Portrait of a Woman Becoming

     

   
       This may come as no surprise to some of you if you know my husband, or even me, at all. Two weekends ago I took a motorcycle safety course, which entailed a few hours of classroom teaching and several hours of putting those learned concepts into practice on the riding range (parking lot). The end goal of this course was to acquire my Class M license and therefore enable me to legally ride a motorcycle on the streets, ideally working up to riding with Joseph no longer on the passenger seat behind him but on my own bike beside him.
        While I know these two things aren't the same, I grew up loving to ride my bicycle, and that comfortable balance is probably the most important factor when riding a much, much heavier engine-powered bike, so I figured this would be to my advantage. It was; my instructors told me I took to riding incredibly well, especially considering that weekend was the first time ever in my life I was in the front seat, in addition to the fact that shifting with a clutch is still a new concept, too. All in all, a fantastic weekend in which I had boatloads of fun - along the way, however, there were some things I learned that I never could have anticipated.
        If you have been exposed to my character and personality at all in my life, then you know I work exceptionally hard at striking perfection on the first try. Of what? Well, everything. I am cripplingly averse to making mistakes and do not take failure well. I tend to get easily frustrated and have no problem crying as a result. Then, I am so adept at self-deprecation that I basically deter myself from ever again wanting to attempt whatever it was that frustrated me so badly, either out of fear of failing once more or pure stubbornness in the face of the fact that I already failed and the activity in question is suddenly utterly unappealing.
        Failure -> tears -> self-deprecation [resulting in a]= fuming, quiet, Negative Nancy.

        That Sunday after only 9 hours of riding (although truly most of that was spent sitting on the bike, stationary, waiting for next steps), it was test time. Me and 8 others had practiced everything that would be on this skills test over the course of the weekend, so there would be no surprises. To pass, there were five exercises and a points system to cater to - basically, don't run into anyone, don't drop the bike, and don't put your foot down too many times or go outside the lines and you'll be golden.
        By the time we were at exercise 3 I had done okay; I had accrued some points but was still on track to pass. Next was the quick stop after getting up to 15-18mph. I had done this numerous times in practice without fault, but until the test hadn't been concerned about the speedometer. This variable, tiny as it was, was enough to throw me off. Literally.

        When the instructor waved me on I stared down at the speedometer, which I had not yet grown accustomed to doing, and this misdirected focus banished all the muscle memory foundations I had laid for a safe, quick stop; I did the exact thing a panicked, unprepared amateur would do: I grabbed at the front brake lever, putting the bike into a dive, and tumbled to the asphalt.
        When I picked myself up the instructor asked me if I was all right, asked me to show him my hands; the gloves were chewed at the heels of my palms, but my skin was unperturbed. My right knee twinged where a new hole was torn, blood seeping into the beige fibers of my jeans. A streak of blue paint from the guidelines on the asphalt stained the upper lip of the tear.
        I walked 30 feet to the curb of the parking lot and sat, helmet off and hands between my bent knees. I was not trembling. I was not breathing hard. I wanted so badly to cry in defeat and frustration, but I tempered that easy reaction. Instead, as my fellow students lined up for the next exercise, I called out to them through cupped hands: "hey, just don't follow my example and you'll be fine!" It should have been thickly coated in bitterness, but I actually smiled as I said it.
        Two years ago, maybe even just last year, I would have cried in anger on that curb and tore myself apart as I sat there, jealously observing my colleagues' success. I may have even sworn off riding a motorcycle for a while out of pure spite for the sport entire. If I can't get it right - perfect - the first time, then what's the use of it? Clearly it's just not for me. I'm incapable and shouldn't waste any more of my time.
        Under the beating sun I should have felt the heat of shame creep into my face - historically, that is. As it was, I sat there, knee smarting and mind analyzing, and I was calm. No tears, no alter-ego shredding me down to nothing with weapons of words. I evaluated the scene and came to the conclusion that flying off the bike was not an indication of failure; it was a indication that I needed more practice. Simple and true, considering my exposure to riding solo was confined merely to that weekend.
        On the way inside to do paperwork, one instructor pulled me aside and told me she was impressed by my improvement over the last two days. It was incredibly genuine, especially since a kind word was a rare thing from her - her teaching style tended on the harsh side, which made this positive admission even sweeter. I smiled and said thanks, that I would be back to take my retest in a couple of weeks.

