The Years

The Years

One. If there was a single, hold-able regret, I would tell you. I would shout it from the rooftops and let it fester until it healed. I would move to mend, to extract the lesson, to let it mold me into the person I want to be. But there isn’t. There’s a million and I can’t grasp a single one long enough to control it. I’m haunted and I fear I always will be.

Two. The amount of days until this same amount will be my wedding anniversary. Two years. Two days. They blend. They move and meld and whisp away until they blur. It’s amazing how much time we lose and spend and wish away. I’ve stopped doing that now, but how much did I lose before I realized what I was doing?

Three. It’s a crowd of sorts, but I like the direction. It’s more than a single and opinionated in duo and it’s how much longer I need to wait until a dream I’ve had for triple this amount of time is accomplished. You’ll see a new me, in only three years. And oh what a ride they will be. You never would have guessed the road I picked to travel.

Four. It’s still us. Not as close, not as easy, not as likable as we once were. But there’s still us times 2. Times 4. We’ve grown larger now, but the horsemen still remain. You would be happy to know we haven’t completely fallen apart, although it’s been hard. For some more than others.

Five. Fingers and toes. All in one piece. I’ve got a plan for this number and they’re big. They’re astronomical. I’m working towards it, every hour, every minute. I’m not as deliberate as I used to be, I know these years can change me. They can change everything. But by that time it’ll be thirteen and that’s a lucky number. I’m using all my digits to push forward to it.

Six. The amount of time I’ve been gone. Home means something different to me now, though our house still means the same. It’s good for me. For all of us. I’ve learned so much more than I thought I would when I struck out, worried but pushing through. I didn’t think I would find a place. I still don’t know if I have, but I like the way the creek crackles down the rocks and how something can feel like mine.

Seven. You’ve been gone. It’s crazy. It’s unthinkable. And at the same time it’s not. I forget, sometimes. I scramble to remember your smile. Your hugs. Your love. And I panic thinking I’ve lost it. Every year I forget a little more, a word in a conversation. The look you gave telling me you were proud. The date you were gone. I try to force the memory. The details. But they’re gone. Then I remember the feelings. The moments. The thoughts. My panic at being left. Your peace at knowing I would be OK. And I feel less worried. Less frantic. Because I remember what matters. What you really left me with, Dad. I miss you, but seven has been better. I understand more now. See more. I’m not who I was, even if I slip sometimes. I’m more. And whenever I’m looking over my shoulder, wondering if I should go back, I remember you and I take another step forward. Seven years and you’re still pushing me. As long as I don’t forget that, I can handle tomorrow. Next week. Twelve months. Or another seven years. One step forward, don’t move back.

A Love Letter to My Countrymen & My Country

I'm struggling. Struggling to write what needs to be said, to push through voices louder than mine. To be heard when no one seems to be listening anymore. 

I'm broken. By the cries of the distraught, the families left to carry on. By the constant chatter about not wanting to live in a place like this any more.

I'm terrified. For my country. For my people. For everyone who has ever been American, in any form of the word. 

This is our home. 

Our tribe. 

Our countrymen. 

Which means something to me and no matter what you say, to you too. 

America is just a plot of land. We are the dream. We are the ideals. We are the reality. Only can we, as a people, stand up and regain peace within ourselves. Within each other. Within our communities. 

Asian-American, European-American, African-American, Native-American.

They are just labels and mean very little to me. 

You are my brothers and sisters. You are American and I will defend your right to that with every beat of my heart. I think when bad things happen, we forget the beauty of our country. We forget to stand with each other in the face of evil. We let fear control us and that is when things truly get scary. Good people do irrational things when they are afraid. When did we come to fear our neighbors?

Do not turn on each other, America. 

There are too many injustices, too many people with horrific agendas, for us to turn on each other. Uniting together, as we've done so many times before, is the only answer. Respecting each other, even if you do not like each other, even if you do not agree, is what will resolve the fear that plagues us. 

We have achieved so much and even though we are not perfect, America is mine. To work on. To struggle with. To be broken and repaired by. To fear for and to mend. This is my home. You are my people. Not divided by race, age, gender, religion, class, job, or any other type you would like to throw in. I fight for you, all of you. I cannot believe that as a people, we are beyond repair. I cannot believe we have become "US" (whoever that is) against "THEM" (whoever they are). I can only see a "WE". 

We are broken by irrational deaths.
We are left to pick up the pieces.
We are faced with corrupt practices and labels.
We need to fix a broken system.
We have lost respect for each other.
We have to find it again.
We have to explain to our children why.
We have to help however we can.
We...

I don't have all the answers and I've never pretended to. I ask a lot of stupid questions, say a lot of things that don't make sense to others and believe in different things. I'm not perfect. America isn't perfect. But I'm willing to fight for her. 

