I grow weary of not being done. Work in progress notwithstanding, it is tiresome to always know that there is more that I have to learn from a place that wearies me anyway. I suppose it's an off centered analogy, but I often disagree with the hands of the sculptor. I rely on God to guide me and to give me peace. I rest in knowing that I will, as a finished product, be much more valuable than the raw material I once was. However, every sculptor makes mistakes.

Stone must be chipped away. Each unwanted piece discarded as it becomes a product of the sculptors imagination. A wrong placement of the chisel, or to much pressure could destroy the work as a whole. It seems such an unforgiving medium. Each blow must be ultimate perfection--calculated and precise. Corrections cannot be made save by diminishing the size of the piece, or altering the concept of the work itself. The picture in the artists mind must be formed by taking away bits that are unwanted, and finding the beauty inside the stone. The stone itself adds to the beauty of the work but even the most plain of stones can be captivating when sculpted by the hands of a master.

Metal is molded by force. Fire, blows, bits and peices bonded together to make an end result, and the remaining pieces cut out and scrapped, perhaps to be used in another piece. The sculputor must see the potential of a flat piece and mold it by strength into the shape it can be. By adding pieces here and there, the work is completed. But what remains of the original?

Clay... Moldable, remakeable, versatile, changeable, forgiving. All of it applies. The artist can shape and form the way it needs to be. Each part of the process showing the vision in the mind of the sculptor. When the mistakes are made, the process can be easily restarted. The entire project can be forced back into a shapeless lump and everything redone from the ground up.

Sometimes I feel like overworked clay.

As a child I was wrong. Regardless of whether or not I was right, I was still wrong. We weren't allowed to have opinions, much less express them. I learned very early that dispute ended in a hand slapping whatever portion of my person was most convenient to reach. Therefore, I avoided arguing.


This attitude toward conflict affected my brother and I in opposite ways. I became excessively passive, and he became excessively confrontational. Daniel would start a fight just to have the fight. My parents fought a lot and since he was older, he saw and heard the fighting more. He was on familiar ground. Oddly, this was one way my brother tried to protect me. When he would hear them start fighting, he would try to take me away from the fight, so I wasn't around it a lot. Maybe that's why we developed differently in this area.

I refused to fight with anyone except Daniel. Even as a teenager I didn't argue. The discipline went from slaps to lectures and grounding, even though I really don't know what they expected to ground me from since I didn't do anything. I remember that I wasn't allowed to talk on the phone, but I don't remember much of anything else they could take away from me. (They had given up grounding me from reading by then.) I learned that nothing was worth the fight I would have to go through to have my rights. I watched my mother concede to anything anyone demanded of her (except when I wanted something) and learned to do the same thing. I saw what happened when she argued with my step-father--how much she cried and how much it hurt her, and I came to believe that regardless of who won, the fight wasn't worth fighting.

It seemed to me, that anything that could be gained by conflict, should be able to be gained without it as well, and I went about finding ways to do so I let go of my own rights in the interest of finding better ways to help people. I focused on making the right decision that would hurt the least amount of people. NO CONFLICT.

I'm not sure when that broke, but it did. I really don't know what triggered it. One day I'll sit down and analyze it. I have my suspicions, but that's another blog. At some point, the pattern of fighting back developed. But not in the usual way. I usually chose my battles wisely. I only argued about things I was absolutely sure of. In fact, I would usually hesitate to express my opinion at all if I hadn't thought of every possible alternative. As a result, my arguments tend to come across as being very cold, logical, impersonal, and (as I have recently been told) condescending. Not to say that I mean them that way, but it seems a general consensus that they sound that way.

It's not such a far cry from the way I used to be. Instead of filing the issues away for me to find a way to avoid them later, I pick which ones I feel are important. Apparently I pick some strange ones.

Not a post for the weak hearted


Not many people have the odd relationship with their families that I do. In recent months mortalityhas been on my mind a lot. I have come to view death very differently in the last few months due to deaths of family and friends. I've never been overly fascinated with death. My beliefs gives me a certian peace and strength about some issues. Some of that may be just part of my personality, but that particular part of my personality is grounded in a strong faith in God, and thus a belief that my life after death will be much more pleasant than my life currently is. I understand that we all die at some point.

It is, of course, painful to lose someone. I've talked at some length about the process of mourning, whether it is selfish, or not, etc. In recent months, this issue has been more and more on the front of my mind. We become attached to people and reluctant to change. Every death we experience forces us to change. Because we cannot control that death, it is harder to deal with that change. Death hurts us many times before it comes to claim us. For me, that is a big part of my fear of death. Not what awaits me, but what will happen to those I leave behind. I've spent much of my life pursuing a better life for others, be it friends or family. I know that my death would hurt many people that I love. So, when I contemplate my death I ask how much it would hurt this person or that person. How would my father react? My mother?