        I walked off the range with the bright side on my shoulders. Normally I would have spent the entire ride home glaring off into the distance and internally berating myself for pulling such an amateur stunt. There wasn't even an ounce of shame in my thoughts and I wasn't pretending to be positive. This mode of reaction was brand new to me, and was therefore shocking in the best way. I must say, it feels great not thinking of yourself as a failure, honestly and doubtlessly.
        If for nothing else, falling off the bike gave me a chance to see myself as a portrait of what I've steadily become over the past couple of years. I had long since convinced myself that perfection-focused failure-aversion was an immutable part of my character, but alas, I am so grateful to be proven wrong. After all, what sort of gaunt, sallow character must you have if you get everything perfectly right the first time, with no chance to make mistakes and adjust accordingly? With no chance to become better and do better?
        This weekend I had Joseph ride my bike (see headline photo) to a nearby empty parking lot so I could practice whatever I wanted at my own pace. And guess what? I took the retest this past Sunday and aced it - all my marks were zeroes, which means I didn't put a foot down or go outside the lines - or come close to dropping the bike again. I learned very acutely what not to do, and adjusted for it.

     
        I earned the passing grade this time around, through and through. The first time, even if I hadn't dropped the bike, it wouldn't have felt nearly as satisfying or deserved.
        It takes suffering through trials to see who we really are. If you're consistently taking the easy way out, then you're refusing to look in the mirror. If you're content where you sit, you will remain there in mediocrity and stagnation. Growth takes risk, takes doing and suffering and doing again. Learn from mistakes and continue onward. It is the best we can do for ourselves as well as those we hold closest. Do better, be better, and so on.
        "Hay que seguir adelante." - One must continue onward.

Sophie

“For one so small, you seem so strong.”

~ You’ll Be in My Heart by Phil Collins

My family growing up were unashamedly dog lovers. There was a stint or two when I was too young to care much where my mother conned my father into getting a cat. I don’t remember a lot besides the day we tried bringing her home, which was a catastrophe inside the car.

It may not be honest that I tell people I didn’t grow up with cats, but fundamentally it is true in my mind – cats were never in my house long enough to leave an impact. I’d love on my relatives’ cats, but at the end of the day always went home to my dog. It didn’t bother me not to have a cat growing up; I had an assortment of odd animals pass through my life as pets, including a ferret, chinchillas, dwarf frogs, and a hermit crab, to say the least; I was not neglected by my parents in the realm of family critters. For the last 11 years or so, our dog Maxx has been the solitary family pet. All this is to say if I ever did decide to welcome a cat into my life that I could call “mine”, it would be special.

And it was.

On September 12^th of last year, a mere ten days after marrying the love of my life and moving to Baltimore, Joseph and I rescued two kittens. They were cousins – the girl, an orangey-brown tabby, we named Sophie; the boy, my silver prince, we named Emmerich.

They were 8 weeks old at the time. Little did I know how hard I would fall for them. I never could have prepared myself for the love and joy that these two babies brought me; and, by extension, the tremendous, breathless sorrow of loss that permeated our house just this week.

We celebrated their first birthday’s in mid-July and were approaching our first rescue anniversary. Unfortunately, our babygirl Sophie would not be able to celebrate with us.

Last Thursday I received some lilies for my birthday – lovely flowers with a lovely scent, and creamy orange petals. I immediately put them in a vase of water on the dining room table for all to see. Sophie, the one notorious for eating things she shouldn’t, took this as an opportunity to nibble on the new addition to the house. She swallowed a petal and regurgitated it shortly thereafter.

