better yet, just make sure I'm not around to have a psychological breakdown over the state of your reading materials. (Actually, you can buy a BB-8. I think Cody deserves one for putting up with me all the time, though he protests that I'm not mean as I depict myself to be. Psshhh.)

There are many magazines that you'll want to avoid and others you'll more want to pursue. I've created this curative guide to some of my favorites: The Week, Sky & Telescope, Popular Mechanics, American Cinematographer, Car and Driver, The Atlantic, Bird Watching, SciFiNow, Book Page, etc. In the end, it's just important to pick based on articles rather than cover, and what you find to be interesting rather than what's on the popular rack. Popular Science is actually the only magazine I ever get through, on occasion at that, but it's nice to have a favorite that's your go-to in waiting rooms. Sometimes you don't have enough time to read a whole novel or non-fiction, and it's best then to just immerse yourself in an article or two for your free time. Whatever the case, it's great to stumble across gems such as "Inside the Mission to Pluto". 

That's the great thing about magazines: There's something for the interests of everyone. But there's something, a darker side, that I'd like to discuss. In the light of humor, of course, if I may. There are many publications out there that have extreme tendencies to inspire identity crises or influence a person against their true interests into something I like to call, "The Celebrity Black Hole", from which in time no thought escapes. It's not wrong to enjoy popular culture in music, TV shows, movies, literature, you name it-- Of course! It'd be hypocritical of me to say no when I was practically drooling over the trailer to the new Star Wars. However, I would much rather study what inspires and interests me than keep up with the Kardashians. This isn't because they're bad people, it's just because I'd rather know what's going on in Paris than, say, the lives of the Duggars.

With that in mind, here are some

New Taglines for Popular Magazines

Although it's definitely not my area of interest, I recognize that it can be enjoyable to cozy up to a gossip column every now and then. However, these types of magazines can be detrimental in a number of ways.

When I was in sixth grade, our drama group used the library as a green room during productions. Since we were anxiously awaiting our cues from the baby monitor positioned at the central table, we couldn't get too immersed in any particular book or conversation. It was for this reason that I picked up one of those gauzy teen gossip magazines sitting in the rack directly beside me.

For an eleven-year old girl with a bizarre mix of social anxiety and attention craving, this magazine couldn't have come at a better time. Or, if you're not in the marketing of such a company, you'd say it couldn't have come at a worse time. Within these articles you're slammed with a high-pressure string of contradictory advice and ideals. Some tell you that you have to be self-confident to be liked, others tell you you're nothing compared to the celebrities. Articles simultaneously convince you to enjoy gossip but never spread it, to be this cultural ideal of "sexy" that is impossible let alone disgusting to perpetuate onto preteens, to be pure but to know exactly how to give a killer make out session in the school locker-room. These magazines can only seem to agree on one thing: It all comes down to who others say you are. Apparently all that matters is if you buy the "in" clothes, date a popular guy, hang out with the cool kids, stay in the know; and no one seems to care about the real you.

Self-consciousness, sensitivity, and insecurity of identity were already prevalent in my sixth grade psyche, and these magazines were like a shot of steroids to those ugly manifests of my stumbling years between child and adult (which I'm still a part of, but thankfully the only issue now seems to be not finding any footie pajamas in my size). Tween magazines, on the whole, promote the idea that your body makes up who you are and "more importantly" how others perceive you. Sheesh. Isn't it great to tell little girls that right about the time they slam into an awkward growth spurt or start to develop pimples?  Additionally, masses of studies have shown that magazines, more than any other form of media, are directly related to the development of eating disorders.

I suppose that makes me a statistic, doesn't it? This is the part of the story where I confess that I struggled with anorexia and messed up my metabolism in a way that still impacts me today. I developed ulcers, too, because I ate so little that my stomach acid burnt through its lining. No, the influence of magazines definitely wasn't my whole reason. I was also seeking to stable my topsy-turvy life with the only thing I thought I could control: my body. Where did I get the tips that told me I could eat ice cubes to fool my body into curbing the pangs of hunger? The same media that told me I wasn't good enough until I was perfect on the outside. 

70 percent of normal weight girls in the US consider themselves to be overweight. 35 percent of American girls between the ages of 6 and 12 have been on at least one diet. 