Now....

For those of you who don't know me well I would suggest you stop reading now, and reflect of the discourse I've already given. There's plenty of food for thought there, and the rest of this post could be confusing if you don't understand, at least on some level, my life and how my mind works.

Those of you who do know me will know how difficult the last several months have been and you will also know that the difficulties are becoming fewer and farther between. Although I appreciate the break in the chaos, it's giving me time to reflect on everything philosophically and work through a few things in my brain. I'm not currently more out of sorts than normal with any of my parents at the moment. Nothing but sheer reflection has prompted this. Nor am I contemplating offing any of my parental units, no matter how much they may deserve it on a regular basis.

I wonder, sometimes, what it would be like if my parents died...I should say, if they were dead. I beleive I have a fairly good idea of how the events of death for either parent, or either step parent would affect me. However, the life after those deaths concerns me. Would my life be better, or worse? The intense reltionships I share with them often do me a great deal of harm, and sometimes very little good.

Unquestionably, my mother's death would affect me most. How would I react? My mother tries her best, as you all know to control me, and with some success. She forces her will on mine and insists that I do everything she wants. In recent years she hasn't been able to do it as much because I've learned to be more assertive. I've learned that my opinion is often just as accurate and well-informed as hers. I've frequently told her no when she wanted yes. Apparently not as much as some children do to their parents, but more often than I used to. She wants me around because I'm her safety net. I'm the one who will take care of her if something happens and she needs me. So, in all actuality, I'm less of a daughter and more of a savior. Knowing this, Would it be better for me if my mother were gone?

Sometimes, though, my mother is very much a mother. she takes care of me when I'm sick. She helps me through some very hard times. She gives me a place to be when I need to be there. In short, she is my mother and I love her very much. But, do these positives outweigh the negatives.

I was going to evaluate my relationship with my father, but my head hurts too bad and my nose is too stuffy to even try right now.

Because most of my time and energy is spent helping other people, I often neglect my own well-being. Some of that, perhaps is learned from my parents who taught me to always put others needs ahead of my own. This mentality as well as others I inherited from my parents has caused a lot of hurt in my life. Would that hurt stop were my parents not present?

Teaching today. Debate, Speech, English II.

It's quite a difference from the classroom I was in last year, but somehow they are all the same. When I was in high school, I don't remember this many kids who had no hope. As part of Generation X, we were kind of lost in the shuffle. This generation is called Generation Y. Why? All the questions that they have are never answered. No one really listens to the questions anyway. We all expect them to find the answers on their own. But when it comes down to it, yes, we found our answers, but we had to work for them. Now that the time of the next generation is here, we aren't bothering to help them find theirs. The one thing we hoped for when we were children is the one thing we refuse to give.

As a teacher's aide, my door was always open. Any question, comment or problem could be brought to me, and I would answer, accept and advise as best I could. Believe me, that policy brought me a LOT of interesting conversations... from the loss of virginity to the mundane school paper. But not many other teachers have that policy.

Is it the best one to have? In my opinion, it is or I wouldn't have it. But, I admit that it is difficult. Sometimes I learn things I don't want to know. But at the same time, when I was in High School, I would have given anything to have a teacher who cared enough to let me really talk. In response, I let my students talk. Now, I understand why teacher's don't. It's hard to see your students in pain. It's hard to see my students in pain. It's hard to go home every night and "leave it at the office."

I'm still working on that one.

Woohoo!!! Day off work...
Well, sort of.

I'm unpacking and cleaning and unpacking and cleaning and unpacking and.... well, you get the idea.

Can you tell I'm feeling better?

I still have all my boxes around me. At this point I'm going to have to start actually going through things so that I can get rid of things I don't need. I'm genetically engineered to be a packrat. (You should see my mother's house.)

Working on an application today. I now recal why I hate applying for jobs. I have such a hard time focusing on paperwork. BUT I found my resume on my computer, so that should help....

Stumbles off muttering .... "gota call Jessica.....see if she'll read this.... @!@#$$% to me...."

Valentine's day again... Have I mentioned how much I despise flowers... Have I ?!?!?!?!?!

Really, it's the worst holiday of the year.

I spent all day inside a cooler registering a warm 40 degrees with my hands in a bucket of bleach water. I was cleaning the walls so that they wouldn't be all mildewy when we got our new shipment of roses in on Monday... the week of V-day.

REALLY, Send me Chocolate... NOT flowers!!!!!!!!