For those of you who are already shaking your heads in horror, I know it seems such a simple and obvious piece of knowledge. For those of you who are like us and have no idea, please pass this message along to anyone you know who owns a cat or is thinking about getting a cat: lilies are one of the most toxic things a cat can ingest. Even the water in the vase or the pollen or the stalks of the flowers are highly poisonous – all it takes it one little bite, one little sniff, and kidneys begin to fail.

We didn’t find this out until it was too late. 

A couple of days passed without much incident since she vomited the petal. On Monday morning, Joseph noticed she was moving stiffly and acting incredibly lethargic; I raced home from my errands and beat my way through traffic to take her to a local animal hospital. At this point we still didn’t know what was going on. If I read back through my texts from that day, I am still heavily under the impression that this is something she will recover from and we’ll be back home in no time. Still, the doctors checked her in and kept her overnight for some analyses. Nothing was certain yet, although I’m sure the doctors had their suspicions.

By the next day at 2pm, the doctors informed us that her kidneys had failed beyond recovery, and that it would be the best course of action to put her to sleep as soon as possible. Fluid had built up in her bladder, unable to succeed through the natural urination process, and if this was prolonged it would end up flooding her lungs. Joseph got the call while he was at work, and he called me during a break at the library. We rushed to Sophie’s side, spending her last few moments on earth petting her silky fur and calling her sweet names. She was a little uncomfortable, though thankfully not in pain. I think we bore all the pain she could have possibly felt, and much, much more.

The suddenness is what cuts the deepest. It’s one thing to see the death of a pet gradually coming when they’re approaching 10, 15, 20 years of age, but when you go from one day imagining those long years with the precious animal growing up with your kids to the next day where they no longer exist in your arms, where you will never again call them by name and have them trot toward you with sounds of pleasure and recognition…the brutal suddenness changes everything about the grief that rushes in.

We were not prepared for this. She was only a year old. She, and Emmerich, were our babies, the first additions to our newly bonded family. To lose her only a year later and so rapidly all-at-once is utterly devastating. The last time I lost a loved one (person or animal) was my grandfather 10 years ago, and I have never lost a pet in my adult years. This grief, as one so conscious and feeling, tears me apart, sends tremors deep into my bones. I loved Sophie so freely, so thoroughly, and she loved us unconditionally – I suppose it’s only fair that the gaping hole she left behind would ache so acutely.

This past Wednesday was the first full day without her in our lives. I couldn’t stand coming home from work without her fluffiness greeting me at the door that I collapsed onto the couch in hysterics. Joseph held me tightly to him, our bitter tears mingling. It hurts. My God, oh it hurts like hell. Her absence even after such a short bright time is absolutely unbearable. Every little thing reminds us of her, and the grief that follows floods my stomach and my lungs, rendering my appetite entirely absent and making it hard to breathe.

She was the most brilliant little light of my life. As John Smith says in the Disney movie Pocahontas: “I’d rather die tomorrow than live a hundred years without knowing you.” If I could travel back in time and warn myself on September 12^th of 2017 that this tragedy would inevitably happen, that it was a fixed point that I couldn’t change, I would still have bundled her in my arms and taken her home. As much as this pain is all-consuming, I am thankful for the year I was able to spend with her. She taught me that cats can be more than grouchy balls of fur. We passed many hours with her napping on me while I wrote or read or slept. She nuzzled her way into my heart and before I even knew it, I was wholeheartedly in love.

Something that makes me feel more at peace is imagining this visual: God sits at his desk, checking prayer emails, and Sophie jumps up onto his lap like she did to us on a regular basis when we were at our computers. She snuggles into him and dreams of chasing flies while he pets her softly with one hand, typing with the other.