Hollywood celebrities are presented infallibly as role models. Information on beauty maintenance is far more prevalent than that of health. There are titles of articles that couldn't not send up at least some minuscule red flag: "You Specifically, Yes You, The Girl Reading This Magazine. You Aren't Attractive." Such messages are plastered all over modern media, aimed directly at teenage girls (though teenage guys aren't exempt from the cultural scrutiny, either); but nowhere are they as prevalent as the magazines preying upon young children or teenagers with low self-esteem. If I have to read one more "21 Ways to Make His Thighs go up in Flames" targeted towards my age group, I'm going to flip a table.

Why? Because these magazines feed you information that guys only want perfect smoking hot virgin sacrifices (that sounds suspiciously like some cult, actually), but at the same time, they supply tips for kissing in hallways and having physical relationships that your parents don't find out about. I may be a prude, but hear me out. Even if you don't agree with abstinence, it's indisputable that these mixed messages and constant streams of such "sex tips" send one very strong message: Guys like girls who are sex objects. Picture yourself as fourteen again. Picture your parents picturing you as fourteen. Or whatever else works. And then picture yourself being perpetually bombarded with this message that you only exist to attract and pleasure the opposite gender. 

It's wrong. It's just plain horrifyingly wrong.

Let me send a message to the pretween and teenage girls out there: You don't exist to be arm candy. You are unique and beautiful, talented and inspired and don't you dare let anyone tell you that you are anything less than that. You have goals and purpose, a personality that's all your own, and meaning beyond what society confines you to. You're a princess. A FREAKING PRINCESS. Oh, and guys, don't think I'm letting you slink away. Culture also tells you some pretty fantastic lies. You don't have to be muscular or hyper-masculine. You can be afraid or sensitive, enjoy "feminine" things, need to lean on others-- it's not a girl thing, it's a human thing. Don't let anyone tell you that you don't deserve to be cherished for who you are, too. You're a gOSHDARN PRINCE. 

YOU'RE ALL ROYALTY. OR DRAGONS. BE A DRAGON.

This article is titled "The Care and Keeping of Popular Culture", but it should really be the care and keeping of you. It's so easy to get wrapped up in appearances when we become entrapped in the warped perspective of our society. It's far too great a burden to believe that you're not worth anything unless you look, talk, or act a certain way. When it comes to real people, it isn't a matter of getting their thighs burning (wouldn't that be horrifically uncomfortable??)  If you want to get someone's heart burning, just be yourself. The right person will be the one who appreciates you in the entirety of who you are. 

And who you are, well.... That's just absolutely incredible.

Why I Hate Astrology (And Not Because I'm a Leo)

I'd like to open by saying that I would probably be obsessed with astrology if I was anything but a Leo. By some saving grace, I landed within a sign that is completely, 100% against everything about me. Because of this, I can laugh horoscopes off with striking ease. Myers-Briggs, though influenced by self-perception, has the victory on the side of accuracy, and the only area in which astrology overcomes it is in the sheer amount of material published.

My typing of Leo calls me masculine, fixed, and fiery. Believe me hun, I'm only fiery after Chipotle. Besides that, I'm an emotional wreck all the time, quite indecisive and changeable, and love flowery things with a burning passion. The only thing that fits me in this sign has to do with cats!

The problem I find with astrology has to do with how vague it is. In the profiles for the various zodiac signs, most people agree with the majority of the material they read, because it's purposefully written to apply to everyone. This is a type of 'cold reading', and it's used by all kinds of mentalists, psychics, and fortune-tellers to imply that they know more about you than they really do. In demonstrations of "divination" and such, it's a combination of information so vague that it applies to over 90% of people and a quick analysis of discernible features such as age, clothing, religion, race, etc. This makes your believe that the so-called psychic knows more about you than they really do; and maybe I'd pay for someone to stereotype the heck out of me, Shawn Spencer-style, but not under the guise of "fortune telling".

Here, try this: "I sense an older male figure in your life, who wants to know you better... While you may have had disagreements in your life, he still loved you". Was it applicable? If so, you're with the vast majority. It's far more difficult to find someone that statement doesn't apply to. It's part of a technique of cold reading called 'shotgunning', and I stole that little tidbit above straight from Wikipedia. There's many other psychological tricks-- the Froer effect, rainbow ruse, hot reading, warm reading-- the list goes on and on. Astrology has wavered from the path of an astronomical art and become nothing more than a profiting ruse, a regular Wizard of Oz. So, why do we fall for it again and again?

