Saying Goodbye Again...

365 Days.

That is how long it has been since my sweet Rascal slipped from this world to the next. For the first two or three months, I was numb. My last semester of college was clouded with sadness. I would wake up every morning and cry in the shower. I would hope that by the time I got to class and work, no one would be able to tell I was a complete wreck.

After I graduated, my little Samson came into my life. After several weeks of howling at night and constant potty breaks, I longed for the ease of life with my Rascal. I began to remember how he could curl up on my chest at night, somehow always managing to get in between me and the book I was reading. I remembered how he would chase fireflies during the warm summer nights. I remembered how he would saunter into a room and immediately take charge of any situation. Slowly, I was starting to remember the joy of life with Rascal instead of how painful life without him was.

A full year later, my life is preoccupied with work, family, Samson and my preparation for law school in the fall. And as hectic as it all is, I still make time nearly every night to glance at Rascal's picture on my nightstand. I tell him how much I love him and how I can't wait to see him someday. I sometimes update him on all the trouble Samson is getting into and tell him that they would gotten along for sure.

Last Friday at work a very old lady came in the office to sign her Last Will and Testament. While we were waiting on the appropriate witnesses and lawyers to become available, she began to reminisce about her life. She had lost one child at only 10 months old. Later on, her youngest dropped dead at 21 years old with an undiagnosed heart condition. Recently, her 18 year old grandson died of a drug overdose and she lost her husband of 50+ years awhile back. After hearing her tragic tale, I commented about the strength it must have taken to lived through that.

She looked at me and said, "Exactly. When someone is taken from you, you have no other choice but to pick yourself up and move on. You have still been blessed with time on this planet and as hard as it is to go on without them, you must. If not for you, then for them."

Her words came at the right time. Earlier I'd been thinking about the day my Rascal was taken from me and I was beginning to feel despair. Yet, this woman, who has lost so many precious lives, was happy. When signing her will she asked that if something were to happen to her, she not be kept on life support. She looked at me and with a smile said, "No use prolonging it. I've got plenty of people to see."

Perhaps she is right. My Rascal is gone. That fact still makes me sad each and every day. But being sad is no way to live my life. Instead, I should be grateful for the nearly 11 years we had together and know that one day I'll be able to run my fingers through his fur again.

Until that day, I'll think of him often, I'll love his memory and I'll live my life knowing that I was lucky to have had him in it.

I love you Rascal.

Looking on the Horizon...

Not too long ago I sat with my mom and my sister as they discussed men. Both have been divorced and perhaps it is that fact, more than anything, that influenced the advice the dispensed to me:

Be realistic-- you'll probably end up divorced someday.

Don't look for romantic-- try for practical instead.

Happiness with one person forever isn't possible-- sorry.

One person won't have all the qualities you look for--- so just settle.

If all else fails, get a sperm donor and do it all yourself.

Listening to their "advice" immediately made me question my cynicism. I had always thought I was the pessimistic one. Maybe I'm a little "love" hyped because I spent the weekend watching, Valentine's Day, Sex & the City, Notting Hill and my favorite, Pride & Prejudice.

I don't think I am impractical. I know that promising to settle down with one person forever will be a full time job. A job that is full of frustrations, compromise and sleepless nights. I know that some days I'll want to walk away and never come back home. I realize that there will be times I'll pray that he does walk back through the front door. But I refuse to lose faith that true, life-lasting love exists out there, somewhere... waiting for me.

After spending the weekend watching such a variety of movies on the topic of love, I can't help but think how many generations have considered its power. Since I was a small girl I have heard love stories written from nearly every period in history and place on Earth. That can only lead me to one conclusion-- it is out there! How could so many artists, writers, philosophers and rulers proclaim such love without having seen it in some capacity?

The other day I saw a story on the Internet about the longest married couple still living. They have been together for eighty-something years. See. It is out there. It does exist.