She went without pain to the giant windowsill in the sky, where there is eternal sunshine and an infinite supply of birds to chatter at. We did the right thing with the knowledge we had. Still, this wave of grief will lap at our heels for a while, and we will never forget our first kitty – our first baby.

Rest in peace, Sophie. You were the best little kitten anyone could ask for. Your heart was too pure for this world.

Friends, I now ask two things of you: first, pass along the knowledge that lilies are lethal to cats – don’t assume longtime cat lovers know. As soon as cats come up, lay that fact down. Be aggressive about it if you have to. Sharing that little tid-bit of knowledge now might save a life later. Second, we would appreciate it if you could share photos or memories of Sophie in the comments section. Her legacy is one of love and softness, and we know that we aren’t the only ones who will remember her with fondness.

In Memory of Sophie

7/15/17 – 8/28/18

Pokémon Blue Glitch: All Three Starters

Hello!

This is very unrelated to the rest of my blog, but I felt possessed to write a guide due to the dearth of how-to on this topic. That being said, welcome Pokéfans! Today I will walk you through how to obtain ALL THREE STARTERS on Red and Blue cartridges within the first 5-10 minutes of gameplay!

Continue at your own risk. This is a process that begs much patience and precision. If you'd like to get your feet wet with a video, I used this one to lay a foundation: Getting all three starters (YouTube) Keep in mind, though, you will likely need the visual as well as my directions that follow. The video is unfortunately not thorough or clear, but at least you have something to follow with your eyes.

Got your cartridge? Console? Extra patience? Then let's go!

I used my GBA SP with a legit Blue cartridge, but I've read that you can pull this off via VC on 3DS as well as emulators on computers/other devices. ALSO be aware that this is a GLITCH, not a CHEAT - the distinction is important!

1. Turn on your console and select new game (*yes, if you have a pre-existing game, the only way to utilize this glitch is to start fresh - if you've got a well-played save file, I'd recommend doing some research on the Ditto glitch)

2. Blah blah, what's your name, blah, suddenly you're in your bedroom!

3. Walk up to the grassy area as if you're leaving Pallet Town - Prof Oak will stop you and drag you back to his lab

4. Oak offers you a choice of ONE Pokémon - if you're like me, it matters that you choose one of your top two choices. I chose Charmander.

5. Save the game! 

6. Reset the console once the save is successful.

7. Now...here comes the tricky bit. Don't continue your game. First I will take a minute to explain how this next portion works: you just created a save, right? You will need to start a new game again, and here's why: the Charmander (or first Pokémon selected) contained in the first save will be traded to the new save file. We will do this very carefully. It is almost guaranteed not to work on the first or second try, so don't get discouraged.

8. Here's what you do...start a second new game (the first save isn't modified until you try to overwrite it), go through the intro, tell Oak your name, etc etc...you will probably be doing this a lot so hone in that superhuman patience! Okay, once you arrive back in your bedroom, you are going to do a sneaky, partial save right in front of your SNES system.

9. Like in the screenshot above taken from the video linked in the intro, when you go to save this second time it will register the first save and ask if it's okay to overwrite it with this second save. This Yes/No box is incredibly important. You will say yes and then immediately after the box disappears, before "now saving..." appears, you will turn off your console. Yep, I said it. The thing you don't do. Timing here is critical, which is why it will probably take at least several tries. You will memorize Oak's and your rival's dialogue, this I can promise. To recap: you click "save" and this overwrite text comes up, along with yes/no. You click yes and as soon as the box disappears you turn off your console.

There is a spectrum of responses here, and the one we want is in a very small plain at the center. On the one side, if you click yes and shut off too quickly, the previously saved file will corrupt and you are back to square one without even a "continue" option at the start menu. On the other side, if you wait too long to turn off after hitting yes, the previous file will be overwritten with this new save, also essentially putting you back at square one, without your first Pokémon selection. It took me hours to finally get Charmander and Squirtle on the same save (admittedly I tried for Bulbasaur twice and totally toasted my saves both times, and had to start all over. I wanted all three, but pulling off the precise save timing twice in a row is such a gamble. Acquiring all three is for the patient and mighty, and I am not among you). If you're watching the video, you'll notice this process messes up numerous times. It's definitely a feat.