The leading explanation is surprisingly quite obvious-- our brains are hardwired to search for connections and reward us with endorphin when they're found, however fallible. This is the ultimate cognitive bias, and when we're cold read by some astrologist, our brain searches for and savors every minuscule connection. We ignore all the outliers, even if the connections we make are the true outliers. We tend to discover what we come in looking for; if you drive down the road specifically looking for red cars, you'll notice them far more. This perceptive gifting can become a biological advantage or an intellectual failure.

Now, I love the poetry of the archetypes. Together they are a web weaving meaning through the cosmos and soul to the flickering lights in the night sky. I find artwork representing these figures undoubtedly beautiful, and I've even collected some pottery of the sort. Oftentimes, when I surpass my usual indolence, I'll base minor characters on the astrological predictions for some randomized birth date. At best, however, astrology is a poignant epistemiological or general psychological study. The basis of the underlying cognitive bias is this-- we tend to cherry pick the facts to fit whatever we've predetermined, what we want or expect to see in the data, no matter what evidence there is to the contrary. Pattern recognition is, at its base level, a survival skill that connects the neuron pathways in our brain and helps us derive a course of action based upon data acquired in the past. It's been put to its worst with astrology, which inspires against the very logic this neurological process was designed to achieve!

Look, it's a common stereotype that Leos loathe their stereotypes because it damages their pride that the stereotypes call them too prideful. But that's a mouthful, and I'm here to put it to rest. I'm pretty sure no one likes to be called a self-centered, melodramatic, vacuous, ego manic, begrudging, sadistic coward. This strikes to the core of my being. Who I really am despises these traits, calls for kindness, gentleness, selflessness, humility, wisdom, spirituality, and bravery in protecting everything I hold dear.  Leos are said to be chronic cheaters with little regard to others, who give generously only for recognition. No. My sister, for one example, is solidly in the midst of Leo-- and she's one of the most genuinely generous, thoughtful, and selfless people I know. Besides that, I can forgive the occasional egotist with a compassionate heart. Leos 'discard you like trash when you don't fuel their ego', according to one astrology forum. To this I say:

Have we come so far only to let ourselves and others be defined and so confined to this crude capitalization on cognitive bias and cruelty of assumption?

My heart aches for those who allow their lives to be dictated by interpreters of stars looking to cash a profit. I empathize with the driven Cancers who are told they must be weak, gentle Aries who are told they must fight, intuitive Tauruses who are called simple-minded, and all the others in this twisted zodiac. Libras, you are not superficial. Gemini, you are not disloyal or fickle. Pisces, you are not over-sensitive. Virgos, you are not domineering. Scorpios, you are clement. Aquariuses, you are kind. Sagittariuses, you are wise. Capricorn, you are giving.

And my dear fellow Leos, let no one deceive you. You are not inherently selfish, no alignment of stars can dictate the person you are. You can be shy and compassionate and live to help others. You can also be loud and generous and spend your time spreading joy. You can defy your stereotypes, all of you, Aries to Pisces and all the way through. No one is exact, unchangeable, or fully understandable. You're unique and unpredictable.

Now go out there and get 'em, cuties!

Touching Time

Inertia is a property of matter that dictates that an object will stay in its current state of rest or motion until acted upon by an outside force. It is my belief that our minds are very much the same. It is for this reason, to continue in a trajectory of thought against the friction of fatigue or indifference, that this morning I opened a random volume of my encyclopedia set to an undetermined page and allowed my finger to fall by happenstance on the entry of inertia. So now here I am, surrounded by physics books (and I was ever so close to studying the industry of meat packing).

Now, back to inertia. The property of inertia states that an object will move, indefinitely, at a constant speed and direction until some outside force accelerates its motion to make it slow down, speed up, or turn. (If I hear one more person talk about this mythic "deacceleration", I am going to lose my last measure of sanity). One such force is friction, which affects two objects against each other. The force required to affect the movement of an object will depend firstly on that object's mass-- this can be defined, simply, as the density within the volume of an object, or in a sense, the amount of matter it contains. The official definition of mass is the property of resistance to acceleration.