Today is a hard day on all of our souls. We need each other, now more than ever. 

Reach out to each other. Help someone with their groceries. Wave hello to a stranger. Ask the cashier how they are doing and truly listen to the answer. Get to know the people around you. Get off your phones. Stop reading the headlines and the yelling and the policies we should adopt or get rid of. 

Change starts with us. You. Me. 

It sounds cliche, but be the change. Love each other. Hug a stranger. Hurt with one another. Be proud that you have a family this big, that you have a whole country at your back willing to step up. We are with you, whoever you are. Find hope. That's what we're built on after all. 

United We Stand

Divided We Fall

Accomplishment, Confusion, Denial, Excuses and Pursuit

The stages of meeting someone whose work you admire...

Okay. Some of you may not have this experience. You can meet someone who you think is, ahem, balls to the wall, if you will, and be completely cool. You're confident.You walk away feeling great about you and never think a thing of it again. This is not me. 

Whenever I meet someone incredibly talented my first thought is, 'of course they want to be my friend. Just look at how well we get along.' I feel accomplished to have made it in their presence and to be able to have a conversation that isn't dominated by hums and ha's. I feel successful by association.

Don't worry, this rubs off in 2.3 seconds after my mouth closes and I walk away. I turn confused. Wait, I just talked to someone I admire. Someone talented. Someone accomplished. Why am I not accomplished? I wonder about this on the entire walk away from them. 

Then before I start to panic, I tell myself it's not real. There's no way they are that big of a deal. Obviously. I then research the hell out of their career and figure out just how big of a deal they are. The constant fan groups/awards/love for them is shoved down my throat and all denial dies in the pit of my stomach. It's about the next morning before I move on to the next stage.

No, JB, it's not you. You're busy. You work full-time. You go to school full-time. You're a great writer, you just don't have enough time/money/resources to put together a best selling book. It isn't your fault. You're still young. I baby myself. I fill the next day with all the things my life consists of. I've even gone so far as to write down all of my activities to prove my excuses. I check my bank account and the costs of publishing over and over, pretending they are absolute facts and are the only possible things that can propel my success, which by looking at them, is the exact reason I'm failing. 

Then I take a breath.

Time for a side note. 

I'm writing this because this happened this weekend. I met the author of one of my top ten favorite series in the world, Red Rising. His name is Pierce Brown and he is 28. 

TWENTY-FREAKING-EIGHT.

He is a NY Times #1 best selling author and has sold book rights to Universal for his book Red Rising. [You can learn more about him here] 

AT TWENTY-FREAKING-EIGHT.

I, my dear loving friends, am 27. I will be 28 this year.

I have published one book and one novelette. I have not had a #1 book-- forget movie rights!

Meeting this author has probably done more of a number on my brain/motivation/self-confidence than any other has in the past. It has made me seriously question things-- and there's been a whole lot of whys and hows I've thrown around about my writing. About other people's writing. About success. Failure. Reality. Probability. And a horde of other issues I'd rather not talk about.

Here's the real rub of it: when I started the books, I didn't know a damn thing about the author. It could have been a 65 year old woman that had written hundreds of best sellers. I read the summary, decided it looked good and read. and read. and read.

I loved them. In a moment where I was struggling with finding something to read, these books were like water. I seriously couldn't get enough. Darrow is one of the most honest, heart-breakingly real characters I had come across in years. I could see myself there. In every moment. 

And this past weekend, the person who wrote something that had broken my heart and made it whole again, stood in front of me. A 28 year old, goofy guy, and for a few good hours I wasn't sure how I felt about me. 

He is practically the same age as me. How can he be a successful author and I'm still, well, just me?

Back to the stages.

I don't want you guys to think this is about Pierce Brown, because it's not. It never has been. This is about me. About how I am affected by those around me and what I can do with those reactions. I have been completely gifted with the ability to work with and talk to several amazing writers, artists and editors that I am completely in awe of every, single, day. Jealousy is an ugly thing and I am ashamed to say it can get to me too. I see others that I am so completely enamored with and I compare. I compare myself, my writing, my characters. I compare my work ethic, my lifestyle, my choices. I try to make sense of something just to make myself feel better, so that the world I live in seems more at fault than my mind is. I struggle. A lot. And in the face of happiness, in the presence of success, my struggles only tend to become that much more real. My faults become red marks in a world of white. I can see who I am and who I am struggling so hard to be.

Then, my dreams come into focus.

Pursuit. That's the only defining characteristic I can label the last stage as. I am in pursuit of my dreams. After everything I feel, after all the self-guilt, I can remember why I'm writing. That the way I feel when I've read a book, and the way I want to become something bigger than I am at this moment, is a gift, a reminder, that I want to bring this companionship and emotion to readers, the way these authors bring it to me. My mind comes back to all the colors. The love I have for my own stories. How I know if I push myself just a little bit further and continue moving towards my goals, I'll get there too. 