The only way to check and see if you did right is to boot up your console. If the message "The file data is destroyed!" pops up, this indicates you shut off too quickly and should retry with that in mind. "Too quickly" or "too late" can mean milliseconds, folks. The timing is no joke.

If that message does not pop up and you are offered the options of continue and new game, don't celebrate just yet. There's one more step before we know it was done right. Press continue, and you should be back in your bedroom. Press start and try to click into Pokémon at the top of the menu. It will merely make clicking sounds if the transfer didn't work; if it did work, you will be able to open your party, with your first selected Pokémon bouncing around in the top slot. Once you arrive at the latter result, you will rejoice. It is a sweet feeling to know you hit the timing perfectly. If this isn't your result, repeat until successful.

10. Already with one Pokémon in your party, you need to repeat the steps that got you to that first Pokémon: namely, walking up into the grass and having Oak drag you back to his lab. Here you will select your second starter. Hurrah! Two out of three ain't bad. (My Charmander gained a level from defeating my rival in Oak's lab in this photo, btw, which is why he's lvl6 and not 5.)

At this point it is wholly up to you if you want to attempt getting the third and final starter. I would recommend against it unless you have an emulator in which you can toggle time to speed up and get past all the fluff. If you're like me, with a hard copy cartridge and don't have a million hours to grind through this process fifty thousand times (and don't like Bulbasaur anyway), then upon obtaining your second starter, save for good measure. Then you can resume game-play as normal, fighting your rival in Oak's lab and playing delivery boy with Oak's parcel, etc.

A note of importance: the Pokémon you "trade" over from the first save(s) will act like a traded Pokémon, meaning its EXP will be boosted and after certain levels it will not obey you if you don't have the badge to properly "tame" them. Keep this in mind when choosing the order of your starters - for instance, I chose Charmander as my traded Pokémon so I could level grind my Squirtle in order to blast Brock out of his own gym; I believe Charmander will stop respecting me after level 10 until I get the Boulder Badge.

It is astounding to me the lack of guides on this glitch. As far as I can see, there are only two videos on YouTube, neither of which are incredibly helpful, and no real written instruction. In any case, hopefully this guide is helpful to you! I am supremely excited to have Charmander and Squirtle in my team, without having to cheat :) These older cartridges are a lot of fun because of their inherent glitchiness.

Enjoy your fortified team! Now I'm off to level grind in the Viridian Forest, yay me...

Toodles.
V

Engagement Journal: 22 Days to Go!