 However, weight and mass are not the same! The measured weights of these two objects are included for comparison of density. On earth, it is simpler to measure the relative weight to determine the mass-- the explain how these two terms are different, picture weighing a bowling ball on your bathroom scale and then taking it to the moon. On a scale there, it will weigh far less than on earth even though the mass is the same. The object, despite its weight, retains its relative resistance to acceleration.

The greater an object's mass, the harder it will be to act against its inertia. If you've got to have either a bowling ball or a soccer ball flying at the same velocity towards your face, which miserable experience would you opt for? If you're not psychologically unsound, you'd choose the less excruciatingly painful one-- the soccer ball, which is lower in both mass and weight. Or, you'd run in the other direction and refuse to participate. Your face definitely won't exert a large enough opposite force to stop that bowling ball whatsoever, but either way you'll end up with a broken nose and a definite concussion. Bad news, Scott Sterling.

Well, similarly, this is why trains can't break fast. It takes a lot of force to stop that mass-momentum combo!

Another thing that influences the effort involved in changing an object's speed or direction is how quickly that change is made. It's harder to change momentum suddenly rather than gradually. If you're going around a go-cart track at 30 mph and you try to turn a corner or slam the breaks, you're going to spin out and slam into a pileup along with both of your sisters that results in multiple neck and back injuries from the sheer impact of the accelerative (fun story, that one). On the other hand, if you slow down gradually to turn those corners, you'll remain safe and have no fun and no friends.

Inertia is Newton's first law of motion, and thankfully, indisputable physical laws transcend the inevitable test of time. You can demonstrate inertia by dropping an apple on someone's head an observing how the impact against their cranium alters the object's acceleration (and the speed at which they will yell at you). OR, you can do what I did, and conveniently "borrow" someone's deck of cards and their wallet to demonstrate this property of physics. 

Place a card on top of a glass of water, and a penny on top of the card positioned over the center of the glass. Flick the card away, and the coin falls into the cup! Now the water is poisoned by excess copper and zinc. You're welcome.

Even though the card is flicked away, the penny doesn't travel along with it. This is because of inertia-- even though the penny was affected by the friction of the card moving against it, inertia dictated that it stay in place, until gravity pulled it down into the cup. That's also why you can set your mom's fine china on the table and yank out the tablecloth from beneath it without any collateral damage. That is, if you're skillful enough. (Please don't try this, I'm grounded for five months).

Can you imagine a world without the blessing of inertia? It'd be utter chaos! Sudden movement and inefficiency of force would reign an unparalleled kingdom of insanity-- take one step and you can't stop sliding; no one hit that ball and now it's hurtling across the room; heavy objects fall faster than lighter objects and Galileo was made to look like an idiot; jump and the whole planet moves; etc. It'd be, to say the least, interesting. Normal societal function would become obsolete in the wake of a universe descending into what would possibly literally be the dark ages in which not even photons would obey the properties of matter.

As we know it, matter exists in three dimensions, all of which we can sense and exist within. However, as the book Flatland and many others pertaining to the subjects of geometry and theoretical mathematics speculate, we have the privilege of partially viewing the fourth dimension as an incomplete representation within our three dimensions. This fourth dimension transcends all we can comprehend. To simplify the theory, let's break it down into two dimensions.

You now exist as a square on a plane of only length and width, something you wouldn't know unless you'd existed in the third dimension to look down as yourself from above. If a person, existing in three dimensions, were to stick their finger through the plane, it would appear as a circle (Though, as depicted in Flatland, to you the square it would appear as an unending, variant line).

Can we truly predict or even comprehend how the influence of a fourth dimension would appear in our three-dimensional perception of the universe? Well, some physicists theorize that this fourth dimension is time. Time can be warped, such as by the infamous singular gravity of a black hole, as can physical objects that can be stretched, squeezed, or even torn apart atomically by the intense pressure of such a gravitational pull. Light cannot escape. Time is not immune.

And, time is relative, both metaphorically and physically. One hour on a planet influenced greatly by the gravity of a black hole may be years to another planet in the outside realm. But the stream of time is not sped up or slowed, it is merely stretched, bent, and dis-configured into the delicate fabric that comprises our universe. Space-time is warped and disoriented by the energy and matter in it-- a measurable effect, such as how light waves bend when nearing the sun. This causes the sun to appear where it isn't. This theory is known as General Relativity, and perhaps time, then, is subject to the geodetic effect.