I won't become a cynic just yet. I won't cast doom and despair on my future. Instead, I'll keep my head on straight and look on the bright side. He is out there somewhere. I can see his outline on the horizon. I may not know his name yet, but I know we'll spend long Saturdays in bed arguing over which movie to watch next. I know we'll drive through neighborhoods admiring houses we'll never be able to afford. I know that we will fight over the remote and race each to the fridge for the last Popsicle.

But more than anything, I know that he is real-- that love is real-- that happiness is real.

I'm not giving up on it yet.

Going it Alone...

Life seems to move at a staggering pace. I feel as if I am standing on a street, watching as people pass me by. They walk onward, moving forward with their lives together.

I feel alone sometimes. I feel as if there isn't a single person who needs me in their life. Perhaps this is a condition in which I set myself up for. I used to crave attention and I did whatever was necessary to have someone look my way. And even though I have long ago dealt with those demons who are my past, I feel as if a small part of me is now icy-- immune to ever being needed, being desired. Perhaps I fought that needy side of myself to an extent where I am no longer needed at all.

Nine months ago I moved away from everything I knew. I turned my world upside down because I had no choice. I guess a part of me half expected for everything to freeze in place, awaiting my return. It hasn't. Life has continued without me. No one there needs me.

Mother Teresa said, "Even the rich are hungry for love, for being cared for, for being wanted, for having someone to call their own."

If the rich are hungry, then I am starving. I crave for someone to think about me when their day gets a little too tough. I wish for someone to need to speak to me to calm their fears, their nerves, or even to get to sleep. More than anything, I want to be a necessary element in someone's life. But I am not.

Instead, I stand watching as people walk by. Some are friends, some are lovers, but all are people who rely on each other to make it through the day. For now, I am an island. Only myself.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll be more.

Taking Stock of my Hand...

The recent situation in Haiti has got me thinking about how lucky I am.

I guess life is kind of like a card game. Sometimes, it doesn't matter how good of a player you are, because in truth, the game can be determined simply by the cards you are dealt.

Think about it. If you are born into a wealthy family and a great life, it is likely that you will hit the jackpot. After all, it is hard to lose with pocket aces. If you are born into an average family and have a good life, it is a possibility that you could walk away with some winnings. After all, a having pair of tens beats having nothing. But if you happen to be born into a impoverished nation and have a hard life, the only thing you are likely to do, is to lose. After all, low cards offsuit usually end in a muck.

Looking back over it, my hand wasn't too bad. I was born into a family of hard workers. Growing up, we weren't rich but there was always enough for me to have a bike to ride with friends. I may not have gotten an ivy league education, but I did go to an amazing school with amazing people. I may not have had life handed to me on a silver platter, but I have learned how to fend for myself, how to count on others when necessary and how to make smart decisions while still having fun.

So, while my hand may not have been top-notch, it was workable. And for days now I see images of children walking streets littered with the dead. I hear of little girls begging their mothers not to let them die. I watch as people cry out for food, for water, for relief. What kind of a hand is that? How are these people expected to even play the game...much less have a shot at winning? How can people born into poverty and sickness be expected to survive?

Is that really what this life boils down to? Are our lives ultimately determined by the life we happen to be born into? Is there really any difference between us and them?

Is the only difference, where we were born, who we were born to and the resources available to us? And if so, how is that fair? I know that the Haitian people have hopes, dreams, families, friends and lives that deserve to be lived fully. And yet, hundreds of thousands were tragically cut short in a mere moment. And yet, I still breathe.

If the difference really comes down to the original hand we are dealt, then I guess I should say a prayer of thanksgiving tonight-- a prayer for the life I have been afforded, a prayer for the lives that have been taken, and a prayer that I will always understand the precarious line that divides us.

After all, when the river turns, the game could change for everyone.

Growing Up at Last....

Lately, I've started to feel older. And not just in the sense that a new year brings yet another birthday.