 Thoughts of a Bride-to-Be

        Twenty-two days left. It doesn’t even feel real. Counting down to the one-month-left mark didn’t feel real, either, and then all of the sudden it’s 30 days until. That felt as real as getting the wind knocked out of me, and only because the pressure of things yet undone was finally crushing down. Once I had my intensely productive week while house-sitting at Mimi’s getting bookmarks done, gifts ordered, and letters written, that pressure eased significantly. And now we’re approaching the three-weeks-left mark. I think it’s this odd sense of calm consuming me that makes it surreal.
        The other things contributing to the surreality of it all are the fact that I just moved my dresser to Pentwood two days ago, the only piece of furniture going with me. I shared the realization of the moment with my girls in a group chat: “I'm here in Baltimore to see Joseph for a couple days, and on this trip I borrowed my family's truck and brought my dresser (sans clothes) since it is the only piece of furniture that will move with me, and we're trying to be smart about using these trips now to our advantage in order to cut down on the back and forth trips after the wedding. Everything else of mine will fit in boxes in my car. It is definitely surreal, because for the first time in my life I am moving without my family. When we packed up and went to Peru, it was all of us. When we got back and moved into our old house in VA, it was all of us. When we moved to Orange County, VA, it was all of us. And now, it is just me, the first child to officially move out. College was different because we all knew it was temporary, that I had a bedroom in my parents' house to come home to, but this is not. This is real. This is permanent. This is forever.”
        Very, very much is about to change, and all at once. Whatever semblance of a routine I had while at my parents' house will be left behind, my understanding of the roads in my hometown deemed useless almost 100 miles away. All of my church family no longer easily accessed on a banter-filled Sunday. I will instantaneously go from seeing my parents and brother every day to seeing them during big holidays at the very least. In saying yes to marrying Joseph, I have simultaneously launched myself into an adventure where the only friend I will have at first is my husband, my understanding of the area is a shallow year of driving through it bee-lining for the highway, and a new job. New living arrangements (exclusively sharing a bed, bathroom, and general living space with someone else; contending for closet space; cooking dinner and lunches for the house), new people, a new town, a new church, new friends, and new routines.
        The only thing remotely close to this sensation is moving to Peru - there I could add the fact that I had to learn a new language in a painfully practical sense, not just within the realm of a classroom, on top of the things just listed above. However, in those circumstances I was able to bring a team with me of people who knew me well - my family. Subtract that, and I can almost expect this move to be very much the same, although I really should give myself some credit. I have come a long way from the skittish, isolated, cynical girl I was back then. I am much more confident in myself as a young adult, and having the security of my husband to hold me, plus the promise of God to always have my best interest in mind, I will be well taken care of. I expect it to be a journey of undulating joys and frustrations; as of this very moment, I am much more excited than nervous, and with the love of my family as well as my husband-to-be backing me...bring it on!

Fun Facts About the Happy Couple

     Hello duckies! Been a while.
     Today is mine and Joseph's first (and only) dating anniversary, and I figured we could celebrate by publishing a "fun facts" post for kicks and giggles, since I believe there are some tickling things people don't actually know about us or our story. Therefore, read on, be amused, and celebrate with us! We're so grateful for the love and support of our families and friends. Only 172 days to go until I'm officially a Winnard!
     With love,
     V

• It is a common misconception that Victoria chooses weight lifting for exercise because Joseph did it first. Actually, Victoria had been lifting weights regularly, on her own, for 5 months before she met Joseph. He has been a positive influence in propelling her to continue lifting, but her initial decision to start was completely independent - weight lifting was one of the topics of excited discussion that drew them together when they met
• They met in NYC at a psychology conference while Victoria was standing by a poster of research, though Joseph went to school in Maryland and Victoria in Virginia
• A candid photo exists, courtesy of Dr. Buchholz, of the couple mere minutes after initially meeting
• The second day of their quickly blossoming friendship, they ran into each other again and spent three hours talking nonstop about sundry topics of intense interest
• Victoria was the one to initiate swapping contact information
• A week after meeting, Victoria drove from Virginia to Maryland to spend the day with Joseph
• Ten days after they first met, they decided to date
• A month into dating, they took time individually to write out relationship goals, before coming together to share and swap them
• Victoria's parents' wedding anniversary falls on Memorial day weekend - Victoria and Joseph's will fall on Labor day weekend
• Victoria is approximately 2 and a half months older than Joseph
• Their first vacation consisted of Joseph surprising Victoria with a trip to Ocean City for a few days
• Three months after meeting, they attended another psychology conference together in Nova Scotia, Canada, and plan to go back for visit in the future
• The place they had their first kiss (the terrace-like 12th floor of the UB law building) is also where Joseph proposed
• On one of the coldest days of this winter season, they successfully replaced the power steering pump on Joseph's car by themselves (and a little help from Joseph's dad). Earlier in the season, they replaced the power steering hoses with the help of Victoria's dad. Neither have any qualms about getting their hands dirty and learning new skills!
• Between starting to date and their engagement, they attended three weddings
• In proposing, Joseph went the traditional route and spoke to Victoria's parents about it beforehand, asking for their blessing (and knowing he was going to get it!)
• Both Joseph and Victoria felt led to tell each other "I love you" for the first time on the same day
• During the first month of dating, 3-5 hour phone calls at night became a common and frequent occurrence