(Click the picture for a pertaining article)

It is altogether incredible and unbelievable. What if time, like physical matter, possesses inertia? What if it is, in the fourth dimension as well as our own, physical? Could it be influenced by force? Is it moving as a vector, continuous plane or indefinite line? Is there an original force that set the object of time into motion?

Can we touch time?

Such questions crave hope of answers. The law of the human pysche is that true curiosity can never be satisfied, and I hope it is so, for then there is no force to act against the perpetual motion of learning. Alas, we are Babylon.

The Music of Nothing

I care a lot about music for someone who's going deaf.

My mom says she thinks it started when I was much younger, the details of which are not important, but at the epicenter of all this she had a child who learned to sing do-re-mis before she spoke them and yet would one day cease to sing at all. They found out at some standard procedure audiometry exam when I was in third grade; a little bird whispered, "By the way, you can't hear in your left ear". So it goes. We had hope, of course, as all people do before they're told not to. Year after year, the hearing worsened, deteriorating... into nothing.

For all that I profess as to the virtues of silence, I am a person favoring a steady susurrus of faint classical music, jingling bells in some room far away, slow breaths, and the drum of an almost-broken washing machine. Such sounds are my constant companions. When I step outside, I hear the birds twittering, gentle breezes caressing the trees, and the faint beat of footsteps, and mechanical noises that come with living above a city. I love the sound of rain and the sporadic cackles of fire. I love the pulse and sound of my heartbeat, two senses I can't untangle. I love the color of someone's voice as they laugh and the shape it makes as it hangs in the air. And names. Oh, I love names.

When I was reading Stargirl (Jerry Spinelli), I became enthralled at this character who so embodies everything I am and want to be. As soon as I heard her names, I knew that for a single second, my soul was understood. Yes, names. Susan, Stargirl, Hullygully, Mudpie, Pocket Mouse...  Someone like me. All through my life I've felt that names were a different kind of meaningless than everyone thought. They're meant to encompass who we are, and yet, we carry around (most of us) only one, like a weight around our proverbial neck, through the entirety of our lives. One can hardly be expected to remain the same person they were a few short moments after their birth. Names are to reflect who we know ourselves to be.

In 2012, Emma was the top girls' name in 31 states; since then it's carried through as the overall greatest statistic, into 2015. One Emma will hardly be like any of the others. Stargirl.... she will be someone different. Better yet, she will be herself. Yet, we stereotype names so blindly-- Every person I meet named Blake, I instantly shy away from in a certain apprehension that comes from my memories. It's even worse in racial profiling cases-- Studies have shown that interviewers are more likely to hire a person with a "white-sounding" name, even if the resumes are identical.

In sixth grade, I first came to the conclusion that names have this profound impact. I then made attempts to legally change my name, to no avail, and perhaps that was for the better, since the name I picked was "Echo Silver". Since then, I have absorbed more fragments of thought and personality than I could ever have imagined. So of course, I've gone by many titles-- Olive, Hollownight, Rachel, Flower, Opal, Harley, Cricket, Madhuri, and finally, currently, Ariel. Each of these names was once so dear to my heart and harmonious to my ears, but now they have each in turn become foreign and replaced. It is something I can never understand; all I can say is that I am changing.

It's more clear to define who I am by saying I collect succulents, Moroccan pottery, and sand than to say my name is Julia. How much easier it would be to know someone without a name there to impede the way, if such things were only whispered secrets among the closet of friends.

This reminds me of a plane flight to Seattle I took this February. I was seated far away from my family, and began nearly shaking with fright as some stranger took his place next to me. It was a long flight; and I began it by tracing over the lines of an already completed drawing and skittishly avoiding human contact, In the end, boredom got the better of me, and as I noticed his open laptop-- "What are you working on?" We talked for hours upon hours, and he was by far one of the most fascinating people I have ever met. It was psychology and cinematography and the human condition and wizards and puzzles and everything I could ever want to talk to someone about.

And the plane touched ground.

