Dear old world, you are lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.

Days come when I wonder "Why am I here?" and I can't focus on anything because of that question. And then days end when a boy wants to walk me home because he's a nice boy, and for no other reason. When I reach those days where I feel like I'm losing the grip on who I am, it's refreshing to have someone else say "Your existence matters." Even if it's in the form of "Let me get some shoes and I'll walk you back." Or, It's late, and you shouldn't get raped and murdered on your way back. Whatever. I still like knowing that selfless people exist.

Also, classes are in full swing, and I still have a hard time believing that I'm back at school. 12 hours. Slow. I need papers and tests and assignments and grades. I need that stress to be in my head to say "Hey you better work hard or you'll fail and you'll be a failure for the rest of your life and your whole future will be screwed if you don't make an A on this test." I love college.

Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.

It is strange to me how when the moments before, my motivation level drops. I have a final tomorrow and I've yet to study. I have to wash my sheets and fold my laundry. I have to clean my room and pack up what I'm taking with me. I have to study my manual for work. I have to get out of my pj's. I have to balance my checkbook. I have to remember things forgotten. I have to get internet in my apartment. I have to wash my face. I should probably brush my teeth. I have to write.

I have to search for that long lost.

"Let each man practice the art he knows."

Have I told anyone that I love jazz? Melody Gardot has over the past couple of months become one of my favorite new feel-breezy kinds of music. When I imagine her recording, I think she is sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a glass of wine, a cigarette, legs hanging over the side, and singing as she pleases. A quite relaxing feel.

It is an observation of mine that many would like to think art is something that overflows from a person's soul as naturally as rain falls. And I think this is true. But just because something comes from the soul, does not mean it comes easily. You see, I believe that the soul is as mysterious to it's possessor as it is to outsiders. There are many areas, dark corners, crevices and closets that one may not even dare to venture for fear of things they have a strange inkling are there, but also wish that they are not there if they were. Sometimes what we need is a full length mirror. The kind they put in dressing rooms. With the not-so-pleasant lighting that is not so pleasant because it exposes EVERYTHING from zit scars to love handles.

Unfortunately, while such mirrors are readily available for the body, the ones that are needed for the soul are not as easy to come across. And perhaps some of us are okay with that. "Oh well, guess I'll just have to go with what I see and know about myself. Why go exploring down there for things that will only hurt me and others more."

So what if we were to search for those mirrors? What if we did put on our brave faces and dig deep? Of course we would find what we feared. Wounds. That is what keeps us from exploring the soul. Wounds. If we were to travel down this road, we would have to uncover those hurts that we buried a long time ago. That breakup, that death, that fight, that betrayal, that mistake, that lie, that night. If we were to place our whole selves in front of that mirror, we would find more than we wanted to admit was still there. Leftover pieces we thought we had dealt with that were just lying around in the attics of our souls collecting dust to the point that it just blended in with the floorboards.

So for art to be true, for a creation to be sincere, the artist has to know himself completely to the point that he's not afraid to expose what he's been through and what he's done. Beauty is not in the covering up of things or the addition of new things, but in removing the dirt to reveal the original beauty that God put there. Beauty is in the process of chipping and chiseling and carving and pruning and getting messy.

I believe that the purest definition for art is anything a person does to make life beautiful, understandable or enjoyable for someone else. And your art matters. To truly do this, we have to be honest with ourselves and admit to the past and present in which we find ourselves a part.

Do I know you?

Collages I made
Mosaics I formed
Faces that should make sense

Pieces I knew
Ends I loosed
Sadly confused, clouded, and dense

An aimless day takes me to a clue
And my eyes crinkle at you
I know I should know where you belong
But I can't remember

Minds don't fit you so well anymore
Closets assume a natural habitat
Yes, I'm confused, I know that,
But Mama's calling me in for dinner.

I'm very definitely a woman, and I enjoy it.

Don't worry, she said, I still dream.
I want to know what it is to act like a woman. I feel like my conservative Christian environment along with my liberal, modern society has it all wrong. I believe they both have elements of truth to their views on women, but I feel like all those are not enough. I find myself confused at how I'm supposed to be the very thing I am. I have all the lady parts, so why is acting like a woman not the most natural and easiest thing in the world for me? I don't believe that either of these views have the most accurate biblical ideas about femininity, and I would like to know what that is.

It is a simple answer that all answers are based on. My life's understandings will come only when I have placed my Bible at the core of my learning. Truth and femininity will meet in a beautiful embrace that will feel natural, unforced, and unexplainable. I will find my place in Heaven's kingdom as a woman and as a woman named Rebekah. So I've decided to reread two books that I've had on my bookshelf for the past 5 or 6 years. Maybe they'll make better sense to me now than they did when I was 15.