I feel as if for the first time in my life, I am starting to really mature. It isn't as if I have never matured in the past. When I graduated high school, I matured enough to take care of myself and go to college in a distant town. In college, I matured past drinking way too much and acting out to get attention. But now, I feel as if something much bigger is happening.

I pay a car note, car insurance, and cell phone and credit card bills. But it really isn't about the money. I've begun to make some life altering decisions about law school and loans. But it really isn't about the career decisions either. I am currently filling out paperwork to obtain my very own life insurance policy. But this really isn't about the grown up things I'm forced into doing.

I think it is about all the little things I am starting to think about all on my own.

I guess I have begun to seriously contemplate my future-- beyond law school. Sometimes I find myself wondering when I'll be able to start saving for my children's education and my husband and my retirement. Since I don't have a husband or children, I at first found these thoughts to be a little misplaced.

I used to swear I would never be ready to be grown--and true, I still don't feel ready to take on a serious boyfriend, much less a husband and kids. But for the first time, I can see that readiness on a distant horizon.

I used to fret over getting older. I used to declare I could grow old but no one could make me grow up. True. Still, a part of me is looking forward to growing up. I don't plan on rushing into anything. I still want to enjoy each step in the process. But I know that one day, when my hair is gray, I'll be grateful that I finally grew up.

Waiting for that Something...

I sometimes feel like something is waiting for me--- something great.

I sometimes dream that the "something" is the perfect man. A man that knows me better than I know myself. A man who is just as comfortable enjoying a night out as a night in. A man who holds me when I cry, can sing the words to all my favorite songs and buys me cupcakes just because. I sometimes dream that the perfect man is him. And although I know he will never be the one, I admit that sometimes thinking about the last time he kissed me and held me in his arms gets me to sleep after a bad day.

I sometimes dream that the "something" is the perfect career. A career where I wake up ready to go to work. A career that allows me to make enough money to be comfortable but never enough to make me jaded. A career that keeps me challenged and still allows me to spend a week with my family during Christmas. I sometimes dream that the perfect career is this. And although I don't yet know if this is what I want to spend the rest of my life doing, I admit that sometimes thinking about backing out of it now makes me feel like a failure.

I sometimes dream that the "something" is the perfect ending. An ending that brings a single tear to your eye. An ending that leaves you wanting more and yet, you are content with how it played out all at the same time. And ending that will be remembered and yet somehow never be as clear as it once was. I sometimes dream that the perfect ending is mine. It is within my grasp and one day I will share it with my kids around a campfire in my backyard. I admit that sometimes hoping that I am lucky enough to find a perfect ending gets me through a sad song on the radio.

I sometimes feel like something is waiting for me--- something great.

Maybe it is him...Maybe this is it... and if I am lucky enough, it just may be truly mine.

Falling into routine & out of touch...

In college, I found routines to be oddly comforting.

I woke up in the morning. I took a hot shower then caught CNN headlines while stuffing back breakfast and letting my hair air dry. Then it was a race to get dressed, grab my books and catch the shuttle to campus on time.

I knew where my shuttle would stop, which stairways I would take to my classes and exactly what time I would arrive at work and go home.

And although my nightly varied-- nights alone, nights with friends, nights out, nights in, study nights, party nights-- I always found it comforting that they all ended the same way. I would gently wipe away all my makeup (the day's grime) and then brush my teeth. As I cuddled into my small, cozy bed I would apply a facial moisturizer and lotion to my hands. Then, all soft and sound I would fall into a safe, deep sleep.

You see, even though this was a routine-- it was MY routine. I am now caught up in someone else's routine. I wake up, go to work, get home, eat something grilled, watch television programs according to the night of the week, and then go to bed. It is mindnumbing!

I just want to set my own schedule again. Live in a house where my nights don't have to be planned out according to exactly what time a television program starts. I want to live spontaneously again-- and yet, I still want to be able to end my days safe, sound and by my own choosing.

I think more than anything, I am craving a life that is fully mine again. Here's hoping I get into law school so I'll have that chance.