For more details and fun stuff about our relationship, you can visit these posts: 

http://thewritersinkworld.blogspot.com/2016/10/alma-led-me-here.html

http://thewritersinkworld.blogspot.com/2016/03/addressing-skepticism.html

Alma Led Me Here

“The soul may be trusted to the end.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

First Essays: Love

She didn’t tell me when I’d fall in love.

Alma, my soul’s asomatous guide, didn’t tell me that when I did, I’d feel as if struck by lightning, and that every romantic experience I had thus far encountered would be put to shame. She didn’t tell me anything.

I understood that she possessed a transcendental discernment that I would never know, but I resisted her pleads for my trust all the same. I didn’t believe in soul mates, and she all but gave up convincing me otherwise. Soul mates existed, she countered; beneath all the collected, clichéd goop there existed a bedrock of truth.

And so throughout my younger years I longed for a man I could love and tolerate, while Alma impatiently awaited her male counterpart. That’s how it worked, she said – each individual soul was not a fraction of another, but rather the male or female complement. I received many scoldings from her for even thinking about settling before she reunited with her mate. Saying things like that practically forced me into skepticism. What did she really expect?

I should have relied on her more. Wiser than I gave her credit for, she was guided by something I could neither see nor understand, and she tugged me away from the wreckages of relationships before they became unmitigated catastrophes through ill-formed foundations of commitment. I thought I knew what I was doing, but she knew better.

I was stubborn; if my affections were a ship, I was white-knuckling the handles of the wheel on one side, and she the other. Eventually I was taxed beyond my means, and when I fell to the deck in exhaustion, Alma took command of the vessel with unfettered gusto. Finally serving as captain for the first time, she steered us right into the heart of New York City. She didn’t tell me we were close to her counterpart there, but she accepted my apologies without judgement as I genuflected before her, relinquishing any and all authority over my affections. The consequences of my poor relational decisions previous rendered me weary; she could call the shots from then on. All I needed was for her to tell me where to be and when.

Eastern Psychological Association Conference, New York City - March 4^th, 2016

No memos appeared in my dreams, no ethereal hints prodded me on. Alma didn’t tell me that with one look I would know. With one look, I would recognize a man whom I had never met. With one look, I would feel the heart of the universe beating inside me.

Marbled eyes of orange-flecked green met mine and Alma wept in the long-awaited embrace of her mate. Burrowed deep in the plush hallways of a hotel conference room, lightning struck me in the form of a man named Joseph.

Alma prepared me for none of it. She didn’t tell me I’d fall in love with the way he said psychology. She didn’t tell me he was a man of deep faith, words, and intellect. She forgot to mention the profound attraction I would feel toward him in every conceivable realm of life. I trusted Alma with my soul, and what did she give me in return?

A man beyond dreams, ideals, and expectations – a man crafted by divine hands to be my match. A man suited for me beyond perfection itself. The male permutation of my own soul.

Alma led me here. 

---

I'm posting this here to commemorate my engagement to the subject of this piece. I wrote this on May 2, 2016 - almost six months ago. Like I said in Addressing Skepticism, when you know, you just know. 

Have a drink for us. We are blessed beyond belief to begin this new, exciting chapter of our lives together!

