June 30, 2010

i think you may have made the best mistake

I can't get over how much I love this song. Beauty. (listen to it here)

jenny lynn, by katie herzig

all at once, your city crumbles like Babylon
even the gardens you've been hanging on
disappear before your eyes
take your time, let the words sink in before you say your mind
heaven knows we all get lost sometimes
and you will find your way back

wounded; you let your guard down and feel stupid
you wish you never would have trusted
your heart in someone else's hands
but it's all okay - I think you may have made the best mistake
I think we're made to give ourselves away
'cause there's no other way to live

jenny lynn, I wish that I had your thin skin
I wish that I could let the love right in
maybe I'd rather feel the pain
cause freedom is a naked heart that always dares to give
a willingness to let the tenderness be taken as it may

drowning in love

I think its possible that my friends have ruined me for all other people.
(disclaimer: this post is pretty simply just a love letter to my friends because I had such a wonderful weekend that I want it to be memorialized on this blog until the end of time. read on if you want to be jealous.)

I just got back from my bestie, Lori Ingersoll (now Zabor!)'s wedding in Kilgore, TX. It was one of those things that I was looking forward to for so long I didn't hardly know what to do with myself when the day actually came that I boarded the jet plane to that hellishly humid state. I arrived in Texas, immediately started sweating, and tiny Alix and I made our (long, long, long) journey to East TX. 

The entire weekend was perfect. I don't think I could have been more filled with glee unless it was my own wedding. And I got sappier than I have gotten in a very long time, which is something in itself. I thought my heart was literally going to explode when my beautiful best friend, absolutely emanating happiness, walked down the aisle to meet sweet Bobby - who I can't help but love for how well he loves tiny Lori. As I watched their sweet ceremony (Lori's dad married them, bring on the waterworks) it occurred to me how proud and honored I was to be right there with her, fixing her train and standing beside her, nervously hoping not to drop the ring and trying desperately not to lock my knees and pass out during the prayer. (Maids of Honor have approximately one million jobs, which I was not aware of until this weekend, fyi. Worth it, for sure, but you really have to bring your a-game!) The whole thing was just too good. It was the kind of weekend that makes you want to just cry all day every day the following week because its over. Quite literally, my entire body hurts from all the fun I had. Which I think is kind of great.

Best of all, I spent some really legit quality time with a significant portion of my inner circle, which is just so good for my soul. Friends are special for different reasons. High school friends were with me through the awkward years, through fights with parents and not making sports teams and celebrating leading roles in 8th grade plays (not to brag). My now-friends have the advantage of knowing me, well, now. They are current and constant and that is beautiful. They're the people with whom I've learned to be honest and genuine and I love that. 

But my college friends were there while I grew up. They lived with me, laughed with me, cried with me, held my hair back when I was young and fairly stupid, participants in the wildest and best and worst nights I can remember. These women know my heart. I LOVE THAT. These are the people I could spend hours with on a hotel floor and it would be the greatest thing ever. My weird idiosyncrasies are met with theirs; I know when they are sad and faking that they aren't; they know exactly what to do when I'm a freaking mess (a gift few people possess). I don't really even know how all of this happened, its just how it is. Our reciprocal loves for one another looks many ways: it looks like 5 hour long hypothetical conversations about wormholes & ice sculptures; it looks like cry-laughing in a stairwell (or bathroom, as the case may be); like constant, hyperbolic affirmation; the cupid shuffle; acceptance over breakfast tacos; the sharing of our intense irrationalities; copious amounts of street justice, when necessitated; like a perfectly timed g-chat conversation or greeting card. So much love.

And, to my dear bestie Lori, constantly the one loving us well and building us up and being the truest friend ever, I think I speak for all of us when I say that it was truly an honor and a great great blessing to get to be at your beck & call for once. You - my bestie, my best blog commenter, my great support, you have patiently put up with my crazy for nearly 7 years now - you made a stunning, flawless bride - and I've not a doubt that you will make a wonderful wife. You bring out the best in all of us. I am forever grateful for the ghetto IHOP in which we met.

The moral of the story is that somehow, pretty much from the beginning, the best people have found their way into my life. You are ruining me for all other people. I hope you're happy. 

[I am]

June 10, 2010

stories with no endings (yet)

I used to think you couldn't tell a story until it was over.