And someday, someone, somewhere will go through the stages. I'll shake their hand and smile and set their mind on a path I've been down oh so many times before. I'll remember then like I remember now, that it's worth it.

So, the next time you find yourself in the presence of someone great, someone whose art makes your breath catch, know that you too, can be that. Maybe not in the same time frame, same mode, same anything. Realize that it isn't about them. It's about you. You're good enough, strong enough, beautiful enough to create something that speaks to someone else. You can become successful, in whatever way that may mean.

For me, I'm going to write a best selling novel. Starting with today.

<3JB

The Last of Yesterday

And the beginning of tomorrow...

I've been traveling a road for a summer, fall, winter and new year. I wasn't alone, although there were so many times it felt like it.

My husband quit his job in the Spring of 2015.

He had worked there for over eight years. He had built his goals on the foundation of a zoo and when he had accomplished all he had striven for, he found he wanted more.When you're driven, which we both tend to be, losing a dream is infuriating. You become lost in who you want to be. Where you want to go. Especially when you realize where you are doesn't fit right any more. Like your favorite t-shirt you wore ten years ago when you made that dream to start. You've outgrown it. 

I like to think I'm a loving wife. An understanding one. One who knows her partner with every whisper of breath. I knew he was drowning so, I threw a life raft. 

A shaky, ugly, torn thing that only had the inkling of a plan.

But I threw the damn thing with all my might. And he quit. As furiously as he does anything else and our journey began. 

I have learned so much.

We thought our own business was the best idea this side of Spokane. My husband is talented and I am able to keep the papers together enough to make sense. We would be busy and happy and fulfilled. 

We were not.

It was long and grueling. People were snakes, hands stuck so far out of their pockets and into our own we were confused who was who. We found the ugly side of money and the greed seeped deep in our area. A hard days work isn't worth much anymore, apparently. Honesty is spit on and screamed at. Necessities should be free, regardless of what we owe to obtain them for you. Our dream of creating other people's dreams and making them a reality, soured. But we learned.

There are two types of people in the world: One's who live to work and those who work to live. 

Either is fine with me. I thought if we had purpose, meaning and love in our jobs (and only these things) life would be easy. I still think it might be, but those positions are few and far between. We may get back there someday, but for now I am completely happy, actually more happy than I ever thought, by working to live. I'll go to a job where I like the people and the work is OK and the stress levels are low and then I'll spend the money I make there on the things I really love. I'll use my vacation to travel the world and write until my little heart has no more words. My husband also learned that he would like that too. The search began.

And search was all we did. 

Every day for months we scoured the world for work that would more than make ends meet and that he would enjoy (for the most part) doing. We applied. He took phone interviews and tediously went to five or six interviews a week. All on the hunt for something to fit his new (hopeful) lifestyle. We wanted benefits. We wanted enough cash to live comfortably. We wanted a good environment. We wanted a reasonable commute. 

It was heartbreaking and at times soul crushing. 

I'm not what you would call religious, but I have faith. I have a faith so strong that the world will work out and if you put good things into the world, the world will return good things to you. I have faith in my husband and his abilities. In his personality. I have faith that we can make it through anything. But this, this tested that faith to the very frayed ends of it's existence. 

And I realized that when my faith of the future is wavering, I become reclusive. I cannot handle listening to others say anything negative. I cannot hear it will be okay or talk about the downturns we've had. I cannot hang out as if everything is okay. I can only squirrel my soul away until it is back to being stable. Until I know I can face friends and foe without be persuaded by their words. And this is why I am not a great friend. When the universe is testing me, I will fail or succeed alone. I give myself no other option. 

Good, bad or ugly, this is the truth of who I am. 

And it took what looked to be the end of life as I know it to see it. 

I've come so far. 

I can't begin to explain what it has felt like to see my savings dwindle. To hear no after no after no. To push my husband up when I felt like doing was staying down. I know it isn't going to be the last hurdle, nor the worst, but it was a glaring change that was probably one of the largest in my adult life. It was the first time I openly doubted my faith that things were going to work out. It was a trial where I learned so much about myself and my husband that otherwise would have gone unnoticed.

It mattered and that's why I'm writing this. To remember.

Thankfully, I can write this because its over. My husband accepted a job that is perfect for him. And us. It is absolutely everything we didn't know we were looking for and everything we were. I am so, so thankful. A weight has been lifted and a lightness I didn't have before (even before this happened) has filled me. I see a plan forming. A future. It is exciting, terrifying and fulfilling in every way. I'm no longer wandering aimlessly. 

We have finally found the path through the trees.

And what a glorious road to see.

<3JB