I realized then that I never asked his name,  never said mine. I had, in every literal sense, brushed souls with a stranger. So I asked him, and he said something that can never escape my memory--

"If I tell you, you'll forget me. You'll remember me as a name and before you know it, this will all fade away. But if I don't tell you... You'll never forget that guy you met on the airplane. You'll have to remember what I said and who I am instead.."

He left, dragging his suitcase behind him. He was right. I've always been left with a sense of wonder muddled by hints of agony for never knowing. It's very likely that I will never see him again. But if I do... I won't ask his name. It's the most magical thing in the world, the sound of resonance in a soul that will always be remembered.

But yet... I'm afraid. I'm afraid of going deaf because playing the Moonlight Sonata is the only thing that can heal me when I'm distraught. I will never know the sound of an instrument I haven't heard yet. I won't write songs or chirp back to birds or watch my anguish dissolve to the lull of a piano. Yet... I might have something better. I'll get to feel the vibrations of a person's chest as they sing some serenade, one day. I'll know what eyes look like when there are words trapped behind them, how some words taste bitter on lips and the quiver of a touch feels like the words I love you. I'll feel the sand rattle with crashing waves, the purr of a kitten as it resonates in the delicate bones of my fingers, the exact depth of a piano key as it plays the brooding C that I always hold for too long; I will never have to hear another name.

I may not have working ears, but perhaps in that all encompassing silence I will finally, truly hear.

Meet the Author

Who are you?

It's a daunting question, isn't it? In a world of 7,380,436,559 individuals, exponentially increasing, it's next to impossible to feel unique or even, sometimes, valuable for who you are. That which comprises the self is abstract and volatile, and you may try to pin it like a butterfly to a cork board only to find that the wings melt through and away You fly. How inexplicably agitating it is to know the self by uncertain terms!

I could offer up any organized scheme of objective details about myself-- INFP-T, Choleric-Sanguine, Chaotic Good, Right-brained, Neurotic, Ravenclaw, Amity, Leo (more like Cancer/Pisces), IQ 174, Love Language: Quality Time/Gifts, WPI-62, APS: Feminine-- the list of measurable traits goes on to the brink of infinity, and still, none can truly grasp that indiscernible me. I find that soulful intimacy comes breath by breath, in little flickers at a time. People can be more understood by their experiences and thoughts than by any standard test, however comprehensive.

So many times I've seen people confine themselves to the restrictive limits of their Myers-Briggs type. I should come as no surprise that I did too, for a time. These tests only highlight trends, they are not meant to conform the soul of a sui generis individual.

I may be your mostly friendly INFP, but there are other things you could know about me that would mean far more than my result on a test (even the revered Myers-Briggs). So, rather than explaining various facets of my personality in attempts to describe enough for you to "know" me, I'm going to skim over some of my quirks. It'll be fun! My main reasoning is this: Our actions much more define us than our categorized perceptions of the self, however eerily accurate they may be.

1. I start every morning with kundalini yoga and love to go on little walks (especially during damp weather, particularly involving the acquisition of chai tea at the local bakery). The feel of cold, crisp fall air is the sweetest in my lungs. I often forget or forsake breakfast, unless said breakfast involves raspberries, crepes, or strawberry milk.
2. Back in seventh grade or so, I began to pride myself, rather obnoxiously, on not liking Twilight because of the sparkly vampires and blatant lack of plot. Unfortunately, this whole hipster image was shattered when I discovered the web-series Carmilla and distressed my whole family with such obsession over it. As it turns out, my aversion to Twilight is because of the blatant lack of character development, inaccuracy to lore, and the horrendous writing style that is wholly reminiscent of a sixth-grade fanfiction. I say I hate romance in all forms but still read things like Fruits Basket and A Little Something Different.
3. My bucket list includes riding an ostrich.
4. Thai food makes me horribly nauseous, but I eat it anyways. This probably says a big something about my appetite, as do these two other things-- I've seriously considered a career in Culinary Arts, particularly as a pastry chef (but am now pursing Naturopathy) AND about once every few weeks I get a new craving and fixate on it until it's fulfilled. One particular recurrent craving has earned me the infamous title "Cinnamon Roll Princess". Also, I get hangry a lot; poor Cody.
5. I usually leave parties early and either fall asleep or get sick every time I go over to a friend's house. My best friends tend to be those with whom I feel no social pressure-- the casual, quiet hangout is my ideal. Still, I love theme dances and elegant dinner galas. Usually my social usefulness is as the "constantly in the kitchen hostess"; food, decorations, tending the bonfire, and hiding out in the room with the pets. 

And, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

The Curious Case of my Outdoor Ineptitude

When I was little, I sustained fanciful visions of living alone in the woods in my Hobbit hidey-hole. That was a pipe dream, and I very much thank my strange little four-year-old self for it. Well, I also had some ideas then that were not so fantastic-- for one example, part of that whole "living in the woods" thing included me being a captive princess, adventurer on an exotic undiscovered island, or a cat. Possibly a caticorn.

Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that I've always loved the idea of peaceful solitude in nature, of existing free from societal conventions and interpersonal toxicity. Once, on a "where do you see yourself in ten years" paper, I wrote, quite literally, "living alone in the woods with my pet green conure, named Rue, and a baby hedgehog." Now I have the conure, but she's named Tango. And much to my chagrin, no hedgehog. Additionally, I've realized that I'd die of agony in under a week if I didn't have access to strawberry milk or takeout Chinese food.

This, of course, was an extremely distressing realization. I'm plenty skilled in the art of cooking, as it pertains to preparing my boyfriend a different strain of pasta each week; but in terms of outdoor survival skills, I'm the kind of person who sets priority on decorating the stick tepee and tries to snuggle the fire because it's just so warm and cozy. Now, if you know me personally, you'd laugh at me being tormented by this because I've also studied herbal sciences rather extensively and would be reasonably adept in a survival situation, with that and my general study of outdoor skills.

But to me, it just isn't enough.

To be outdoors, out in the wide expanses of earth's embrace, the ground trembling with the heartbeat of all existence, and unconstrained air in your lungs; you cannot feel more alive than when you are one with the world. It isn't, for me, a matter of survival-- it is of mutual growth. Fighting against nature grants us the possibility to survive, but immersing ourselves within it inspires us to truly thrive.

If I sound vaguely like a Druid by now, I can honestly say that I have practiced as one. This philosophy of oneness within the self and the world is intrinsic to my view of life. Withdrawing from the universe pulls me into grueling bouts of depression and a lack of connection to my inner self utterly destroys me. That being said, and knowing that some existence of solitude at the least is of the utmost importance to me, I do find incredible value in reflections with others. My general thought is this: The purpose of the soul is for true, authentic connection, and verbal expression is but a sometimes necessary means. Nevertheless, I'm possessed with this "living alone in the woods" vision. Maybe I won't be alone alone, but I definitely get a little snappy when someone else invades the quiet serenity of my morning walk.

My point is, if I want to exist in this natural world, I have to know how to. My one big problem is that while I can basically forage for any edible plant and discern or apply its medicinal properties, I am downright AWFUL with plants. Honestly, I write up hundreds of garden plans but I can't keep one little sprout alive for more than a few days. The root of this problem (*humorous snort*) is that I treat plants like sentient beings (Trees of Cheem) and have a propensity to over-water so they "won't be hungry". I've combated the soil quality issue with my little worm farm, but I still have that nasty residual proclivity to smother every living thing within a mile radius with affection and warm cookies. With plants, this kind of doesn't work. Whatsoever.

So, there are a few things I want to do to acquire skills in this particular area of passion: grow a mini garden, renew my first-aid license, make homemade cheese, spend the night sleeping under the stars without a tent, go solo hiking, and create a collection of herbal remedies to store for later need. My little explored mission in life, the desire of my heart, is to immerse myself completely into the beauty and peaceful entropy of nature. I hadn't realized until lately how strong a facet of my personality this is-- until I noticed that my idea of an amazing life is and always has been existing in perpetual awe of the world around me (or, of course, being a caticorn).

From my fixation on naturopathy to my possible non-violent pyromania to the bizarre impulse to get truly lost in the forest- if only for a few hours-- it is evident that my greatest happiness comes from harmony with nature. In both solitude and close connection I find my joy. It's the paradox of human nature, the craving to be at once so close and distant from those around us. Perhaps in the delicate balance of this, our hearts are most aligned to all the world around us and to ourselves. It is in this equipoise that our souls are set free, unburdened, and we are most truly alive.