a morning routine 

6:45 am: alarm goes off, beeping cuts through my dream. Sleepy eyes and fumbling fingers cut off the noise. A few more moments of sleep. 

7:09 am: time to get up now. Throw back the comforter and stand up, step over the sleeping sister who is scared of the dark and say hi to the puppy. Getting dressed, comb my hair. Floof, that is what my bangs are this morning. Curly hair wetted and left to dry, I braid it. 

7:30 am: good morning dad, who’s brushing his teeth, exchange greetings, he’s off to work. I make a smoothie, grab my backpack and textbooks and lunch, put them by the front door.  

7:40 am: drinking my smoothie, mama comes down. Soft good mornings again, what hours are my classes today? Planning out the day, I sip tea, a matcha-orange I bought yesterday, and we read our Bibles. I begin the book of Mark, I don’t know where she read, but I believe it’s a psalm. 

7:50 am: I finish my tea and bible reading, I take my backpack and thermos of chai out to the little car and start it. I like to drive in a warm car. Back inside I go, I finish the last few gulps of smoothie, talk with mama about school. I feel bored with it. I need something new. I’ll persevere through it though. This is just a season of tiredness. 

8:10 am: I leave for school. The air is crisp, the car is warm. Normally I listen to music on the way in, but today I opted out for silence. I tried the radio once or twice but it was too much. Instead I prayed and was alone with my thoughts. The construction down the road is still going on; the flagger man guards the bumpy road. There is almost no traffic and today I drive the manual with ease. I need to learn more about how gears work. 

8:45 am: I get to school, park, and walk in. I have new shoes with a negative heel, so I walk differently. It’s weird. Not bad, just different.  I’m early. But I’m here. 


an INFP’s existential crisis

Every so often, I fall in a rut. I become very logical, stuff my emotions, don’t appreciate pretty things, lose my compassion, get very unhealthily hermit-like, and don’t make things.

I lose all creativity; all my words feel fake and sounds like cat poster quotes to me, my characters are flat, my art has no meaning. I feel as if I’m simultaneously too weird and yet not weird enough; like a mainstream weirdo. I’m either too prosey or not enough, I want to do something, but yet I find myself scared of what people think (which I have looked down on other people for. Oh the pride of life).

I can’t find my voice. In music. In art. In writing.

I feel my originality trying to escape; a bird beating its wings against a paper bag. I feel like I’m suffocating and need to go somewhere, but I also feel tied down. Life is so very short.

It drives me nuts. (Part of the problem I blame on hormones.)

After a day or so of this, when it happens, I stop and sit and think for a long while about what I’ve been doing. This normally comes about when I’m stressed, when I haven’t walked around outside barefoot (apparently walking around outside barefoot brings up electrons from the earth that neutralize the free radicals scouring your body) , when I have been concentrating too much on myself in  a negative way, when I haven’t been spending time in the Word and with my Heavenly Father.

So today, I jumped on my bed with my little sister and chased her around. I played with my brothers and rolled up my pants to run barefoot through the grass. I played my uke, cooked food and drank water. I prayed and studied and repented and read.

Now there is peace, and I have found a bit of my voice.