Last night I pulled into the driveway, and all six of our cars were present. A rare occurrence for us college seniors. Usually its only in the late hours of the night or in five minute increments that all members of the Lighthouse are at home. These moments are sweet, and even sweeter now that we move out in less than a month. It's so close to being over, but I don't want to think about it. Instead, here's some important things I learned from my year in the Lighthouse:
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I'll be honest about this part of life. It doesn't make any sense. Maybe for some people it does. But for me, each application feels like a rejection and each step forward seems to be followed by three stumbles back. I feel less in control of the plan, and I don't like that. Actually, I hate it. Those hazy shadows in the fog taunt me with their mystery. My concentrated stares to determine the identity of those shadows only ends in confusion and frustration. No answers. No answers yet. At least not while I'm standing far away, apprehending the unknown from a distance.
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So to the wearers of purple pants: wear the damn pants. Wear them and feel like everything. Wear them because it's okay to be different. Wear them because there's nothing wrong with purple pants or with you.
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A couple weekends ago, I visited Birmingham with a friend of mine--we'll call her Trail Runner. Trail Runner is one of those naturally outdoorsy people who grew up with a state park at her back door and a kayak strapped to the family car. Trail Runner and I couldn't be more different, but on a sidewalk in November, we decided to start road tripping together.
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How is it that forming good habits is mentally exhausting, while bad habits form while we're not even trying? I hate to admit it, but I've become a pathetic creature of degenerate habits lately.
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My first poem. Inspired by this quote:
You don't peel away the layers of an onion to reveal an eventual core of onion-ness. The layers themselves are the onion. -Unknown
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I've recently been captivated by how words form and who puts them there. Who decides the best word to use in the best place? Who decides what type of manipulation of language to use over another? Who decides that the words are beautiful enough to rest and begin to be? In the words of my dear friend Katie: "In the gap between His words and our own, He has placed you."
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