V

Suddenly Your House is On Fire

     What do you grab?
     Out of every single possession, what's the one thing you would save from the flames? There aren't necessarily any right or wrong answers to this common hypothetical scenario; however, there are some silly ones. Leo Buscaglia's book Love referenced an actual occurrence of this where a woman, the unfortunate owner of the flaming house, found herself running out to the street for safety carrying years and years of personal tax reports. Tax reports! That was the first place of importance her mind went, so she grabbed them and ran!
     This scenario has intrigued me quite a lot in recent weeks. I think I'm more interested in the overall loss of the other possessions rather than hung up on the single thing I would save. As far as what to carry with me to safety, my mind jumps to the most expensive things I own, and therefore the most costly things to replace: my laptop, which is quickly depreciating in value (already four years old), my cell phone (also old - it's an iPhone 4S), and my external hard drive, more for preservation of what's on it rather than how much it would cost to replace. These are boring, expected, and don't honestly boast much value. Even if I couldn't save any of these things, I wouldn't feel too badly about it. They're all just things. 
     Which brings me back to the rest of the hypothetical belongings perishing in the hypothetical fire. Some days I think it would almost be good for me to lose everything I own to something beyond my control. The tenacity with which we hold on to earthly possessions can reach terrifying degrees at times. It's grandma's good china from Germany; it's your children's kindergarten fingerpaintings; it's photo albums of long-dead relatives and friends. There's sentimentality and the desire for preservation. I get it. But you and I will no longer have the conscious of mind to care about all those things when we're packed six feet under. 
     Dark? Maybe. Difficult? Of course.
     Thoughts such as these really convicted me a couple weeks ago, though the seeds had been sown by my good friend Joanna at college just before graduation. Toward the end of this year she's going to India to be an amazing presence there teaching English. One of her first responses to such a calling was to get rid of literally everything she owned, as it would only weigh her down knowing she had so many belongings sitting in storage while she was away indefinitely. She was inviting friends to come raid her room, including her desk, dresser, and in the bins beneath her bed (I was one of those friends, and I took most of her office supplies as well as her perfume collection and some kitchen items). I was gracious in receiving these things without her asking for payment (I'll figure something out, just you wait Jo), but it baffled me how easily it seemed she was letting everything go. She watched numerous people dig through her things and take armloads away. 
     It wasn't necessarily easy, she told me later, but knowing it was the right thing to do was enough to help her remain steadfast in her decision. I knew without a doubt that I needed to maintain this type of attitude the next time I planned to pluck through my things. 
     And that just so happened to be a few weeks ago, when it accumulated into a ball of unnecessary stress, and the only way to alleviate it was to do a cleanse.
     I had too many clothes and too many books occupying the small space of my room - hell, my dresser barely contained only half of my stash of shirts! The rest remained in an unpacked suitcase, neglected since I moved back home after graduation (May 7th - over two months ago now!). I feel I have perpetuated this problem for years. Something had to be done, and with the help of Joanna's example, I had to force myself to get over any attachments that existed. I had to be incredibly frank with myself. My two requirements for this cleanse were 1) if I didn't wear it, I didn't need it, and its new home was the donation bag, and 2) if I had worn it threadbare or stained it, it went into the trash. No exceptions.
      There was a peaceful sense of detachment that happened during this process and I was able to execute it without much pain. It was a cleanse, a much-needed purge - it didn't need to feel like I was stripping myself bare. Those shirts were mere things, and very replaceable. 
     I ended up getting rid of a large, bursting trash bag and two smaller bags worth of stuff. I probably could have pruned back more, but my main goal was to fit it all comfortably in my dresser, and I achieved it, for the first time in years. It is liberating to know such a thing.
     Now, while I certainly hope your house doesn't ever catch on fire, I would encourage you to ponder your earthly possessions and any attachments you may have to them. If we really broke it down to the most primitive level, none of those things are necessary for survival if they don't fall into the categories of food, water, or shelter. I saw for myself through plenty of instances in Peru that the amount of stuff one has does not directly equate to the level of happiness. The true genesis of happiness exudes from within (but that's a post for another time). I am merely asking for your awareness here; what's your focus in life? What's your end goal? And how does stuff fit into that equation?
     V