Until "the end" was written, until the happy ending came, it wasn't even really a story. Basically what I'm telling you is that I used to think real life was supposed to be just like a Disney movie. No one wants to see the bad guy battle scene without assurance that the prince (or whoever our gallant hero is) eventually wins. I can't imagine how traumatized I would have been as a wee one if I thought Ursula kept Ariel's voice forever, or if Prince Charming never found Cinderella and put the glass slipper on her tiny Barbie-like feet. But sometimes I felt like the way things went for me, Snow White would be asleep forever. The Tramp would tell Lady to get over herself and they would never eat spaghetti until their little noses touched for a magical moonlight dog-kiss. (I could go on for 12 years with this and love every second of it. Don't worry. I won't.) No one wants to hear the messy middle parts without the happy ending. I certainly didn't. You may have noticed, however, that the past 3 years of my life could basically be summed up by the phrase, "Megan, you're wrong." My Disney logic is no exception.

I like hanging out with messy people (and of course since we are all sort of messy, I mean the people who are honest about their messiness). I like sitting in a recovery group with a bunch of complete messes (myself included); sitting in Cafe Europa or at the Irish Rover or on the little red couch that I got for free, and hearing and telling stories without endings. I like not feeling alone, I like loving people even when they say ugly things, and I especially like being loved when I have ugly things to say. I don't like addiction. I don't like brokenness, I don't like pain or hardship or struggle or loss, and I don't like that our lives are all pretty much some cocktail of all of that junk. Of course not. But the fact of the matter is that they are, and I love love love finding those rarest of places where it is ok to be authentic about it. Because it's there - in basements or on couches or patios, in the light - that healing, wholeness, and recovery become (sometimes for the very first time) a genuine possibility.

And if getting to the low point, if feeling desperate and depressed and addicted and screwy is what has to happen to bring us to said rare places, then I might even be thankful for my messy-no-end-yet story. Which I can legitimately tell you I never ever thought I would say.
I thought there had to be a "the end" or a "happily ever after."
I thought messy stories were no good.

"Megan. You're wrong."

June 1, 2010

re: previous post title

another gem from Mr. Jonah Werner:

Unbeknownst to you and me, beyond the place of tyranny, there lies a love that holds us in sure and constant watch.
How past the place of future crashing and far beyond the tongues and lashing 
there lies a blaze that’s burning, never to be drenched.
When people live and love beyond themselves, hearts betray this bitter world, there’s bound to be a breaking.
But I can’t sweat for better yet when all I have is manifest in who I am, who I was, and what I’m not mistaking:
that this is freedom, living and loving hard when guarantees are lewd and shard
I can’t rest on human souls, cause they’re impractical and bruising. 
There has got to be more, there’s got to be something deeper out there and I hope that you look and you find.
Because people are being restored where vines and branches sever more – never have I been so crazy,
kick the doors to free me to say that I’m alive and I’m thriving still, I’ve lost my feet but I won’t lose my will.
You can hurt, but you cannot kill the raging fires of a man who’s been caught by human lies time after time,
who’s been soaked and choked and wrung by compromise, who was once dead, but is now alive.

there's bound to be a breaking. hooray.

never have I been so crazy

It's June, which means summer, and summertime is so great. Although, may I take a moment to complain about the fact that for the first time in my life the arrival of summer literally changes nothing about my life? This is the first time ever I haven't been on a semester schedule, which means with summer comes change of some kind (no school & work instead, or new classes, or a new schedule, something) and this summer NOTHING IS CHANGING. I still go to the hedge fund. I still go to the J.Crew. I still do everything I did all spring. Being an adult is LAME.

I'm excited about summer though. There are lots of fun things ahead, fun weddings and consequent reunions, fun road trips and plane trips and concerts and shows and bike rides to bars and Sundays in the park. All of this is stellar. But I think I need an attitude switch & a fresh start. Because I've been kind of a brat, of late. And granted, some situations have possibly warranted a little brattiness. Or at least emotions, if not the full-on-bratitude. On a scale of possibility, it is possible to very possible that I am beginning to toe this line.

I'm a brat in large part I think because I still believe a lot of crap that isn't true - which I have written about enough times that writing it now would be redundant. Talking about it on my blog helps in that brain = dark & blog = light and bringing things into the light = fab, but the "publish" button does not have a direct link to my soul (because I googled it and I guess they haven't figured that out yet. I think there might be an iPhone app but since I don't have a job I can't afford one of those.) and making a list on my blog is only a teensy piece of the healing equation. It's a start. But I write these things - I beg for relief  - and over and over again all I feel is grief that they do not yet seem real. Bottom line? My faith is kind of wimpy.

but hip-hip-hooray, faith of epic proportions is not a requirement:
The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!"
Jesus replied: "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you." 
I suppose what I'm getting at, in the end, is that maybe thats all I can do today. A baby step or two. 
Isn't that kind of awesome? Even just the mustard seed is enough.

Which is super fortunate, because it appears to be all I've got.